CHAPTER XIV
THE LETTER
We left Mr. Bishop standing in the middle of the woodland track andfollowing Henrietta with his eyes. He had suspected the girl before;his suspicions were now grown to certainties. Her agitation, heralarm on meeting him, her refusal to parley, her anxiety to be gone,all--and his keen eyes had missed no item of her disorder--all pointedto one thing, to her knowledge of her lover's hiding-place. Doubtlessshe had been to visit him. Probably she had just left him.
"But she's game, she's very game," the runner muttered sagely. "It'sbreed does it." And plucking a scrap of green stuff from a briar hechewed it thoughtfully, with his eyes on the spot where he had lostthe last wave of her skirt.
Presently he faced about. "Now where is he?" he asked himself. Hescanned the path by which she had descended, the briars, the thorns,the under-growth. "There's hiding here," he thought; "but the nightsare cold, and it'd kill him in the open. And she'd been on the hill.In a shepherd's hut? Possibly; and it's a pity I was not after hersooner. But we searched the huts. Then there's Troutbeck? And thefarms? But how'd he know any one here? Still, I'll walk up and lookabout me. Strikes me we've been looking wide and he's under ournoses--many a hare escapes the hounds that way."
He retraced his steps to the road, and strolled up the hill. His airwas careless, but his eye took note of everything; and when he came tothe gate of Starvecrow Farm he stood and looked over it. The bare andgloomy aspect of the house and the wide view it commanded impressedhim. "I don't wonder they keep a dog," he thought. "A lonely place asever I saw. Sort of house the pedlar's murdered in! Regular Red Barn!But that black-eyed wench the doctor is gallivanting after comes fromhere. And if all's true he's in and out night and day. So the other isnot like to be here."
Still, when he had walked a few yards farther he halted. He tookanother look over the fence. He noted the few sombre pines that maskedthe gaunt gable-end, and from them his eye travelled to the raggedgarden. A while he gazed placidly, the bit of green stuff in hismouth. Then he stiffened, pointing like a game dog. Slowly, almostimperceptibly, his hand went to the pocket in his skirts, where hecarried the "barker" without which he never stirred.
On the other side of the breast-high wall, not six paces from him, aman was crouching low, trying to hide behind a bush.
Mr. Bishop had a stout heart. He had taken many a man in the midst ofhis cronies in the dark courts about St. Giles's; and with six hundredguineas in view it was not a small danger that would turn him. Yet hewas alone, and his heart beat a little quicker as he proceeded, withhis eyes glued to the bush, to climb the wall. The man he was going totake had the rope about his neck--he would reck little of takinganother life. And he might have backers. Possibly, too, there wassomething in the silence of this hill-side--so different from thecrowded alleys in which he commonly worked--that intimidated theofficer.
Yet he did not flinch. He was of the true bull-dog breed. He, no morethan my Lord Liverpool and my Lord Castlereagh, was to be scared byuncertain dangers, or by the fear of those over whom he was set. Headvanced slowly, and was not more than four yards from the bush, hewas even poising himself to leap on his quarry, when the man who washiding rose to his feet.
Bishop swore. And some one behind him chuckled. He turned as if he hadbeen pricked. And his face was red.
"Going to take old Hinkson?" laughed Tyson, who had come up unseen,and been watching his movements.
"I wanted a word with him," the runner muttered. He tried to speak asif he were not embarrassed.
"So I see," Tyson answered, and pointing with his finger to thepistol, he laughed.
Mr. Bishop, with his face a fine port-wine colour, lowered the weaponout of sight. Then he laughed, but feebly.
"Has he any sense?" he asked, looking with disgust at the frowsy oldcreature, who mopping and mowing at him was holding out a crookedclaw.
"Sense enough to beg for a penny," Tyson answered.
"He knows enough for that?"
"He'd sell his soul for a shilling."
The runner hooked out a half-penny--a good fat copper coin, to thestarveling bronze of these days as Daniel Lambert to a dandy. He putit in the old scarecrow's hand.
"Here's for trespass," he said, and turning his back on him herecrossed the wall.
"That'll stop his mouth," Tyson grinned. "But what are you going togive me to stop mine?"
Bishop laughed on the wrong side of his face.
"A bone and a jorum whenever you'll come and take it," he said.
"Done with you," the doctor replied. "Some day, when that old beldame,mother Gilson, is out, I'll claim it. But if you think," he continued,"that your man is this side of the hill you are mistaken, Mr. Bishop.I'm up and down this road day and night, and he'd be very clever if hekept out of my sight."
"Ay?"
"You may take my word for that. I'll lay you a dozen wherever he is,he's not this side."
The runner nodded. At this moment he was a little out of conceit withhimself, and he thought that the other might be right. Besides, hemight spend a week going from farm to farm, and shed to shed and be nowiser at the end of it. Yet, the girl knew, he was convinced; andafter all, that was his way to it. She knew, and he'd to her again andhave it out of her one way or another. And if she would not speak, hewould shadow her; he would follow her hour by hour and minute byminute. Sooner or later she would be sure to try to see her man, andhe would nab them both. There were no two ways about it. There wasonly one way. An old hand should have known better than to go wastingtime in random searchings.
He returned to the inn, more fixed than ever in his notion. With animpassive face he told Mrs. Gilson that he must see the young lady.
"She's come in, I suppose?" he added.
"Ay, she's come in."
"Well, you'll please to tell her I must see her."
"I fancy _must_ will be your master," Mrs. Gilson replied, with herusual point. "But I'll tell her." And she went upstairs.
Henrietta was seated at the window with her back to the door. She didnot turn.
"Here's the Bow-Street man," Mrs. Gilson said, without ceremony."Wants to know if he can see you. Shall I tell him yes, or no, younglady?"
"No, if you please," Henrietta answered, with a shiver.
Mrs. Gilson went down.
"She says 'No, on no account,'" she announced, "unless you've got awarrant. Her room's her room, she says, and she'll none of you."
"Hoity-toity!"
"That's what she said," Mrs. Gilson repeated without a blush. "And formy part I don't see why she's to be persecuted. What with you and thatsneaking parson, who's for ever at her skirts, and another that shallbe nameless----"
"Just so!" said Bishop, nodding.
But whereas he meant Walterson, the good woman meant Mr. Hornyold.
"----her life's not her own!" the landlady ended.
"Well, she's to be brought up next Thursday," the runner replied indudgeon. "And she'll have to see me then." And he took a seat near thefoot of the stairs, more firmly determined than ever that the girlshould not give him the slip again a second time. "He's here," hethought. "He's not a mile from me, I'll stake my soul on it! Andbefore Thursday it's odds she'll need to see him, and I'll nab them!"And he began to think out various ways of giving her something whichshe would wish to communicate.
Meanwhile Henrietta, seated at her window in the south gable, gazeddolefully out; on the grey expanse of water, which she was beginningto hate, on the lofty serrated ridge, which must ever recallhumiliating memories, on the snow-clad peaks that symbolised theloneliness of her life. She would not weep, but her lip quivered. Andoh, she thought, it was a cruel punishment for that which she haddone. In the present she was utterly alone: in the future it would beno better. And yet if that were all, if loneliness were all, shecould bear it. She could make up her mind to it. But if not today,to-morrow, and if not to-morrow, the day after, the man would betaken. And then she woul
d have to stand forth and tell her shamefultale, and all the world, her world, would learn with derision what afool she had been, for what a creature she had been ready to give upall, what dross that was which she had taken for gold! And that whichhad been romantic would be ridiculous.
Beside this aching dread the insult which Captain Clyne had put uponher lost some of its sting. Yet it smarted at times and rankled,driving her into passing rages. She had wronged him, yet, strange tosay, she hated to think that she had lost his esteem. And perhaps forthis reason, perhaps because he had shown himself less inhuman at theoutset than her family, his treatment hurt her to a point she had notanticipated, nor could understand.
The one drop of comfort in her cup sprang from a source as unlikely asthe rock which Moses struck. It came from the flinty bosom of Mrs.Gilson. Not that the landlady was outwardly kind; but she wasbrusquely and gruffly inattentive, trusting the girl and leaving herto herself. And in secret Henrietta appreciated this. She began tofeel a dependence on the woman whom she had once dubbed an odious anda hateful thing. She read kindness between the lines of her harshvisage, and solicitude in the eye that scorned to notice her. Sheceased to tremble when the voice which flung panic through the LowWood came girding up the stairs. And though no word of acknowledgementpassed her lips, she was conscious that in other and smoother handsshe might have fared worse.
The open sympathy of Modest Ann was less welcome. It was even aterrible plague at times. For the waiting-maid never came into thegirl's presence without full eyes and a sigh, never looked at her saveas the kind-hearted look at lambs that are faring to the butcher,never left her without a gesture that challenged Heaven's pity. Ann,indeed, saw in the young lady the martyr of love. She viewed her as asharer in her own misfortunes; and though she was forty and the girlnineteen, she found in her echoes of her own heart-throbs. There washumour in this, and, for some, a touch of the pathetic; but not forHenrietta, who had a strong sense of the ridiculous and no liking forpity. In her ordinary spirits she would have either laughed at thewoman or rated her. Depressed as she was, she bore with her none toowell.
Yet Ann was honestly devoted to her heroine, and continually dreamedof some romantic service--such as the waiting-maid in a chap-bookperforms for her mistress. Given the occasion, she would have risen toit, and would have cut off her hand before she betrayed the girl'ssecrets. But her buxom form and square, stolid face did not commendher; they were at odds with romance. And Henrietta did not more thansuffer her, until the afternoon of this day, when it seemed to thegirl that she could suffer her no longer.
For Ann, coming in with wood for the fire, lingered behind her in away to try a saint. Her sighs filled the air, they were like afurnace; until Henrietta turned her head and asked impatiently if shewanted something.
"Nothing, miss, nothing," the woman answered. But she gave the lie toher words by laying her finger on her lip and winking. At the sametime she sought for something in an under-pocket.
Henrietta rose to her feet.
"Nothing!" she repeated. "Then what do you----"
"Nothing, miss," Ann rejoined loudly. "I'm to make up the fire." Butshe still sought and still made eyes, and at last, with anexaggeration of mystery, found what she wanted. She slipped a letterinto Henrietta's hand. "Not a word, miss," she breathed, with a faceof rapturous enjoyment. "Take it, miss! Lor'!" she continued in thesame tone of subdued enthusiasm, "I'd die for you, let alone do this!Even missus should not wring it from me with wild horses!"
Henrietta hesitated.
"Who gave it you?" she whispered. "I don't wish"--she drew back--"Idon't wish to receive anything unless I know who sends it."
"You read it," Ann answered in an ecstasy of benevolence. "It's allright, trust me for that! Bless your heart, it comes from the rightplace. As you will see when you open it!" And with absurd precautionshe tip-toed to the fire-place, took up her wood-basket, banged a logon the dogs, and went out.
Henrietta waited with the letter hidden in her hand until the doorclosed. Then she looked at the paper and grew pale, and was on theverge of tears. Alas! she knew the handwriting. She knew, whetherthere was a right place or not, that this came from the wrong.
"Shall I open it?" she asked herself. "Shall I open it?"
A fortnight before she had opened it without a thought of prudence,without a glance at the consequences. But a fortnight, and such afortnight, had taught her much. And to-day she paused. She eyed thecoarse paper askance--with repugnance, with loathing. True, it couldno longer harm her. She had seen the man as he was, stripped of hisdisguises. She had read in his face his meanness, his falseness, hiscowardice. And henceforth his charms and cajoleries, his sweet wordsand lying looks were not for her. But she had to think what might bein this letter, and what might come of it, and what she should do. Shemight burn it unread--and perhaps that were the safer course. Or shemight hand it to the Bow Street runner, or she might open it and readit.
Which should she do?
One course she rejected without much thought. To hand the letter toBishop might be to betray the man to Bishop. And she had made up hermind not to betray the man.
Should she burn it?
Her reason whispered that that was the right, that that was the wisecourse. But then she would never know what was in the letter; and shewas a woman and curious. And reason, quickly veering, suggested thatto burn it was to incur unknown risks and contingencies. It might beequivalent to giving the man up. It might--in a word, it opened aworld of possibilities.
And after all she could still burn the letter when she had read it.She would know then what she was doing. And what danger could sheincur, seeing that she was proof against the man's lying tongue, andshuddered at the thought of contact with him?
She made up her mind. And roughly, hating the task after a fashion,she tore the letter open. With hot cheeks--it could not be otherwise,since the writing was his, and brought back such memories--she readthe contents. There was no opening--she was glad of that--and nosignature. Thus it ran:--
"I have treated you ill, but men are not as women, and I was tempted,God knows. I do not ask you to forgive me, but I ask you to save me. Iam in your hands. If you have the heart to leave me to a violentdeath, all is said. If you have mercy, meet my messenger at tento-morrow evening, where the Troutbeck lane comes down to the lake. AsI hope to live you run no risk and can suffer no harm. If you aremerciful--and oh, for God's sake spare me--put a stone before noonto-morrow on the post of the second gate towards Ambleside."