CHAPTER XXXII
THE SEARCH
To return to Bishop. Thrown off the trail in the wood, he pushed alongthe road as far as Windermere village. There, however, he could hearnothing. No one of Henrietta's figure and appearance had been seenthere. And in the worst of humours, with the world as well as withhimself, he put about and returned to the inn. If the girl had comeback during his absence, it was bad enough; he had had his trouble fornothing, and might have spared his shoe-leather. Hang such prettyfrailties for him! But if, on the other hand, she had not come back,the case was worse. He had been left to watch her, and the blame wouldfall on him. Nadin would say more than he had said already aboutLondon officers and their uselessness. And if anything happened toher! Bishop wiped his brow as he thought of that, and of his nextmeeting with Captain Clyne. It was to be hoped, be devoutly hoped,that nothing had happened to the jade.
It wanted half an hour of sunset, when he arrived, fagged and fuming,at the inn; and if his worst fears were not realised, he soon hadground to dread that they might be. Miss Damer had not returned.
"I've no truck with them rubbishy radicals," Mrs. Gilson addedimpersonally, scratching her nose with the handle of a spoon--asign that she was ill at ease. "But they're right enough in onething, and that is, that there's a lot of useless folk paid by thecountry--that'd never get paid by any one else! And for brains, giveme a calf's head!"
Bishop evaded the conflict with what dignity he might.
"The Captain's not come in?" he asked.
"Yes, he's come in," the landlady answered.
"Well," sullenly, "the sooner I see him the better, then!"
"You can't see him now," Mrs. Gilson replied, with a glance at theclock. "He's sleeping."
Bishop stared.
"Sleeping?" he cried. "And the young lady not come back?"
"He don't know that she has so much as gone out," Mrs. Gilson answeredwith the utmost coolness. "And what's more, I'm not going to tell him.He came in looking not fit to cross a room, my man, let alone cross ahorse! And when I went to take him a dish of tea I found him asleep inhis chair. And you may take it from me, if he's not left to have outhis sleep, now it's come, he'll be no more use to you, six hours fromthis, than a corpse!"
"Still, ma'am," Bishop objected, "the Captain won't be bestpleased----"
"Please a flatiron!" Mrs. Gilson retorted. "Best served's bestpleased, my lad, and that you'll learn some day." And then suddenlytaking the offensive, "For the matter of that, what do you want withhim?" she continued. "Ain't you grown men? If Joe Nadin and you andhalf a dozen redbreasts can't find one silly girl in an opencountryside, don't talk to me of your gangs! And your felonies! Andthe fine things you do in London!"
"But in London----"
"Ay, London Bridge was made for fools to go under!" Mrs. Gilsonanswered, with meaning. "It don't stand for nothing."
Bishop tapped his top-boot gloomily.
"She may come in any minute," he said. "There's that."
"She may, or she mayn't," Mrs. Gilson answered, with another look atthe clock.
"She's not been gone more than an hour and a half."
"Nor the mouse my cat caught this afternoon," the landlady retorted."But you'll not find it easily, my lad, nor know it when you find it."
He had no reply to make to that, but he carried his eye again to theclock. He was very uncomfortable--very uncomfortable. And yet hehardly knew what to do or where to look. In the meantime the girl'sdisappearance was becoming known, and caused, indoors and out, athrill of excitement. Another abduction, another disappearance! And attheir doors, on their thresholds, under their noses! Some heard thereport with indignation, and two in the house heard it with remorse;many with pity. But in the breasts of most the feeling was not whollypainful. The new mystery revived and doubled the old; and blew to awhite heat the embers of interest which were beginning to grow cold.In the teeth of the nipping air--and sunset is often the coldest hourof the twenty-four--groups gathered in the yard and before the house.And while a man here and there winked at his neighbour and hinted thatthe young madam had slunk back to the lover from whom she had beenparted, the common view was that mischief was afoot and somethingstrong should be done.
Meanwhile uncertainty--and in a small degree the absence of CaptainClyne and Nadin--paralysed action. At five, Bishop sent out three orfour of his dependants; one to watch the boat-landing, one to keep aneye on the entrance to Troutbeck village, and others to bid theconstables at Ambleside and Bowness be on the watch. But as long asthe young lady's return seemed possible--and some still thought thewhole a storm in a tea-cup--men not unnaturally shrank from taking thelead. Nor until the man who took all the blame to himself interposed,was any real step taken.
It was nearly six when Bishop, talking with his friends in thepassage, found himself confronted by the chaplain. Mr. Sutton was in astate of great and evident agitation. There were red spots on hischeek-bones, his pinched features were bedewed with perspiration, hiseyes were bright. And he who usually shunned encounter with coarserwits, now singled out the officer in the midst of his fellows.
"Are you going to do nothing," he cried, "except drink?"
Bishop stared.
"See here, Mr. Sutton," he said, slowly and with dignity, "you mustnot forget----"
"Except drink?" the chaplain repeated, without compromise. And takingBishop's glass, which stood half-filled on the window-seat beside him,he flung its contents through the doorway. "Do your duty, sir!" hecontinued firmly. "Do your duty! You were here to see that the ladydid not leave the house alone. And you permitted her to go."
"And what part," Bishop answered, with a sneer, "did your reverenceplay, if you please?" He was a sober man for those times, and thetaunt was not a fair one.
"A poor part," the chaplain answered. "A mean one! But now--I ask onlyto act. Say what I shall do, and if it be only by my example I mayeffect something."
"Ay, you may!" Bishop returned. "And I'll find your reverence workfast enough. Do you go and tell Captain Clyne the lady's gone. It's atask I've no stomach for myself," with a grin; "and your reverence isthe very man for it."
Mr. Sutton winced.
"I will do even that," he said, "if you will no longer lose time."
"But she may return any minute."
"She will not!" Mr. Sutton retorted, with anger. "She will not! Godforgive us for letting her go! If I failed in my duty, sir, do you doyours! Do you do yours!"
And such power does enthusiasm give a man, that he who these many dayshad seemed to the inn a poor, timid creature, slinking in and out asprivately as possible, now shamed all and kindled all.
"By jingo, I will, your reverence!" Bishop cried, catching the flame."I will!" he repeated heartily. And he turned about and began to giveorders with energy.
Fortunately Nadin arrived at that moment; and with his burly form andbroad Lancashire accent, he seemed to bring with him the vigour often. In three minutes he apprehended the facts, pooh-poohed the notionthat the girl would return, and with a good round oath "dommed themJacobins," to give his accent for once, "for the graidliest roogs andthe roofest devils i' all Lancashire--and that's saying mooch! But wemun ha' them hanged now," he continued, striding to and fro in hislong, rough horseman's coat. "We mun ha' them hanged! We'll larnthem!"
In ten minutes the road twinkled with lights ...]
He formed parties and assigned roads and brought all into order. Thefirst necessity was to visit every house within a mile of the inn onthe Windermere side; and this was taken in hand at once. In tenminutes the road twinkled with lights, and the frosty ground rangunder the tread of ironshod boots. It was ascertained that no boat hadcrossed the lake that afternoon; and this so far narrowed the area tobe searched, that the men were in a high state of excitement, andthose who carried firearms looked closely to their priming.
"'Tis a pity it's neet!" said Nadin. "But we mun ha' them, we mun ha'them, afoor long!"
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br /> Meanwhile, Mr. Sutton had braced himself to the task which he hadundertaken. Challenged by Bishop, he had been anxious to go at once toClyne's room and tell him; that the Captain might go with thesearchers if he pleased. But he had not mounted three steps beforeMrs. Gilson was at his heels, bidding him, in her most peremptorymanner, to "let his honour be for another hour. What can he do?" sheurged. "He's but one more, and now the lads are roused, they'll do allhe can do! Let him be, let him be, man," she continued. "Or if youmust, watch him till he wakes, and then tell him."
"It will be worse then," the chaplain said.
"But he'll be better!" she retorted. "Do you be bidden by me. The manwasn't fit to carry his meat to his mouth when he went upstairs. Butlet him be until he has had his sleep out and he'll be another man."
And Mr. Sutton let himself be bidden. But he was right. Every minutewhich passed made the task before him more difficult. When at lastCaptain Clyne awoke, a few minutes after eight o'clock, and startled,brought his scattered senses to a focus, he saw sitting opposite him aman who hid his face in his hands, and shivered.
Clyne rose.
"Man, man!" he said. "What is it? Have you bad news?"
But the chaplain could not speak. He could only shake his head.
"They have not--not found----"
Clyne could not finish the sentence. He turned away, and with atrembling hand snuffed a candle--that his face might be hidden.
The chaplain shook his head.
"No, no!" he said. "No!"
"But it is--it's bad news?"
"Yes. She's--she's gone! She's disappeared!"
Clyne dropped the snuffers on the table.
"Gone?" he muttered. "Who? Miss Damer?"
"Yes. She left the house this afternoon, and has not returned. It wasmy fault! My fault!" poor Mr. Sutton continued, in a tone of thedeepest abasement. And with his face hidden he bowed himself to andfro like a man in pain. "They asked me to follow her, and I would not!I would not--out of pride!"
"And she has not returned?" Clyne asked, in an odd tone.
"She has not returned--God forgive me!"
Clyne stared at the flame of the nearest candle. But he saw, not theflame, but Henrietta; as he had seen her the morning he turned hisback on her, and left her standing alone on the road above the lake.Her slender figure under the falling autumn leaves rose before him;and he knew that he would never forgive himself. By some twistof the mind her fate seemed the direct outcome of that moment, ofthat desertion, of that cruel, that heartless abandonment. Theafter-events, save so far as they proved her more sinned against thansinning, vanished. He had been her sole dependence, her one protector,the only being to whom she could turn. And he had abandoned herheartlessly; and this--this unknown and dreadful fate--was the result.Her face rose before him, now smiling and defiant, now pale and drawn;and the piled-up glory of her hair. And he remembered--too late, alas,too late--that she had been of his blood and his kin; and that he hadfirst neglected her, and later when his mistake bred its naturalresult in her act of folly, he had deserted and punished her.
Remorse is the very shirt of Nessus. It is of all mental pains theworst. It seizes upon the whole mind; it shuts out every prospect. Itcries into the ear with every slow tick of the clock, the truth thatthat which had once been so easy can never be done now! Thatreparation, that kind word, that act of care, of thoughtfulness, ofpardon--never, never now! And once so easy! So easy!
For he knew now that he had loved the girl; and that he had thrownaway that which might have been the happiness of his life. He knew nowthat only pride had blinded him, giving the name of pity to that whichwas love--or so near to love that it was impossible to say where oneended and the other began. He thought of her courage and her pride;and then of the womanliness that, responding to the first touch ofgentleness on his side, had wept for his child. And how he had wrongedher from the first days of slighting courtship! how he hadmisunderstood her, and then mistrusted and maligned her--he, the onlyone to whom she could turn for help, or whom she could trust in a landof strangers--until it had come to this! It had come to this.
Oh, his poor girl! His poor girl!
A groan, bitter and irrepressible, broke from him. The man stoodstripped of the trappings of prejudice; he saw himself as he was, andthe girl as she was, a creature of youth and spirit and impulse. Andhe was ashamed to the depths of his soul.
At last, "What time did she go out?" he muttered.
The chaplain roused himself with a shiver and told him.
"Then she has been missing five hours?" There was a sudden hardeningin his tone. "You have done something, I suppose? Tell me, man, thatyou have done something!"
The chaplain told him what was being done. And the mere statement gavecomfort. Hearing that Mrs. Gilson had been the last to speak to her,Clyne said he would see the landlady. And the two went out of theroom.
In the passage a figure rose before them and fled with a kind ofbleating cry. It was Modest Ann, who had been sitting in the dark withher apron over her head. She was gone before they were sure who itwas. And they thought nothing of the incident, if they noticed it.
Downstairs they found no news and no comfort; but much coming andgoing. For presently the first party returned from its quest, andfinding that nothing had been discovered, set forth again in a newdirection. And by-and-by another returned, and standing ate something,and went out again, reinforced by Clyne himself. And so began a nightof which the memory endured in the inn for a generation. Few slept,and those in chairs, ready to start up at the first alarm. The tap ranfree for all; and in the coffee-room the table was set and set again.The Sunday's joints--for the next day was Sunday--were cooked andcold, and half-eaten before the morning broke; and before breakfastthe larder of the Salutation at Ambleside was laid under contribution.At intervals, those who dozed were aware of Nadin's tall, bulkypresence as he entered shaking the rime from his long horseman's coatand calling for brandy; or of Bishop, who went and came all night, butin a frame of mind so humble and downcast that men scarcely knew him.And now and again a fresh band of searchers tramped in one behind theother, passed the news by a single shake of the head, and crowding tothe table ate and drank before they turned to again--to visit a moredistant, and yet a more distant part.
Even from the mind of the father, the boy's loss seemed partly effacedby this later calamity. The mystery was so much the deeper: the riddlethe more perplexing. The girl had gone out on foot in the full lightof a clear afternoon; and within a few hundred yards of the place towhich they had traced the boy, she had vanished as if she had neverbeen. Clyne knew from her own lips that Walterson was somewhere withinreach. But this did not help much, since no one could hit on theplace. And various were the suggestions, and many and strange thesolutions proposed. Every poacher and every ne'er-do-well was visitedand examined, every house was canvassed, every man who had ever saidaught that could be held to savour of radical doctrine, wasconsidered. As the search spread to a wider and yet wider area, thealarm went with it, and new helpers arrived, men on horseback and menon foot. And all through the long winter's night the house hummed; andthe lights of the inn shone on the water as brightly and persistentlyas the stars that in the solemn firmament wheeled and marched.
But lamps and stars were alike extinguished, and the late dawn wasfiltering through the casements on jaded faces and pale looks, whenthe first gleam of encouragement showed itself. Clyne had been out forsome hours, and on his return had paused at the door of the snuggeryto swallow the cup of hot coffee, which the landlady pressed upon him.Nadin was still out, but Bishop was there and the chaplain, and two orthree yeomen and peasants. In all hearts hope had by this time givenway to dejection; and dejection was fast yielding to despair. Theparty stood, here and there, for the most part silent, or dropped nowand again a despondent word.
Suddenly Modest Ann appeared among them, with her head shrouded in herapron. And, "I can't bear it! I can't bear it!" the woman criedhysterically. "I must speak!"
/> A thrill of amazement ran through the group. They straightenedthemselves.
"If you know anything, speak by all means!" Clyne said, for surprisetied Mrs. Gilson's tongue. "Do you know where the lady is?"
"No! no!"
"Did she tell you anything?"
"Nothing! nothing!" the woman answered, sobbing wildly, and stillholding the apron drawn tightly over her face. "Missus, don't kill me!She told me naught! Naught! But----"
"Well--what? What?"
"There was a letter I gave her some time ago--before--oh,dear!--before the rumpus was, and she was sent to Kendall! And I'mthinking," sob, sob, "you'd maybe know something from the person whogave it me."
"That's it," said Bishop coolly. "You're a sensible woman. Who wasit?"
"That girl--of Hinkson's," she sobbed.
"Bess Hinkson!" Mrs. Gilson ejaculated.
"Ay, sure! Oh, dear! oh, dear! Bess said that she had it from a man onthe road."
"And that may be so, or it may not," Bishop answered, with quietdryness. He was in his element again. And then in a lower tone, "We'reon it now," he muttered, "or I am mistaken. I've seen the young ladynear Hinkson's once or twice. And it was near there I lost her. Thehouse has been visited, of course; it was one of the first visited.But we'd no suspicion then, and now we have. Which makes adifference."
"You're going there?"
"Straight, sir, without the loss of a minute!"
Clyne's eyes sparkled. And tired as they were, the men answered to thecall. Ten minutes before, they had crawled in, the picture of fatigue.Now, as they crossed the pastures above the inn, and plunged into thelittle wood in which Henrietta had baffled Bishop, they clutched theircudgels with as much energy as if the chase were but opening. Itmattered not that some wore the high-collared coats of the day, andtwo waistcoats under them, and had watches in their fobs; and thatothers tramped in smock frocks drawn over their fustian shorts. Thesame indignation armed all, great and small, rich and poor; and in awonderfully short space of time they were at the gate of StarvecrowFarm.
The house that, viewed at its best, had a bald and melancholy aspect,wore a villainous look now--perched up there in bare, loweringugliness, with its blind gable squinting through the ragged fir-trees.
Bishop left a man in the road, and sent two to the rear of the crazy,ruinous outbuildings which clung to the slope. With Clyne and theother three he passed round the corner of the house, stepped to thedoor and knocked. The sun's first rays were striking the higher hills,westward of the lake, as the party, with stern faces, awaited theanswer. But the lake, with its holms, and the valley and all the lowerspurs, lay grey and still and dreary in the grip of cold. The note ofmelancholy went to the heart of one as he looked, and filled it withremorse.
"Too late," it seemed to say, "too late!"
For a time no one came. And Bishop knocked again, and moreimperiously; first sending a man to the lower end of the ragged gardento be on the look-out. He knocked a third time. At last a shuffling offeet was heard approaching the door, and a moment later old Hinksonopened it. He looked, as he stood blinking in the daylight, morefrowsy and unkempt and to be avoided than usual. But--they noted withdisappointment that the door was neither locked nor bolted; so thathad they thought of it they might have entered at will!
"What is't?" he drawled, peering at them. "Why did you na' come in?"
Bishop pushed in without a word. The others followed. A glancesufficed to discover all that the kitchen contained; and Bishop, deafto the old man's remonstrances, led the way straight up the dark,close staircase. But though they explored without ceremony all therooms above, and knocked, and called, and sounded, and listened, theystumbled down again, baffled.
"Where's your daughter?" Bishop asked sternly.
"She was here ten minutes agone," the old man answered. Perhapsbecause the day was young he showed rather more sense than usual. Buthis eyes were full of spite.
"Here, was she?"
"Ay."
"And where's she now?"
"She's gone to t' doctor's. She be nursing there. They've no lass."
"Nursing! Who's she nursing?" incredulously.
The old man grinned at the ignorance of the question.
"The wumman and the babby," he said.
"At Tyson's?"
"Ay, ay."
"The house in the hollow?"
"That be it."
While they were talking thus, others had searched the crazy outhouses,but to no better purpose. And presently they all assembled in the roadoutside the gate.
"Where's your dog, old lad?" asked one of the dalesmen.
The miser had shuffled after them, holding out his hand and begging ofthem.
"At the doctor's," he answered. "Her be fearsome and begged it. Ye'llgive an old man something?" he added, whining. "Ye'll give something?"
"Off! Off you go, my lad!" Bishop cried. "We've done with you. Ifyou're not a rascal 'tis hard on you, for you look one!" And when theold skinflint had crawled back under the fir-trees, "Worst is, sir,"he continued, with a grave face, "it's all true. Tyson's away in thenorth--with a brother or something of that kind--so I hear. And hismissus had a baby this ten days gone or more. He's a rough tyke, buthe's above this sort of thing, I take it. Still, we'll go and questionthe girl. We may get something from her."
And they trooped off along the road in twos and threes, and turningthe corner saw Tyson's house, below them--so far below them that ithad, as always, the look of a toy house on a toy meadow at the bottomof a green bowl. Below the house the little rivulet that rose besideit bisected the meadow, until at the end of the open it lost itself inthe narrow wooded gorge, through which it sprang in unseen waterfallsto join the lake below.
They descended the slope to the house; sharp-eyed but saying little. Atrifle to one side of the door, under a window, a dog was kenneled. Itleapt out barking; but seeing so many persons it slunk in again andlay growling.. A moment and the door was opened and Bess showedherself. She looked astonished, but not in any way frightened.
"Eh, masters!" she said. "What is it? Are you come after the younglady again?"
"Ay," Bishop answered. "We are. We want to know where you got theletter you gave Ann at the inn--to give to her?"
Perhaps Bess looked for the question and was prepared. At any rate,she betrayed no sign of confusion.
"Well," she said, "I can tell you what he was like that gave it me."
"A man gave it you?"
"Ay, and a shilling. And," smiling broadly, "he'd have given mesomething else if I'd let him."
"A kiss, I bet!" said Bishop.
"Ay, it was. But I said that'd be another shilling."
Clyne groaned.
"For God's sake," he said, "come to the point. Time's everything."
Bishop shrugged his shoulders.
"Where did you see him, my girl?" he asked.
"By the gate of the coppice as I was bringing the milk," she answeredfrankly. "'I'm her Joe,' he said. 'And if you'll hand her this andkeep mum, here's a shilling for you.' And----"
"Very good," said Bishop. "And what was he like?"
With much cunning she described Walterson, and Bishop acknowledged thelikeness. "It's our man!" he said, slapping his boot with his loadedwhip. "And now, my dear, which way did he go?"
But she explained that she had met him by the gate--he was astranger--and she had left him in the same place.
"And you can't say which way he went?"
"No," she answered. "Nor yet which way he came. I looked back to see,to tell the truth," frankly. "But he had not moved, and he did notmove until I was out of sight. And I never saw him again. The boy hadnot been stolen then," she continued, "and I thought little of it."
"You should have told," Bishop answered, eyeing her severely. "Anothertime, my lass, you'll get into trouble." And then suddenly, "Here, canwe come in?"
She threw the door wide with a movement that disarmed suspicion.
"To be sure," she said. "And welcome, so as
you don't make a noise towaken the mistress."
But when they stood in the kitchen it wore an aspect so neat andorderly that they were ashamed of their suspicions. The fire burnedcheerfully on the wide hearth, and a wooden tray set roughly, butcleanly, stood on the corner of the long, polished table. The door ofthe shady dairy stood open, and afforded a glimpse of the great leadenmilk-pans, and the row of shining pails.
"The mistress is just overhead," she said. "So you'll not make muchnoise, if you please."
"We'll make none," said Bishop. "We've learned what we want." And heturned to go out.
All had not entered. Those who had, nodded, turned with gloomy faces,and followed him out. The dog, lurking at the back of its kennel, wasstill growling.
"I'd be afeared to sleep here without him," Bess volunteered.
"Ay, ay."
"He's better 'n two men."
"Ay?"
They looked at the dog, and some one bade her good-day. And one by onethe little troop turned and trailed despondently from the house, Clynewith his chin sunk on his breast, Bishop in a brown study, the othermen staring blankly before them. Half-way up the ascent to the roadClyne stopped and looked back. His face was troubled.
"I thought----" he began. And then he stopped and listened, frowning.
"What?"
"I don't know." He looked up. "You didn't hear anything?"
Bishop and the men said that they had not heard anything. Theylistened. They all listened. And all said that they heard nothing.
"It was fancy, I suppose," Clyne muttered, passing his hand over hiseyes. And he shook his head as if to shake off some painfulimpression.
But before he reached the road he paused once again and listened. Andhis face was haggard and lined with trouble.
It occurred to no one that Bess had been too civil. To no one. Forshrewd Mrs. Gilson was not with them.