CHAPTER XXI
COUSIN MEETS COUSIN
Nadin and the others had not left her more than ten minutes whenHenrietta heard his voice under the window. She was still flushed andheated, sore with the things which they had said to her, bruised andbattered by their vulgarity and bluster. Indignation still burned inher; and astonishment that they could not see the case as she saw it.The argument in her own mind was clear. They must prove that Waltersonhad committed this new crime, they must prove that if she betrayed theman she would save the child--and she would speak. Or she would speakif they would undertake to release the man were he not guilty. Butshort of that, no. She would not turn informer against him, whom shehad chosen in her folly--except to save life. What could be moreclear, what more fair, what more logical? And was it not monstrous toask anything beyond this?
She had wrought herself in truth to an almost hysterical stubbornnesson the point. The romantic bent that had led her to the verge of ruinstill inclined her feelings. Yet when she heard the father's stepapproaching along the passage, she trembled. She gazed in terror atthe door. The prospect of the father's tears, the father'ssupplication, shook her. She had to say to herself, "I must not tell,I must not! I must not!" as if the repetition of the words wouldstrengthen her under the torture of his appeal. And when he entered,in the fear of what he might say she was before him. She did not lookat him, or heed what message his face conveyed--or she had been frozeninto silence. But in a panic she rushed on the subject.
"I am sorry, oh, I am so sorry!" she cried, tears in her voice. "Iwould do it, if I could, I would indeed. But I cannot," distressfully,"I must not! And I beg you to spare me your reproaches."
"I have none to make to you," he said.
It was his tone, rather than his words, which cut her like a whip.
"None!" she cried. "Ah, but you blame me? I am sure you do."
"I do not blame you," he replied in the same cold tone. "My businesshere has nothing to do with reproaches or with blame. I give youfifteen minutes to tell me what you know, and all you know, of the manWalterson's whereabouts. That told, I have no more to say to you."
She looked at him as one thunderstruck.
"And if I do not do that," she murmured, "within fifteen minutes? If Ido not tell you?"
"You will go to Appleby gaol," he said, in the same passionless tone."To herd with your like, with such women as may be there." He laid hiswatch on the table, beside his whip and glove; and he looked not ather, but at it.
"And you? You will send me?" she answered.
"I?" he replied slowly. "No, I shall merely undo what I did before. Mycoming last time saved you from the fate which your taste for lowcompany had earned. This time I stand aside and the result will be thesame as if I had never come. There is, let me remind you, a minutegone."
She looked at him, her face colourless, but her eyes undaunted. Butthe look was wasted, for he looked only at his watch.
"You are come, then," she said, her voice shaking a little, "not toreproach me, but to insult me! To outrage me!"
"I have no thought of you," he answered.
The words, the tone, lashed her in the face. Her nostrils quivered.
"You think only of your child!" she cried.
"That is all," he answered. And then in the same passionless tone, "Donot waste time."
"Do not----"
"Do not waste time!" he repeated. "That is all I have to say to you."
She stood as one stunned; dazed by his treatment of her; shaken to thesoul by his relentless, pitiless tone, by his thinly veiled hatred.
He who had before been cold, precise and just was become inhuman,implacable, a stone. Presently, "Three minutes are gone," he said.
"And if I tell you?" she answered in a voice which, though low,vibrated with resentment and indignation, "if I tell you what you wishto know, what then?"
"I shall save the child--I trust. Certainly I shall save him fromfurther suffering."
"And what of me?"
"You will escape for this time."
Her breast heaved with the passion she restrained. Her foot tapped thefloor. Her fingers drummed on the table. Such treatment was not fittreatment for a dog, much less for a woman, a gentlewoman! And hisinjustice! How dared he! How dared he! What had she done to deserveit? Nothing! No, nothing to deserve this.
Meanwhile he seemed to have eyes only for his watch, laid open on thetable before him. But he noted the signs, and he fancied that she wasabout to break down, that she was yielding, that in a moment she wouldfall to weeping, perhaps would fall on her knees--and tell him all. Afaint surprise, therefore, pierced his pitiless composure when, afterthe lapse of a long minute, she spoke in a tone that was comparativelycalm and decided.
"You have forgotten," she said slowly, "that I am of your blood! ThatI was to be your wife!"
"It was you who forgot that!" he replied.
She had her riposte ready.
"And wisely!" she answered, "and wisely! How wisely you have proved tome to-day--you,"--with scorn equal to his own--"who are willing tosacrifice me, a helpless woman, on the mere chance of saving yourchild! Who are willing to send me, a woman of your blood, to prisonand to shame, to herd--you have said it yourself--with such vile womenas prisons hold! And that on the mere chance of saving your son! Forshame, Captain Clyne, for shame!"
"You are wasting time," he answered. "You have eight minutes."
"You are determined that I shall go?"
"Or speak."
"Will you not hear," she asked slowly, "what I have to say on my side?What reason I have for not speaking? What excuse? What extenuation ofmy conduct?"
"No," he replied. "Your reasons for speaking or not speaking, yourconduct or misconduct, are nothing to me. I am thinking of my child."
"And not at all of me?"
"No."
"Yet listen," she said, with something approaching menace in her tone,"for you will think of me! You will think of me--presently! When it istoo late, Captain Clyne, you will remember that I stood before you,that I was alone and helpless, and you would not hear my reasons normy excuses. You will remember that I was a girl, abandoned by all,left alone among strangers and spies, without friend or adviser."
"I," he said, coldly interrupting her, "was willing to advise you. Butyou took your own path. You know that."
"I know," she retorted with sudden passion, "that you were willing toinsult me! That you were willing to set me, because I had committed anact of folly, as low as the lowest! So low that all men were the sameto me! So low that I might be handed like a carter's daughter who hadmisbehaved herself, to the first man who was willing to cover herdisgrace. That! that was your way of helping me and advising me!"
"In two minutes," he said in measured accents, "the time will be up!"
He appeared to be quite unmoved by her reproaches. His manner was ascold, as repellant, as harsh as ever. But he was not so entirelyuntouched by her appeal as he wished her to think. For the time,indeed, his heart was numbed by anxiety, his breast was renderedinsensible by the grip of suspense. But the barbed arrows of herreproaches stuck and remained. And presently the wounds would smartand rankle, troubling his conscience, if not his heart. It is possiblethat he had already a suspicion of this. If so, it only deepened hisrage and his hostility.
With the same pitiless composure, he repeated:
"In two minutes. There is still time, but no more than time."
"You have told me that you do not wish to hear my reasons?"
"For silence? I do not."
"They will not turn you," her voice shook under the maddening sense ofhis injustice, "whatever they are?"
"No," he answered, "they will not. And having said that I have saidall that I propose to say."
"You condemn me unheard?"
"I condemn you? No, the law will condemn you, if you are condemned."
"Then I, too," she answered, with a beating heart--for indignationalmo
st choked her--"have said all that I propose to say. All!"
"Think! Think, girl!" he cried.
She was silent.
He closed his watch with a sharp, clicking sound, and put it in hisfob.
"You will not speak?" he said.
"No!"
Then passion, long restrained, long kept under, swept him away. Hetook a stride forward, and before she guessed what he would be at, hehad seized her wrist, gripping it cruelly.
"But you shall!--you shall!" he cried. His face full of passion wasclose to hers, he pressed her a pace backwards. "You vixen! Speaknow!" he cried. "Speak!"
"Let me go!" she cried.
"Speak or I will force it from you. Where is he?"
"I will never speak!" she panted, struggling with him, and trying tosnatch her arm from him. "I will never speak! You coward! Let me go!"
"Speak or I will break your wrist," he hissed.
He was hurting her horribly.
But, "Never! Never! Never!" She shrieked the word at him, her facewhite with rage and pain, her eyes blazing. "Never, you coward. Youcoward! Let me go!"
He let her go then--too late remembering himself. He stepped back.Breathing hard, she leant against the table, and nursed her bruisedwrist in the other hand. Her face, an instant before white, now flamedwith anger. Never, never since she was a little child had she been sotreated, so handled! Every fibre in her was in revolt. But she did notspeak. She only, rocking herself slightly to and fro, scathed him withher eyes. The coward! The coward!
And he was as yet too angry--though he had remembered himself andreleased her--to feel much shame for what he had done. He was toowrapt in the boy and his object to think soberly of anything else. Hewent, his hand shaking a little, his face disordered by the outbreak,to the bell and rang it. As he turned again,
"Your ruin be on your own head!" he cried.
And he looked at her, hating her, hating her rebellious bearing.
He saw in her, with her glowing cheeks and eyes bright with fury, themurderess of his boy. What else, since, if it was not her plan, shecovered it? Since, if it was not her deed, she would not stay it? Shemust be one of those feminine monsters, those Brinvilliers, blonde andinnocent to the eye, whom passion degraded to the lowest! Whom acursed infatuation made suddenly most base, driving them to excessesand crimes.
While she, her breast boiling with indignation, her heart burstingwith the sense of bodily outrage, of bodily pain, forgot the anguishhe was suffering. She forgot the provocation that had exasperated himto madness, that had driven him to violence. She saw in him a cowardlybully, a man cruel, without shame or feeling. She fully believed nowthat he had flogged a seaman to death. Why not, since he had sotreated her? Why not, since it was clear that there was no torture towhich he would not resort, if he dared, to wring from her the secrethe desired?
And a torrent of words, a flood of scathing reproaches and fiercehome-truths, rose to her lips. But she repressed them. To complain wasto add to her humiliation, to augment her shame. To protest was tostoop lower. And strung to the highest pitch of animosity theyremained confronting one another in silence, until the door opened andJustice Hornyold entered, followed by his clerk. After these Nadin,Bishop, Mr. Sutton, and two or three more trooped in until the roomwas half full of people.
It was clear that they had had their orders below, and knew what toexpect; for all looked grave, and some nervous. Even Hornyold betrayedby his air, half sheepish and half pompous, that he was not quitecomfortable.
"The young lady has not spoken?" he said.
"No," Clyne answered, breathing quickly. He could not in a momentreturn to his ordinary self. "She refuses to speak."
"You have laid before her reasons?"
He averted his eyes.
"I have said all I can," he muttered sullenly. "I have assured myselfthat she is privy to this matter, and I withdraw the informalundertaking which I gave a fortnight ago that she should beforthcoming if wanted. Unless, therefore, you are satisfied with thelandlord's bail--but that is for you."
Mr. Hornyold shook his head.
"With this new charge advanced?" he said. "No, I am afraid not.Certainly not. But perhaps," looking at her, "the young lady willstill change her mind. To change the mind"--with a feeble grin--"is alady's privilege."
"I shall not tell you anything," Henrietta said with a catch in herbreath. She hid her smarting, tingling wrist behind her. She mighthave complained; but not for the world would she have let them knowwhat he had done to her, what she had suffered.
Mr. Sutton, who was standing in the background, stepped forward.
"Miss Damer," he said earnestly, "I beg you, I implore you to think."
"I have thought," she answered with stubborn anger. "And if I couldhelp him," she pointed to Clyne, "if I could help him by lifting myfinger----"
"Oh, dear, dear!" the chaplain cried, appalled by her vehemence."Don't say that! Don't say that!"
"What shall I say, then?" she answered--still she remembered herself."I have told you that I know nothing of the abduction of his child.That is all I have to say."
Hornyold shook his sleek head again.
"I am afraid that won't do," he said. "What"--consulting Nadin withhis eye--"what do the officers say?"
Nadin laughed curtly.
"Not by no means, it won't do!" he said. "What she says is slap upagainst the evidence, sir, and evidence strong enough to hang a man.The truth is, your reverence, the young lady has had every chance, andall said and done we are losing time. And time is more than money! Thesooner she is under lock and key the better."
"You apply that she be committed?" Hornyold asked slowly.
"I do, sir."
The Justice looked at Bishop.
"Do you join in the application?" he asked.
The officer nodded, but with evident reluctance.
The clerk, who had taken his seat at the corner of the table and laidsome papers before him, dipped his pen in the inkhorn, which hecarried at his button-hole. He prepared to write. "On the charge ofbeing accessory?" he said in a low voice. "Before or after, Mr.Nadin?"
"Both," said Nadin.
"After," said Bishop.
The clerk looked from one to the other, and then began to write; butslowly, and as if he wished to leave as long as possible a _locuspenitentiae_. It was a feeling shared by all except Captain Clyne. Eventhe Manchester man, hardened as he was by a rude life in the roughestof towns, had had jobs more to his taste--and wished it done; whilethe feeling of the greater part was one of pity. The girl was soyoung, her breeding and refinement were so manifest, her courage sohigh, she confronted them so bravely, that they were sensible ofsomething cruel in their attitude to her; gathered as they were manyto one--and that one a woman with no one of her sex beside her. Theyrecoiled from the idea of using force to her. And now it was reallycome to the point of imprisoning her, those who had a notion what aprison was disliked it most; fearing not only that she might resistremoval and cause a heart-rending scene, but still more that she hadunknown sufferings before her.
For the prisons of that day were not the prisons of to-day. There wasno separation of one class of offenders from another. There were noseparate cells, there were rarely even separate beds. Girls awaitingtrial were liable to be locked up with the worst women-felons. Nay,the very warders were often old offenders, who had earned their placesby favour. In small country prisons, conditions were better, but air,light, space, and cleanliness were woefully lacking. Something mightbe done, no doubt, to soften the lot of a prisoner of Henrietta'sclass; but indulgence depended on the whim of the jailor--who atAppleby was a blacksmith!--and could be withdrawn as easily as it wasgranted.
Suddenly the clerk looked up over his glasses. "The full name," hesaid, "if you please."
"Henrietta Mary Damer." It was Clyne who spoke.
The clerk added the name, and rising from his seat offered the pen tothe magistrate. But Hornyold hesitated. He looked flurried, andsomething startled.
> "But should not----" he murmured, "ought we not to communicate withher brother--with--Sir Charles? He must be her guardian!"
"Sir Charles," Clyne answered, "has repudiated all responsibility. Itwould be useless to apply to him. I have seen him. And the matter is acriminal matter."
The girl said nothing, but her colour faded suddenly. And in the eyesof one or two she seemed a more pitiful figure, standing alone andmute, than before. But for the awe in which they held Clyne, and theirknowledge of his reason for severity, the chaplain and Long TomGilson, who was one of those by the door, would have intervened. As itwas, Hornyold stooped to the table and signed the form--or was signingit when the clerk spoke.
"One moment, your reverence," he said in a low voice. "The debtors'quarters at Appleby, where they'd be sure to put the young lady, areas good as under water at this time of the year. Kendal's nearer,she'd be better there. And you've power to say which it shall be."
"Kendal, then," Hornyold assented. The name was altered and he signedthe committal.
As he rose from the table, constraint fell on one and all. Theywondered nervously what was to come next; and it was left to Nadin toput an end to the scene. "Landlord!" he said, turning to the door, "achaise for Kendal in ten minutes. And send your servant to go with theyoung lady to her room, and get together what she'll want. You'd besttake her, Bishop."
Bishop assented in a low tone, and Gilson went out to give the order.Hornyold said something to Clyne and they talked together in low tonesand with averted faces. Then, still talking, they moved to the doorand went out without looking towards her. The clerk gathered up hispapers, handed one to Bishop, and fastened the others together with apiece of red tape. That done, he, too, rose and followed themagistrate, making her an awkward bow as he passed. Mr. Sutton aloneremained, and, pale and excited, fidgeted to and fro; he could notbear to stay, and he could not bear to leave the girl alone with theofficers. Possibly--but to do him justice this went for little--hemight by staying commend himself to her, he might wipe out the awkwardimpression made by the night's adventure. But Clyne put in his headand called him in a peremptory tone; and he had to go with a feebleapologetic glance at her. She was left standing by the table, alonewith the officers.
For an instant she looked wildly at the door. Then, "May I go to myroom now?" she asked in a low tone.
"Not alone," Nadin answered--but civilly, for him. "In a moment thewoman will be here, and you can go with her. It's not quite regular,but we'll stretch a point. But you must not be long, miss! You'll haveno need," with a faint grin, "of many frocks, or furbelows, whereyou're going."