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  CHAPTER XXII

  MR. SUTTON'S NEW ROLE

  When the chaise which carried the prisoner to Kendal had left the inn,and the search parties had gone their way under leaders who knew thecountry, and the long tail of the last shaggy pony had whisked itselfout of sight, a dullness exceeding that of November settled down onthe inn by the lake. The road in front ran, a dull, unbroken ribbon,along the water-side; and alone and melancholy the chaplain walked upand down, up and down, the last man left. Occasionally Mrs. Gilsonappeared at the door and looked this way and that; but her eye wassombre and her manner did not invite approach or confidence.Occasionally, too, Modest Ann's face was pressed against the window ofthe coffee-room, where she was setting out the long table againstevening; but she was disguised in tears and temper, and before Mr.Sutton could identify the phenomenon, or grasp its meaning, she wasgone. The frosty promise of the morning had vanished, and in its placeleaden clouds dulled sky and lake, and hung heavy and black on thescarred forehead of Bow Fell. Mr. Sutton looked above and below, andthis way and that, and, too restless to go in, found no comfortwithout. He wished that he had gone with the searchers, though he knewnot a step of the country. He wished that he had said more for thegirl, and stood up for her more firmly, though to do so had been toquarrel with his patron. Above all, he wished that he had never seenher, never given way to the temptation to aspire to her, never startedin pursuit of her--last of all, that he had never stooped to spy onher. He was ill content with himself and his work; ill content withthe world, his patron, everybody, everything. No man was ever worsecontent.

  For Nemesis in an unexpected form was overtaking, nay even as hewalked the road, had overtaken the chaplain. He had come to marry, heremained to love; he had come to enjoy, he remained to suffer. He hadcome, dazzled by the girl's rank and fortune, that rank and thatfortune which he had thought so much above himself, and to which herbeauty added so piquant and delicate a charm. And, lo, it was neitherher rank, nor her fortune, nor her beauty that, as he walked, beat athis heart and would be heard, would have entrance; but the girl'slonely plight and her disgrace and her trouble. On a sudden, as hewent helplessly and aimlessly and unhappily up and down the road, herecognised the truth; he knew what was the matter with him. His eyesfilled, his feelings overcame him--and no man was ever more surprised.He had to walk a little way down the road before, out of ken of thehorse, he dared to wipe the tears from his cheeks. Nor even then couldhe refrain from one or two foolish, unmanly gasps.

  "I did not think that I was--such a fool!" he muttered. "Such a fool!I didn't think it!"

  When he regained command of himself he found that his feet had bornehim to the gate-pillar where so much had happened the previous day. Tothe very place where he had surprised Henrietta as she arranged hersignal, and where she had so nearly surprised him in the act ofwatching her! In his new-born repentance, in his newborn honesty hehated the place; he hated it only less than he hated the conduct ofwhich it reminded him. And partly out of sentiment, partly out of someunowned notion of doing penance, he turned and slowly retraced hercourse to the inn, treading as far as possible where she had trodden.When he reached the door he did not go in, but, unwilling to face anyone, he went on as far as a seat on the foreshore, where he had seenher sit. And the sentiment of her presence still forming theattraction, he wondered if she had paused there on that morning, or ifshe had gone indoors at once.

  He was so unhappy that he did not feel the cold. The thought of herwarmed him, and he sat for a minute or two, with his eyes on thegloomy face of the lake that, towards the farther shore, frowned moredarkly under the shadow of the woods. He wished that he understood herconduct better, that he had the clue to it. He wished that heunderstood her refusal to speak. But right or wrong, she was introuble and he loved her. Ay, right or wrong! For good or ill! Stillhe sighed, for all was very dark. And presently he went to rise.

  His eyes in the act fell on a few scraps of paper which lay at hisfeet and showed the whiter for the general gloom. Letters were not socommon then as now. It was much if one person in five could write. Thepostage on a note sent from the south of England to the north was ashilling; the pages were crossed and recrossed, were often read andcherished long. Paper, therefore, did not lie abroad, as it liesabroad now; and Mr. Sutton--hardly knowing what he did--bent his eyeson the scraps. He was long-sighted, and on one morsel a little largerthan its neighbours, he read the word "gate."

  In other circumstances he would not ten seconds later have known whatwords he had read. But at the moment he had the incident of thegate-post in his head--and Henrietta; and he apprehended as in a flashthat this might be the summons which had called her forth the previousnight--to her great damage. He conceived that after answering it bysetting the signal on the gate-post she might have come to this place,and before going into the house might have torn up the letter andscattered the pieces abroad. If so the secret lay at his feet; and ifhe stooped and took it up, he might help her.

  He hung in doubt a few seconds. For he was grown strangely scrupulous.But he reflected that he could destroy the evidence if it bore againsther--he would destroy it! And he gave way. Furtively, but with aneager hand, he collected the scraps of paper. There were about ascore, the size of dice, and discoloured by moisture, strewn here andthere round the seat. Behind, among the prickly shoots and brown rootsof a gorse-bush were as many more, as if she had dropped a handfulthere. Another dozen he tracked down, one here, one there, in spots towhich the wind had carried them. It was unlikely that he had got all,even then. But though he searched as narrowly as he dared--even goingon his knees beside the bush--he could find no more. Doubtless thewind had taken toll; and at length, carrying what he had found hiddenin his hand, he went into the house and sought refuge in his bedroom.

  Eagerly, though he had little hope of finding the result to his mind,he began to arrange the morsels. He found the task less hard than hehad anticipated. Guided by the straight edges of the paper, hecontrived in eight or nine minutes to piece the letter together; tosuch an extent, at any rate, as enabled him to gather its drift. Abouta fifth of the words were missing; and among these missing words werethe opening phrase, the last two words, and about a score in the bodyof the note. But the gist of the message was clear, its tone andfeeling survived; and they not only negatived the notion thatHenrietta was in league with Walterson, but presented in all itsstrength the appeal which his prayer must needs have made to the heartof a romantic girl.

  "... ed you ill, but men are not as women and I was tempted ... I donot ask ... forgive ... I ask you to save me. I am in your hands. Ifyou ... the heart to leave me to a ... lent death, all is said. If youhave mercy meet my ... ger at ten to-mor ... ning ... Troutbeck lanecomes down to the lake. As I hope to live you run no risk and cansuffer no harm. If you are merci ... spare me ... put a ... stone,before noon to-morrow, on the post of the ... gate...."

  Strange to say, Mr. Sutton's first feeling, when he had assuredhimself of the truth, was an excessive, furious indignation againsthis patron. He forgot, in his pity for the girl, the provocation whichCaptain Clyne had suffered. He forgot the child's peril and thepressure which this had laid on the father's feelings. He forgot thelight in which the girl's stubborn silence had placed her in the eyesof one who believed that she could save by a word that which he heldmore precious than his life. The chaplain was a narrow, and in secreta conceited man; he had been guilty of some things that ill became hiscloth. But he had under his cloth a heart that once roused was capableof generous passion. And as he stalked up and down the room in afrenzy of love and pity and indignation, he longed for the momentwhich should see him face to face with Captain Clyne. The letter onceshown, he did not conceive that there would be the least difficulty infreeing the girl; and he yearned for the return of the search parties.It was past four already; in the valley it was growing dusk. Yet ifClyne returned soon the girl might be released before night. She mightbe spared the humiliation, it
might well be the misery, of a night inprison.

  His room looked to the back of the inn; and here where all theafternoon had been plucking of ducks and fowls, and slicing offlitches--for some of the searchers would need to be fed--lights werebeginning to shine and a cheerful stir and a warm promise of comfortto prevail. From the kitchen, where the jacks were turning, firelightstreamed across the yard, and pattens clicked, and dogs occasionallyyelped; and now and again Mrs. Gilson's voice clacked strenuously. Inthe heat of his feelings Mr. Sutton compared this outlook with thecold quarters that held his Henrietta; and tears rose anew as hepictured the dank prison yard and the bare stone rooms, and thesqualor and the company. After that he could not sit still. He couldnot wait. He must be acting. He must tell his discovery to some one,no matter to whom. He arranged the letter between the pages of a bookand, having arranged it, took the book under his arm and randownstairs. At the door of her snuggery he came upon Mrs. Gilson, whohad just had words with Modest Ann. She eyed him sourly.

  "I want to show you something!" he said impetuously, forgetting hisfear of her. "I have discovered something, ma'am! A thing of theutmost importance."

  She grunted.

  "If it has to do with the child," she said grudgingly, "I'll hear it,and thank you."

  "It has naught to do with the child," he answered bluntly. "It has todo with Miss Damer."

  "Then I'll have naught to do with it!" the landlady retorted withequal bluntness, pursing up her lips and speaking as drily as a file."I've washed my hands of her."

  "But listen to me!" he replied. "Listen to me, Mrs. Gilson! Here's ayoung lady----"

  "That's behaved bad from the beginning--bad!" the landlady answered,cutting him short. "As bad as woman could! A woman, indeed, would havehad some heart, and not have left an innocent child in the hands of aparcel of murderous villains! No, no, my gentleman, you'll notpersuade me. An egg is good or bad, as you find it, and 'tis no goodsaying that the yolk is good when the white is tainted?"

  "But see here, ma'am"--he was bursting with indignation--"you areentirely wrong! Entirely wrong!"

  "Then your reverence had best speak to Captain Clyne, for it's not mybusiness!" Mrs. Gilson retorted crushingly. "I'm no scholar and don'tmeddle with writings." And she turned her broad back upon him and thebook which he proffered her.

  Mr. Sutton stood a moment in anger equal to his discomfiture. Then hewent back slowly to his pacing in the road. After all the woman coulddo nothing, she was nothing. And the search parties would be returningsoon. For night was falling. The last pale daylight was dying on thehigh fells towards Patterdale; the outlines of the low lands about thelake were fading into the blur of night. Here and there a tinyrushlight shone out, high up, and marked a hill-farm. Possibly thesearchers had found the child. In that case, Mr. Sutton's heart, whichshould have leapt at the thought, only mildly rejoiced; and that,rather on account of the favourable turn the discovery might give toHenrietta's affairs, than for his patron's sake. Not that he was notsorry for the child, and sorry for the father; he tried, indeed, tofeel more sorry. But he was not a man of warm feelings, and hissensibilities were selfish. He could not be expected to blossom out ina moment in more directions than one. It was something if he hadlearned in the few days he had spent by the lake to think of any otherthan himself.

  Had he been more anxious, had it been not he, but the father, whopaced there in suspense, dwelling on what a moment might bring forth,he had been keener to notice things. He had traced, down the shoulderof Wansfell, the slow march of a dancing light that marked the descentof one of the parties. He had heard afar off the voices of the men,who announced from Calgarth that Mrs. Watson's servants had searchedthe woods as far as Elleray, but without success--these, indeed, werethe first to come in. Hard on them arrived a band, under Mr. Curwen'sbailiff, which had made the tour of the islands--Belle Isle, LadyHolm, Thompson's Holm, and the rest--with the same result; and almostat the same moment rode in, with jaded horses, the troop of yeomen whohad undertaken to traverse the broken country at the head of the lake,between the Brathay and the Rotha. Two parties, the Troutbeckcontingent with which was Captain Clyne, and the riders who had chosenStock Ghyll valley and the Kirkstone, were still out at seven; and asthe others had met with no success, their return was eagerly awaited.For the road between the inn and the lake was astir with life.Ostlers' lanthorns twinkled hither and thither, and the place was likea fair. A crowd of men, muffled in homespun plaids, blocked thedoorway, and gabbling over their ale, stared now in one direction, nowin the other; while the more highly favoured flocked into the snuggeryand coffee-room and there discussed the chances in stentorian tones.The chaplain, with his feelings engaged elsewhere, wondered at thefury of some, and the heat of all; and was shocked by their oaths andthreats of vengeance.

  Clyne and his party came in about half-past seven; and as it chancedthat the Stock Ghyll troop arrived at the same minute, the whole houseturned out to meet the two, and learn their news. Alas, the downcastfaces of the riders told it sufficiently; and every head was uncoveredas Clyne, with stern and moody eyes, rode to the door and dismounted.He turned to the throng of faces, and the lanthorn-light falling onhis features showed them pale and disturbed.

  "My friends," he said, "I thank you. I shall not forget this day. Ishall never forget this day. I----" and then, though he was apractised speaker, he could not say more or go on. He made a gesture,at once pathetic and dignified, with his single arm, and turning fromthem went slowly up the stairs with his chin on his breast.

  every head was uncovered as Clyne ... rode to the door]

  The farmers were Tories to a man. Even Brougham's silver tongue hadfailed (in the election of the year before) to turn them against theLowthers. They were of the class from whom the yeomanry were drawn,and they had scant sympathy with the radical weavers of Rochdale andBury, Bolton and Manchester. Had they caught the villains at thismoment, they had made short work of them. They watched the slightfigure with its empty sleeve as it passed into the house, and theirlooks of compassion were exceeded only by their curses loud and deep.And pitiful indeed was the tale which those, who were forced to leave,carried home to their wives and daughters on the fells.

  The chaplain, hovering on the edge of the chattering groups, could notcome at once at his patron, who had no sooner reached the head of thestairs than he was beset by Nadin and others with reports andarrangements. But as soon as Clyne had gone wearily to his room totake some food before starting afresh--for it was determined tocontinue the search as soon as the moon rose--the chaplain went to himwith his book under his arm.

  He found Clyne seated before the fire, with his chin on his hand andhis attitude one of the deepest despondency. He had borne up withdifficulty under the public gaze; he gave way, martinet as he was, themoment he was alone. The reflection that the child might have beenwithin reach of his voice, yet beyond his help, that it might becrying to him even now, and crying in vain, that each hour whichexposed it to hardship endangered its life--such thoughts harrowed thefather's feelings almost beyond endurance. Sutton suspected from hisattitude that he was praying; and for a moment the chaplain, touchedand affected, was in two minds about disturbing him. But he, too, hadhis harassing thoughts. His heart, too, burned with pity. And to turnback now was to abandon hope--grown forlorn already--of freeingHenrietta that evening. He went forward therefore with boldness. Helaid his book on the table, and finding himself unheeded, cleared histhroat.

  "I have something here," he said--and his voice despite himself wasneedlessly stiff and distant--"which I think it my duty, CaptainClyne, to show you without delay."

  Clyne turned slowly and rose as he turned.

  "To show me?" he muttered.

  "Yes."

  "What is it? You have not"--raising his eyes with a sudden intake ofbreath--"discovered anything? A clue?"

  "I have discovered something," the chaplain answered slowly. "It is aclue of a kind."

  A rush of blood darkened Clyne's face. He held out a s
haking hand.

  "To where the lad is?" he ejaculated, taking a step forward. "To wherethey have taken him? If it be so, God bless you, Sutton! God blessyou! God bless you! I'll never----"

  The clergyman cut him short. He was shocked by the other's intenseexcitement and frightened by the swelling of his features. He stayedhim by a gesture.

  "Nay, nay," he cried. "I did not mean, sir, to awaken false hopes.Pray pardon me. Pray pardon me. It is a clue, but to Miss Damer'sconduct this morning! To her conduct throughout. To her reasons forsilence. Which were not, I am now able to show you, connected with anyfeeling of hostility to you, Captain Clyne, but rather imposed uponher----"

  But Clyne's face had settled into a mask of stone. Only he knew whatthe disappointment was! And at that word, "I care not what they were!"he said in a voice incredibly harsh, "or how imposed! If that beall--if that is all you are here to tell me----"

  "But if it be all, it is all to her!" Sutton retorted, stung in histurn. "And most urgent, sir."

  "As to her?"

  "As to her. It places her conduct in an entirely different light,Captain Clyne, and one which it is your duty to recognise."

  "Have I not said," Clyne answered with bitter vehemence, "that I wishto hear naught of her conduct? Do you know, sir, in what light Iregard her?"

  "I hope in none that--that----"

  "As a murderess," Clyne answered in the same tone of restrained fury."She has conspired against a child! A boy who never harmed her, andnow never could have harmed her! She is not worthy of the name ofwoman! I thank God that He has helped me to keep her out of my mind asI rode to-day. And you--you must needs bring her up again! Know that Iloathe and detest her, sir, and pray that I may never see her, neverhear her name again!"

  Mr. Sutton raised his hands in horror.

  "You are unjust!" he cried. "Indeed, indeed, you are unjust!"

  "What is that to you? And who are you to talk to me? Is it your childwho is missing? Your child who is being tortured, perhaps out of life?Who, a cripple, is being dragged at these men's heels? You? You? Whathave you to do with this?"

  The tone was crushing. But the chaplain, too, had his stubborn side,and resentment flamed within him as he thought of the girl and herlot. "Do I understand then," he said--he was very pale--"that yourefuse to hear what I have by chance discovered--in Miss Damer'sfavour?"

  "I do."

  "That you will not, Captain Clyne, even look at this letter--thisletter which I have found and which exonerates her?"

  "Never!" Clyne replied harshly. "Never! And, now you know my mind, go,sir, and do not return to this subject! This is no time for trifling,nor am I in the mood."

  But the chaplain held his ground, though he was very nervous. And aresolution, great and heroic, took shape within him, growing in amoment to full size--he knew not how. He raised his meagre figure toits full height, and his pale peaky face assumed a dignity which thepulpit had never known. "I, too, am in no mood for trifling, CaptainClyne," he said. "But I do not hold this matter trifling. On thecontrary, I wish you to understand that I think it so important that Iconsider it my duty to press it upon you by every means in my power!"

  Clyne looked at him wrathfully, astonished at his presumption. "Thegirl has turned your head," he said.

  The chaplain waived the words aside. "And therefore," he continued,"if you decline, Captain Clyne, to read this letter, or to considerthe evidence it contains----"

  "That I do absolutely! Absolutely!"

  "I beg to resign my office," Mr. Sutton responded, tremblingviolently. "I will no longer--I will no longer serve one, however muchI respect him, or whatever my obligations to him, who refuses to dojustice to his own kith and kin, who refuses to stand between ahelpless girl and wrong! Vile wrong!" And he made a gesture with hishands as if he laid something on the table.

  If his object was to gain possession of Captain Clyne's attention hesucceeded. Clyne looked at him with as much surprise as anger.

  "She has certainly turned your head," he said in a lower tone, "if youare not playing a sorry jest, that is. What is it to you, man, if Ifollow my own judgment? What is Miss Damer to you?"

  "You offered her to me," with a trembling approach to sarcasm, "for mywife. She is so much to me."

  "But I understood that she would not take you," Clyne retorted; andnow he spoke wearily. The surprise of the other's defiance wasbeginning to wear off. "But, there, perhaps I was mistaken, and thenyour anxiety for her interests is explained."

  "Explain it as you please," Mr. Sutton answered with fire, "if youwill read this letter and weigh it."

  "I will not," Clyne returned, his anger rising anew. "Once for all, Iwill not!"

  "Then I resign the chaplaincy I hold, sir."

  "Resign and be d----d!" the naval captain answered. The day hadcruelly tried his temper.

  "Your words to me," Mr. Sutton retorted furiously, "and your conductto her are of a piece!" And white with passion, his limbs tremblingwith excitement, he strode to the door. He halted on the threshold,bowed low, and went out.