CHAPTER X
HENRIETTA IN NAXOS
Youth feels, let the adult say what he pleases, more deeply thanmiddle age. It suffers and enjoys with a poignancy unknown in laterlife. But in revenge it is cast down more lightly, and uplifted withless reason. The mature have seen so many sunny mornings grow totearful noons, so many days of stress close in peace, that their moodsare not to the same degree at the mercy of passing accidents. It iswith the young, on the other hand, as with the tender shoots; theyraise their heads to meet the April sun, as naturally they droop inthe harsh east wind. And Henrietta had been more than girl, certainlymore than nineteen, if she had not owned the influence of the sceneand the morning that lapped her about when she next set foot beyondthe threshold of the inn.
She had spent in the meantime three days at which memory shuddered.Alone in her room, shrinking from every eye, turning her back on thewoman who waited on her, she had found her pride insufficient tosupport her. Solitude is a medium which exaggerates all objects, andthe longer Henrietta brooded over her past folly and her presentdisgrace, the more intolerable these grew to the vision.
Fortunately, if Modest Ann's heart bled for her, Mrs. Gilson viewedher misfortunes with a saner and less sensitive eye. She saw that ifthe girl were left longer to herself her health would fail. Already,she remarked, the child looked two years older--looked a woman. So onthe fourth morning Mrs. Gilson burst in on her, found her moping atthe window with her eyes on the lake, and forthwith, after herfashion, she treated her to a piece of her mind.
"See here, young miss," she said bluntly, "I'll have nobody ill in myhouse! Much more making themselves ill! In three days Bishop's to beback, and they'll want you, like enough. And a pale, peaking facewon't help you, but rather the other way with men, such fools as theybe! You get your gear and go out."
Henrietta said meekly that she would do so.
"There's a basket I want to send to Tyson's," the landlady went on."She's ailing. It's a flea's load, but I suppose," sticking her armsakimbo and looking straight at the girl, "you're too much of a lady tocarry it."
"I'll take it very willingly," Henrietta said. And she rose with aspark of something approaching interest in her eyes.
"Well, I've nobody else," said cunning Mrs. Gilson. "And I don'tsuppose you'll run from me, 'twixt here and there. And she's a poorthing. She's going to have a babby, and couldn't be more lonely if shewas in Patterdale." And she described the way, adding that ifHenrietta kept the road no one would meddle with her at that hour ofthe morning.
The girl found her head-covering, and, submitting with a good grace tothe basket, she set forth. As she emerged from the inn--for three daysshe had not been out--she cast a half-shamed, half-defiant look thisway and that. But only Modest Ann was watching her from a window; andif ever St. Martin procured for the faithful a summer day,_intempestive_ as the chroniclers have it, this was that day. A warmsun glowed in the brown hollows of the wood, and turned the dying fernto flame, and spread the sheen of velvet over green hill-side and greycrag. A mild west wind enlivened the surface of the lake with thesparkle of innumerable wavelets, and all that had for days been leadseemed turned to silver. The air was brisk and clear; in a heaven oftheir own, very far off, the great peaks glittered and shone. Thehigher Henrietta climbed above the inn-roofs, and the cares thatcentred there, the lighter, in spite of herself--how could it beotherwise with that scene of beauty stretched before her?--rose herheart.
Half a dozen times as she mounted the hill she paused to view thescene through the tender mist of her own unhappiness. But every timeshe stood, the rare fleck of cloud gliding across the blue, or thedancing ripple of the water below, appealed to her, and caused herthoughts to wander; and youth and hope spoke more loudly. She wasyoung. Surely at her age an error was not irreparable. Surely thingswould take a turn. For even now she was less unhappy, less ashamed.
When she came to the summit of the shoulder, the bare gauntness ofHinkson's farm, which resisted even the beauty of sunshine, caused hera momentary chill. The dog raved at her from the wind-swept litter ofthe yard. The blind gable-end scowled through the firs. Behind lay thesqualid out-buildings, roofless and empty. She hurried by--not withouta backward glance. She crossed the ridge, and almost immediately sawin a cup of the hills below her--so directly below her that roofs andyards and pig-styes lay mapped out under her eye--another farm. Onthree sides the smooth hill-turf sloped steeply to the walls. On thefourth, where a stream, which had its source beside the farm, foundvent, a wood choked the descending gorge and hid the vale and the lakebelow.
Deep-seated in its green bowl, the house was as lonely in position asthe house on the shoulder, but after a warmer and more shelteredfashion. Conceivably peace and plenty, comfort and happiness mightnestle in it. Yet the nearer Henrietta descended to it, leaving theworld of space and view, the more a sense of stillness and isolationand almost of danger, pressed upon her. No sound of farm life, nocheery clank of horse-gear, no human voice broke the silence of thehills. Only a few hens scratched in the fold-yard.
She struck on the half-open door, and a pair of pattens clanked acrossthe kitchen flags. A clownish, dull-faced woman with druggetpetticoats showed herself.
"I've come to see Mrs. Tyson," Henrietta said. "She's in the house?"
"Oh, ay."
"Can I see her?"
"Oh, ay."
"Then----"
"She's on the settle." As she spoke the woman stood aside, butcontinued to stare as if her curiosity grudged the loss of a moment.
The kitchen, or house place--in those days the rough work of afarmhouse was done in the scullery--was spacious and clean, thoughsparsely and massively furnished. The flag floor was outlined in whitesquares, and the space about the fire was made more private by a tallsettle which flanked the chimney corner and averted the draught. Theseappearances foretold a red-armed bustling house-wife. But they werebelied by the pale plump face framed in untidy hair, which half infright and half in bewilderment peered at her over the arm of thesettle. It was a face that had been pretty after a feeble fashion nomore than twelve months back: now it bore the mark of strain andtrouble. And when it was not peevish it was frightened. Certainly itwas no longer pretty.
The owner of the face got slowly to her feet "Is it me you want?" shesaid, her tone spiritless.
"If you are Mrs. Tyson," Henrietta answered gently.
"Yes, I am."
"I have brought you some things Mrs. Gilson of the inn wished to sendyou."
"I am obliged to you," with stiff shyness.
"And if you do not mind," Henrietta continued frankly, "I will rest alittle. If I do not trouble you."
"No, I'm mostly alone," the young woman answered, slowly andapathetically. And she bade the servant set a chair for the visitor.That done, she despatched the woman with the basket to the larder.
Then "I'm mostly alone," she repeated. And this time her voicequivered, and her eyes met the other woman's eyes.
"But," Henrietta said, smiling, "you have your husband."
"He's often away," wearily. "He's often away; by day and night. He's adoctor."
"But your servant? You have her?"
"She goes home, nights. And then----" with a spasm of the querulousface that had been pretty no more than a year before, "the hours arelong when you are alone. You don't know," timidly reaching out a handas if she would touch Henrietta's frock--but withdrawing it quickly,"what it is to be alone, miss, all night in such a house as this."
"No, and no one should be!" Henrietta answered.
She glanced round the great silent kitchen and tried to fancy what thehouse would be like of nights; when darkness settled down on thehollow in the hills, and the wood cut it off from the world below; andwhen, whatever threatened, whatever came, whatever face of terrorpeered through the dark-paned window, whatever sound, weird orstartling, rent the silence of the distant rooms, this helpless womanmust face it alone!
She shuddered.
"But you are not alone all night?" she said.
"No, but----" in a whisper, "often until after midnight, miss. Andonce--all night."
Henrietta restrained the words that rose to her lips.
"Ah, well," she said, "you'll have your baby by-and-by."
"Ay, if it lives," the other woman answered moodily--"if it lives.And," she continued in a whisper, with her scared eyes on Henrietta'sface, and her hand on her wrist, "if I live, miss."
"Oh, but you must not think of that!" the girl protested cheerfully."Of course you will live."
"I've mostly nought to do but think," Tyson's wife answered. "And Ithink queer things--I think queer things. Sometimes"--tighteningher hold on Henrietta's arm to stay her shocked remonstrance--"thathe does not wish me to live. He's at the house on theshoulder--Hinkson's, the one you passed--most nights. There's a girlthere. And yesterday he said if I was lonely she should come and bidehere while I laid up, and she'd be company for me. But"--in a waveringtone that was almost a wail--"I'm afraid!--I'm afraid."
"Afraid?" Henrietta repeated, trembling a little in sympathy, anddrawing a little nearer the other. "Of what?"
"Of her!" the woman muttered, averting her eyes that she might watchthe door. "Of Bess. She's gypsy blood, and it's blood that sticks atnothing. And she'd be glad I was gone. She'd have him then. I know!She made a sign at me one day when my back was turned, but I saw it.And it was not for good. Besides----"
"Oh, but indeed," Henrietta protested, "indeed, you must not think ofthese things. You are not well, and you have fancies."
Mrs. Tyson shook her head.
"You'd have fancies," in a gloomy tone, "if you lived in this house."
"It is only because you are so much alone in it," the girl protested.
"That's not all," with a shudder. The woman leant forward and spokelow with her eyes glued to the door. "That's not all. You don't know,nobody knows. Nobody knows--that's alive! But once, after I came tolive here, when I complained that he was out so much and was nottreating me well, he took and showed me--he took and showed me----"
"What?" Henrietta spoke as lightly as she could. "What did he showyou?" For the woman had broken off, and with her eyes closed seemed tobe on the point of fainting.
"Nothing--nothing," Mrs. Tyson said, recovering herself with a suddengasp. "And here's the basket, miss. Meg lives down below. Shall shecarry the basket to Mrs. Gilson's? It is not fitting a young lady likeyou should carry it."
"Oh, no; I will take it," Henrietta answered, with as careless an airas she could muster.
And after a moment's awkward hesitation, under the eyes of the dullserving-maid, she rose. She would gladly have stayed and heard more;for her pity and curiosity were alike vividly roused. But it was plainthat for the present she could neither act upon the one nor assuagethe other. She read a plea for silence in the eyes of the weak,frightened woman; and having said that probably Mrs. Gilson would besending her that way again before long, she took her leave.
Wondering much. For the low-ceiled kitchen, with its shadowychimney-corner and its low-browed windows, had another look for hernow; and the stillness of the house another meaning. All might be thefancy of a nervous, brooding woman. And yet there was something. And,something or nothing, there were unhappiness and fear and cruelty inthis quiet work. As she climbed the track that led again to the lip ofthe basin, and to sunshine and brisk air and freedom, she had lesspity for herself, she thought less of herself. She might have lain atthe mercy of a careless, faithless husband, who played on her fearsand mocked her appeals. She, when in her early unbroken days shecomplained, might have been taken and scared by--heaven knew what!
She was still thinking with indignation of the woman's plight when shegained the road. A hundred paces brought her to Hinkson's. And there,standing under the firs at the corner of the house, and looking overher shoulder as if she had turned, in the act of entering, to see whopassed, was the dark girl; the same whose insolent smile had annoyedher on the morning of her arrival, before she knew what was in storefor her.
Their eyes met. Again Henrietta's face, to her intense vexation,flamed. Then the dog sprang up and raved at her, and she passed ondown the road. But she was troubled. She was vexed with herself forlosing countenance, and still more angry with the girl whose mockingsmile had so strange a power to wound her.
"That must be the creature we have been discussing," she thought. "Oddthat I should meet her, and still more odd that I should have seen herbefore! I don't wonder that the woman fears her! But why does she lookat me, of all people, after that fashion?"
She told herself that it was her fancy, and trying to forget thematter, she tripped on down the road. Presently, before her cheeks orher temper were quite cool, she saw that she was going to meet someone--a man who was slowly mounting the hill on horseback. A momentlater she made out that the rider who was approaching was Mr.Hornyold, and her face grew hot again. The meeting was humiliating.She wished herself anywhere else. But at the worst she could bowcoldly and pass by.
She reckoned without the justice, who was wont to say that when hewore a cassock he was a parson, and when he wore his top-boots he wasa gentleman. He recognised her with a subdued "View halloa!" andpulled up as she drew near. He slid from his saddle--with an agilityhis bulk did not promise--and barred the way.
With a grin and an over-gallant salute, "Dear, dear, dear," he said."Isn't this out of bounds, young lady? Outside the rules of the bench,eh? What'd Mother Gilson be saying if she saw you here?"
"I have been on an errand for her," Henrietta replied, in her coldesttone.
But she had to stop. The road was narrow, and he had, as by accident,put his horse across it.
"An errand?" he said, smiling more broadly, "as far as this? She isvery trusting! More trusting than I should be with a young lady ofyour appearance, who twist all the men round your finger."
Henrietta's eyes sparkled.
"I am returning to her," she said, "and I am late. Please to let mepass."
"To be sure I will," he said. But instead of moving aside he drew apace nearer; so that between himself, the horse, and the bank, she washemmed in. "To be sure, young lady!" he continued. "But that is notquite the tone to take with the powers that be! We are gentle assucking doves--to pretty young women--while we are pleased; and readyto stretch a point, as we did the other day, for our friend Clyne, whowas so deuced mysterious about the matter. But we must have our _quidpro quo_, eh? Come, a kiss! Just one. There are only the birds to seeand the hedges to tell, and I'll warrant"--the leer more plain in hiseyes--"you are not always so particular."
Henrietta was not frightened, but she was angry and savage.
"Do you know who I am?" she cried, for the moment forgetting herselfin her passion.
"No!" he answered, before she could say more. "That is just what Idon't know, my girl. I have taken you on trust and you are prettyenough! But I know Clyne, and he is interested in you. And his tasteis good enough for me!"
"Let me pass!" she cried.
He tried to seize her, but she evaded his grasp, slipped fearlesslybehind the horse's heels and stood free. Hornyold wheeled about, andwith an oath:
"You sly baggage!" he cried. "You are not going to escape so easily!You----"
There he stopped. Not twenty yards from him and less than thatdistance beyond her, was a stranger. The sight was so little to beexpected in that solitary place, he had been so sure that they werealone and the girl at the mercy of his rudeness, that he broke off,staring. The stranger came slowly on, and when almost abreast ofHenrietta raised his hat and paused, dividing his regards between thescowling magistrate and the indignant girl.
"Good morning," he said, addressing her. "If I am not inopportune, Ihave a letter for you from Captain Clyne."
"Then be good enough," she answered, "first to take me out of thecompany of this person." And she turned her shoulder on the justice,and taking the stranger with her--almost in his own despite--shesailed of
f; and, a very picture of outraged dignity, swept down theroad.
Mr. Hornyold glared after her, his bridle on his arm. And his face wasred with fury. Seldom had he been so served.
"A parson, by heaven!" he said. "A regular Methody, too, by hisniminy-piminy get-up! Who is he, I wonder, and what in the name ofmischief brought him here just at that moment? Ten to one she waslooking to meet him, and that was why she played the prude, the littlecat! To be sure. But I'll be even with her--in Appleby gaol or out! Asfor him, I've never set eyes on him. And I've a good notion to havehim taken up and lodged in the lock-up. Any way, I'll set the runnerson him. Not much spirit in him by the look of him! But she's aspit-fire!"
Mr. Hornyold had been so long accustomed to consider the girls of thevillage fair sport, that he was considerably put out. True, Henriettawas not a village girl. She was something more, and a mystery; norleast a mystery in her relations with Captain Clyne, a man whom thejustice admitted to be more important than himself. But she was introuble, she was under a cloud, she was smirched with suspicion; shewas certainly no better than she should be. And not experience only,but all the coarser instincts of the man forbade him to believe insuch a woman's "No."