CHAPTER XX
PROOF POSITIVE
Anthony Clyne had made no moan, but, both in his pride and his betterfeelings, he had suffered more than the world thought throughHenrietta's elopement. He was not in love with the girl whom he hadchosen for his second wife and the mother of his motherless child. Butno man likes to be jilted. No man, even the man least in love, canbear with indifference or without mortification the slur which thewoman's desertion casts on him. At best there are invitations to becancelled, and servants to be informed, and plans to be altered; thecondolences of some and the smiles of others are to be faced. And manytroubles and much bitterness. The very boy, the apple of his eye andthe core of his heart, had to be told--something.
And Anthony Clyne was proud. No man in Lancashire set more by hisbirth and station, or had a stronger sense of his personal dignity; sothat in doing all these things he suffered. He suffered much. Nor didit end with that. His own world knew him, and took care not to provokehim by a tactless word or an inquisitive question. But the operativesin his neighbourhood, who hated him and feared him, and thanked Godfor aught that hurt him, gibed him openly. Taunts and jests were flungafter him in the streets of Manchester; and men whose sweethearts hadbeen flung down or roughly used on the day of Peterloo inquired afterhis sweetheart as he passed before the mills.
But he made no sign. And no one dreamed that the suffering wentfarther than the man's pride, or touched his heart. Yet it did.Not that he loved the girl; but because she was of his race, andbecause her own branch of the family cast her off, and because the manwith whom she had fled could do nothing to protect her from theconsequences of her folly. For these reasons--and a little because ofa secret nobility in his own character--he suffered vicariously; hefelt himself responsible for her. And the responsibility seemed moreheavy after he had seen her; after he had borne away from Windermerethe picture of the girl left pale and proud and lonely by the lakeside.
For her figure haunted him. It rose before him in the most troublesomefashion and at the most improper times; at sessions when he sat amonghis peers, or at his dinner-table in the middle of a tirade againstthe radicals and Cobbett. It touched him in the least expected andmost tender points; awaking the strongest doubts of himself, and hisconduct, and his wisdom that he had ever entertained. It barbed thedart of "It might have been" with the rankling suspicion that he hadhimself to thank for failure. And where at first he had said in hishaste that she deserved two dozen, he now remembered her defence, andadded gloomily, "Or I! Or I!" The thought of her fate--as of a thingfor which he was responsible--thrust itself upon him in season and outof season. He could not put her out of his mind, he could not refrainfrom dwelling on her. And thinking in this way he grew every day lesscontent with the scheme of life which he had framed for her in hisfirst contempt for her. The notion of her union with Mr. Sutton, good,worthy man as he deemed the chaplain, now jarred on him unpleasantly.And more and more the scheme showed itself in another light than thatin which he had first viewed it.
Such was his state of mind, unsettled if not unhappy, and harassed ifnot remorseful, when a second thunderclap burst above his head, and ina moment destroyed even the memory of these minor troubles. He lovedhis child with the love of the proud and lonely man who loves morejealously where others pity, and clings more closely where others lookaskance. A fig for their pity! he cried in his heart. He would so rearhis child, he would so cherish him, he would so foster his mind, thatin spite of bodily defect this latest of the Clynes should be also thegreatest. And while he foresaw this future in the child and loved himfor the hope, he loved him immeasurably more for his weakness, hishelplessness, his frailty in the present. All that was strong in theman of firm will and stiff prejudice went out to the child in apassionate yearning to protect it; to shield it from unfriendly looks,even from pity; to cover it from the storms of the world and of life.
Personally a brave man Clyne feared nothing for himself. The hatred inwhich he was held by a certain class came to his ears from time totime in threatening murmurs, but though those who knew best wereloudest in warning, he paid no heed. He continued to do what he heldto be his duty. Yet if anything had had power to turn him from hispath it had been fear on his son's account; it had been the very, verysmall share which the boy must take in his peril. And so, at the firsthint he had removed the child from the zone of trouble, and sent himto a place which he fancied safe; a place which the boy loved, and inthe quiet of which health as well as safety might be gained. If thename of Clyne was hated where spindles whirled and shuttles flew, andmen lived their lives under a pall of black smoke, it was loved inCartmel by farmer and shepherd alike; and not less by the rudecharcoal-burners who plied their craft in the depths of the woodsabout Staveley and Broughton in Furness.
On that side he thought himself secure. And so the blow fell with allthe force of the unexpected. The summons of the panic-strickenservants found him in his bed; and it was a man who hardly containedhimself, who hardly contained his fury and his threats, who withoutbreaking his fast rode north. It was a hard-faced, stern man whocrossed the sands at Cartmel at great risk--but he had known them allhis life--and won at Carter's Green the first spark of comfort andhope which he had had since rising. Nadin was before him. Nadinwas in pursuit,--Nadin, by whom all that was Tory in Lancashireswore. Surely an accident so opportune, a stroke of mercy andprovidence so unlikely--for the odds against the officer's presencewere immense--could not be unmeant, could not be for nothing! Itseemed, it must be of good augury! But when Clyne reached his house inCartmel, and the terrified nurse who knew the depth of his love forthe boy grovelled before him, the household had no added hope to givehim, no news or clue. And he could but go forward. His horse wasspent, but they brought him a tenant's colt, and after eating a fewmouthfuls he pressed on up the lake side towards Bowness, attended bya handful of farmers' sons who had not followed on the first alarm.
Even now, hours after the awakening, and when any moment might endhis suspense, any turn in the road bring him face to face with theissue--good or bad, joy or sorrow--he dared not think of the child. Hedared not let his mind run on its fear or its suffering, its terrorsin the villains' hands, or the hardships which its helplessness mightbring upon it. To do so were to try his self-control too far. And sohe thought the more of the men, the more of vengeance, the more of thehour which would see him face to face with them, and see them face toface with punishment. He rejoiced to think that abduction was one ofthe two hundred crimes which were punishable with death: and he sworethat if he devoted his life to the capture of these wretches theyshould be taken. And when taken, when they had been dealt with byjudge and jury, they should be hanged without benefit of clergy. Thereshould be no talk of respite. His services to the party had earned somuch as that--even in these days when radicals were listened to overmuch, and fanatics like Wolseley and Burdett flung their wealth intothe wrong scale.
At Bowness there was no news except a word from Nadin bidding him rideon. And without alighting he pressed on, sternly silent, but with eyesthat tirelessly searched the bleak, bare fells for some movement, somehint of flight or chase. He topped the hill beyond Bowness, and drewrein an instant to scan the islets set here and there on the sullenwater. Then, after marking carefully the three or four boats whichwere afloat, he trotted down through Calgarth woods. And on turningthe corner that revealed the long gabled house at the Low Wood landinghe had a gleam of hope. Here at last was something, some stir, someadequate movement. In the road were a number of men, twenty or thirty,on foot or horseback. A few were standing, others were moving toand fro. Half of them carried Brown Besses, blunderbusses, or oldhorse-pistols, and three or four were girt with ancient swords luggedfor the purpose from bacon-rack or oak chest. The horses of the menmatched as ill as their arms, being of all heights and all degrees ofshagginess, and some riders had one spur, and some none. But the troopmeant business, it was clear, and Anthony Clyne's heart went out toth
em in gratitude. Hitherto he had ridden through a country-sideheedless or ignorant of his loss, and of what was afoot; and the tardyintelligence, the slow answer, had tried him sorely. Here at last wasan end of that. As the honest dalesmen, gathered before the inn,hauled their hard-mouthed beasts to the edge of the road to make wayfor him, and doffed their hats in silent sympathy, he thanked themwith his eyes.
In spite of his empty sleeve he was off his horse in a moment.
"Have they learned anything?" he asked, his voice harsh withsuppressed emotion.
The nearest man began to explain in the slow northern fashion. "No,not as yet, your honour. But we shall, no doubt, i' good time. We knowthat they landed here in a boat."
"Ay, your honour, have no fear!" cried a second. "We'll get him back!"
And then Nadin came out.
"This way, if you please, Squire," he said, touching his arm andleading him aside. "We are just starting to scour the hills, but---- "hebroke off and did not say any more until he had drawn Clyne out ofearshot.
Then, "It's certain that they landed here," he said, turning andfacing him. "We know that, Squire. And I fancy that they are not faraway. The holt is somewhere near, for it is here we lost the otherfox. I'm pretty sure that if we search the hills for a few hours we'lllight on them. But that's the long way. And damme!" vehemently,"there's a short way if we are men and not mice."
Clyne's eyes gleamed.
"A short way?" he muttered. In spite of Nadin's zeal the Manchesterofficer's manner had more than once disgusted his patron. It had farfrom that effect now. The man might swear and welcome, be familiar, hewhat he pleased, if he would also act! If he would recover the childfrom the cruel hands that held it! His very bluntness and burlinessand sufficiency gave hope. "A short way?" Clyne repeated.
Nadin struck his great fist into the other palm.
"Ay, a short way!" he answered. "There's a witness here can tell usall we want if she will but speak. I am just from her. A woman whoknows and can set us on the track if she chooses! And we'll have butto ride to covert and take the fox."
Clyne laid his hand on the other's arm.
"Do you mean," he asked huskily, struggling to keep hope withinbounds, "that there is some one here--who knows where they are?"
"I do!" Nadin answered with an oath. "And knows where the child is.But she'll not speak."
"Not speak?"
"No, she'll not tell. It's the young lady you were here about before,Squire, to be frank with you."
"Miss Damer?" in a tone of astonishment.
"Ay, Squire, she!" Nadin replied. "She! And the young madam knows,d----n her! It's all one business, you may take it from me! It's allone gang! She was at the place where they landed after dark lastnight."
"Impossible!" Clyne cried. "Impossible! I cannot believe you."
"Ay, but she was. She let herself down from a window when the househad gone to bed that she might get there. Ay, Squire, you may look,but she did. She did not meet them; she was too soon or too late, wedon't know which. But she was there, as sure as I am here! And Isuspect--though Bishop, who is a bit of a softy, like most of thoseLondon men, doesn't agree--that she was in the thing from thebeginning, Squire! And planned it, may be, but you'd be the best judgeof that. Any way, we are agreed that she knows now. That is clear asdaylight!"
"Knows, and will not tell?" Clyne cried. Such conduct seemed toomonstrous, too wicked to the man who had strained every nerve to reachhis child, who had ridden in terror for hours, trembling at thepassage of every minute, grudging the loss of every second. "Knows,and will not tell!" he repeated. "Impossible!"
"It's not impossible, Squire," Nadin answered. "We're clear on it.We're all clear on it."
"That she knows where the child is?" incredulously. "Where they arekeeping it?"
"That's it."
"And will not say?"
Nadin grinned.
"Not for us," he said, shrugging his shoulders. "She may for you. Butshe is stubborn as a mule. I can't say worse than that. Stubborn as amule, Squire!"
Clyne raised his hand to hide the twitching nostril, the quivering lipthat betrayed his agitation. But the hand shook. He could not yetbelieve that she was privy to this wickedness. But--but if she onlyknew it now and kept her knowledge to herself--she was, he dared notthink what she was. A gust of passion took him at the thought, andwhitened his face to the very lips. He had to turn away that thecoarse-grained, underbred man beside him might not see too much. And afew seconds went by before he could command his voice sufficiently toask Nadin what evidence he had of this--this monstrous charge. "How doyou know--I want to be clear--how do you know," he asked, sternlymeeting his eyes, "that she left the house last night to meet them?That she was there to meet them? Have you evidence?" He could notbelieve that a woman of his class, of his race, would do this thing.
"Evidence?" Nadin answered coolly. "Plenty!" And he told the story ofthe foot-prints, and of Mr. Sutton's experiences in the night; andadded that one of the child's woollen mits had been found between thebottom-boards of a boat beached at that spot--a boat which bore signsof recent use. "If you are not satisfied and would like to see hisreverence," he continued, "and question him before you see her--shallI send him to you?"
"Ay, send him," Clyne said with an effort. He had been incredulous,but the evidence seemed overwhelming. Yet he struggled, he tried todisbelieve. Not because his thoughts still held any tenderness for thegirl, or he retained any remnant of the troublesome feeling that hadhaunted him; for the shock of the child's abduction had driven suchsmall emotions from his mind. But with the country rising about him,amid this gathering of men upon whom he had no claim, but who askednothing better than to be brought face to face with the authors of theoutrage--with these proofs of public sympathy before his eyes itseemed impossible that a woman, a girl, should wantonly set herself onthe other side, and shield the criminals. It seemed impossible. Butthen, when the first news of her elopement with an unknown strangerhad reached him, he had thought that impossible! Yet it had turned outto be true, and less than the fact; since the man was not only beneathher, but a radical and a villain!
"But I will see Sutton," he muttered, striving to hold his rage incheck. "I will see Sutton. Perhaps he may be able to explain. Perhapshe may be able to put another face on the matter."
The chaplain would fain have done so; more out of a generous pity forthe unfortunate girl than out of any lingering hope of ingratiatinghimself with her. But he did not know what to say, except that thoughshe had gone to the rendezvous she had not seen nor met any one. Helaid stress on that, for he had nothing else to plead. But he had toallow that her purpose had been to meet some one; and at the weakattempt to excuse her Clyne's rage broke forth.
"She is shameless!" he cried. "Shameless! Can you say after this thatshe has given up all dealings with her lover? Though she passed herword and knows him for a married man?"
The chaplain shook his head.
"I cannot," he said sorrowfully. "I cannot say that. But----"
"She gave her word! Tome. To others."
"I allow it. But----"
"But what? What?" with hardly restrained rage. "Will you still, sir,take her side against the innocent? Against the child, whom she hasconspired to entrap, to carry off, perhaps to murder?"
"Oh, no, no!" Mr. Sutton cried in unfeigned horror. "That I do notbelieve! I do not believe that for an instant! I allow, I admit," hecontinued eagerly, "that she has been weak, and that she has madly,foolishly permitted this wretch to retain a hold over her."
"At any rate," Clyne retorted, his rage at a white heat, "she has liedto me!"
"I admit it."
"And to others!"
The chaplain could only hold out his hands in deprecation.
"You will admit that she has continued to communicate with a man sheshould loathe? A man whom, if she were a modest girl, she wouldloathe? That she has stolen to midnight interviews with him, leavingthis house as a thief leaves it? That she has cast all modesty
fromher?"
"Do not, do not be too hard on her!" Sutton cried, his face flushinghotly. "Captain Clyne, I beg--I beg you to be merciful."
"It is she who is hard on herself! But have no fear," Clyne continued,in a voice cold as the winter fells and as pitiless. "I shall give herfifteen minutes to come to her senses and behave herself--not as adecent woman, I no longer ask that, but as a woman, any woman, thelowest, would behave herself, to save a child's life. And if shebehaves herself--well. And if not, sir, it is not I who will punishher, but the law!"
"She will speak," the chaplain said. "I think she will speak--foryou."
He was deeply and honestly concerned for the girl: and full of pityfor her, though he did not understand her.
"But--suppose I saw her first?" he suggested. "Just for a few minutes?I could explain."
"Nothing that I cannot," Captain Clyne answered grimly. "And for a fewminutes! Do you not consider," with a look of suspicion, "that therehas been delay enough already? And too much! Fifteen minutes," with arecurrence of the bitter laugh, "she shall have, and not one minutemore, if she were my sister!"
Mr. Sutton's face turned red again.
"Remember, sir," he said bravely, "that she was going to be yourwife."
"I do remember it!" Clyne retorted with a withering glance. "And thankGod for His mercy."