Starvecrow Farm Read online

  CHAPTER XXIV

  THE ROLE CONTINUED

  Mr. Sutton slept as ill on the night of his resignation as he had everslept in his life. And many times as he tossed and turned on his bedhe repented at leisure the step which he had taken in haste. Actingupon no previous determination, he had sacrificed in the heat oftemper his whole professional future. He had staked his all; and hehad done no good even to the cause he had at heart. The act would notbear thinking upon; certainly it would not bear the cold light ofearly reflection. And many, many times as he sighed upon his uneasypillow did he wish, as so many have wished before and since, that hecould put back the clock. Had he left the room five minutes earlier,had he held his tongue, however ungraciously, had he thought before hespoke, he had done as much for Henrietta and he had done no harm tohimself. And he had been as free as he was now, to seek his end byother means.

  For he had naught to do now but seek that end. He had not Mr. Pitt'snose in vain: he was nothing if he was not stubborn. And whileHenrietta might easily have had a more discreet, she could hardly havehad a more persevering, friend. Amid the wreck of his own fortunes,with his professional future laid in ruins about him, he clungsteadfastly to the notion of righting her, and found in that and inthe letter in his book, his only stay. At as early an hour as heconsidered decent, he would apply to Mr. Hornyold, lay the evidencebefore the Justice, and press for the girl's release.

  Unfortunately, he lay so long revolving the matter that at daybreak hefell asleep. The house was busy and no one gave a thought to him, andten had struck before he came down and shamefacedly asked for hisbreakfast. Mrs. Gilson put it before him, but with a word of girdingat his laziness; which the good woman could not stomach, when half thecountryside were on foot searching for the boy, and when the unhappyfather, after a night in the saddle, had left in a postchaise tofollow up a clue at Keswick. Blameworthy or not, Mr. Sutton found thedelay fatal. When he called on Mr. Hornyold, the Justice was not athome. He had left the house and would not return until the followingday.

  Sutton might have anticipated this check, but he had not; and hewalked back to the inn, plunged to the very lips in despondency. Theactivity of the people about him, their eagerness in the search, theirenthusiasm, all reflected on him and sank him in his own esteem. Yetif he would, he could not share in these things or in these feelings.He stood outside them; his sympathies were fixed, obstinately fixed,elsewhere. And, alas, in the only direction in which he desired toproceed, and in which he discerned a possible issue, he was brought toa full stop.

  He was in the mood to feel small troubles sorely, and as he neared theinn he saw that Mrs. Gilson was standing at the door. It vexed him,for he felt that he cut a poor figure in the landlady's eyes. He knewthat he seemed to her a sorry thing, slinking idly about the house,while others wrought and did. He feared her sharp tongue and vulgartropes, and he made up his mind to pass by the house as if he did notsee her. He was in the act of doing this, awkwardly and consciously,with his eyes averted--when she called to him.

  "If you're looking for Squire Clyne," she said, in very much the tonehe expected, "he's gone these three hours past and some to that!"

  "I was not," he said.

  "Oh!" she answered with sarcasm, "I suppose you are looking for theboy. You will not find him, I'm afraid, on the King's highroad!"

  "I was not looking for him," he answered churlishly.

  "More shame to you!" Mrs. Gilson cried, with a spark in her eye. "Moreshame to you! For you should be!"

  He flamed up at that, after the passionate manner of such men whenroused. He stopped and faced her, trembling a little.

  "And to whom is it a shame," he cried, "that wicked, foul injustice isdone? To whom is it a shame that the innocent are sent to herd withthe guilty? To whom is it a shame--woman!--that when there is good,clear evidence put before their eyes, it is not read? Nor used? Theboy?" vehemently, "the boy? Is he the only one to be considered, andsought and saved? Is his case worse than hers? I too say shame!"

  Mrs. Gilson stared. "Lord save the man!" she cried, as much astonishedas if a sheep had turned on her, "with his shames and his whoms! He'sas full of words as a Wensleydale of mites! I don't know what you arein the pulpit, your reverence, but on foot and in the road, Mr.Brougham was naught to you!"

  "He'd not the reason," the chaplain answered bitterly. And broughtdown by her remark--for his passion was of the shortest--he turned,and was moving away, morose and despondent, when the landlady calledafter him a second time, but in a more friendly tone. Perhapscuriosity, perhaps some new perception of the man moved her.

  "See here, your reverence," she said. "If you've a mind to show methis fine evidence of yours, I'm not for saying I'll not read it. Lordknows it's ill work going about like a hen with an egg she can't lay.So if you've a mind to get it off your mind, I'll send for my glasses,and be done with it."

  "Will you?" he replied, his face flushing with the hope of making aconvert. "Will you? Then there, ma'am, there it is! It's the letterthat villain sent to her to draw her to meet him that night. If youcan't see from that what terms they were on, and that she had nochoice but to meet him, I--but read it! Read it!"

  She called for her glasses and having placed them on her nose, set thenose at such an angle that she could look down it at the page. Thiswas Mrs. Gilson's habit when about to read. But when all was arrangedher face fell. "Oh dear!" she said, "it's all bits and scraps, like abroken curd! Lord save the man, I can't read this. I canna make topnor tail of it! Here, let me take it inside. Truth is, I'm no scholarin the open air."

  The chaplain, trembling with eagerness, set straight three or fourbits of paper which he had deranged in opening the book. Then, nottrusting it out of his own hands, he bore the book reverently into thelandlady's snuggery, and set it on the table. Mrs. Gilson rearrangedher nose and glasses, and after gazing helplessly for a few moments atthe broken screed, caught some thread of sense, clung to itdesperately, and presently began to murmur disjointed sentences in thetone of one who thought aloud.

  "Um--um--um--um!"

  Had the chaplain been told a fortnight before that he would wait withbated breath for an old woman's opinion of a document, he would havelaughed at the notion. But so it was; and when a ray of comprehensionbroke the frowning perplexity of Mrs. Gilson's face, and she muttered,"Lord ha' mercy! The villain!" still more when an April cloud ofmingled anger and pity softened her massive features--the chaplain'srelief was itself a picture.

  "A plague on the rascal!" the good woman cried. "He's put it so as tomelt a stone, let alone a silly child like that! I don't know that ifhe'd put it so to me, when I was a lass, I'd have told on him. I don'tthink I would!"

  "It's plain that she'd no understanding with him!" Mr. Sutton criedeagerly. "You can see that, ma'am!"

  "Well, I think I can. The villain!"

  "It's quite clear that she had broken with him!"

  "It does look so, poor lamb!"

  "Poor lamb indeed!" Mr. Sutton replied with feeling. "Poor lambindeed!"

  "Yet you'll remember," Mrs. Gilson answered--she was nothing if notlevel-headed--"he'd the lad to think of! He'd his boy to think of! Iam sure my heart bled for him when he went out this morning. I doubthe'd not slept a wink, and----"

  "Do you think she slept either?" the chaplain asked, somethingbitterly; and his eyes glowed in his pale face. "Do you consider howyoung she is and gently bred, ma'am? And where they've sent her, andto what?"

  "Umph!" the landlady replied, and she rubbed her ponderous cheek withthe bowl of a punch-ladle, and looked, frowning, at the letter. Theoperation, it was plain, clarified her thoughts; and Mr. Sutton'sinstinct told him to be mute. For a long minute the distant clatter ofModest Ann's tongue, and the clink of pattens in the yard, were theonly sounds that broke the lemon-laden silence of the room. Perhaps itwas the glint of the fire on the rows of polished glass, perhaps thesight of her own well-cushioned chair, perhaps only a memory ofHenri
etta's fair young face and piled-up hair that wrought upon thelandlady. But whatever the cause she groaned. And then, "He ought tosee this!" she said. "He surely ought! And dang me, he shall, if heleaves the house to-night! After all, two wrongs don't make a right.He's to Keswick this morning, but an hour after noon he'll be back tolearn if there's news. It's only here he can get news, and if he hasnot found the lad he'll be back! And I'll put it on his plate----"

  "God bless you!" cried Mr. Sutton.

  "Ay, but I'm not saying he'll do anything," the landlady answeredtartly. "If all's true the young madam has not behaved so well thatshe'll be the worse for smarting a bit!"

  "She'll be much obliged to you," said the chaplain humbly.

  "No, she'll not!" Mrs. Gilson retorted. "Nor to you, don't you thinkit! She's a Tartar or I'm mistaken. You'll be obliged, you mean!" Andshe looked at the parson over her glasses as if she were appraisinghim in a new character.

  "I've been to Mr. Hornyold," he said, "but he was out and will not beback until to-morrow."

  "Ay, he's more in his boots than on his knees most days," the landladyanswered. "But what I've said, I'll do, that's flat. And here's thecoach, so it's twelve noon."

  She tugged at the cord of the yard bell, and its loud jangle in atwinkling roused the house to activity and the stables to frenzy. Thefresh team were led jingling and prancing out of the yard, the ostlersrunning beside them. Modest Ann and her underling hastened to showthemselves on the steps of the inn, and Mrs. Gilson herself passedinto the passage ready to welcome any visitor of consequence.

  Mr. Bishop and two Lancashire officers who had been pushing the questin the Furness district descended from the outside of the coach. Butthey brought no news; and Sutton, as soon as he learned this, did notlinger with them. The landlady's offer could not have any immediateresult, since Clyne was not expected to return before two; and thechaplain, to kill time, went out at the back, and climbed the hill. Hewalked until he was tired, and then he turned, and at two made his wayback to the inn, only to learn that Clyne had not yet arrived. Nonethe less, the short day already showed signs of drawing in. There wassnow in the sky. It hung heavy above Langdale Pikes and over the longragged screes of Bow Fell. White cushions of cloud were piled one onthe other to the northward, and earth and sky were alike depressing.Weary and despondent, Sutton wandered into the house, and sitting downbefore the first fire he found, he fell fast asleep.

  He awoke with a confused murmur of voices in his ears. The room wasdark save for the firelight; and for a few seconds he fancied that hewas still alone. The men whose talk he heard were in another part ofthe house, and soothed by their babble and barely conscious where hewas, he was sinking away again when a harsh word and a touch on hissleeve awoke him. He sprang up, startled and surprised, and saw thatCaptain Clyne, his face fitfully revealed by the flame, was standingon the other side of the hearth. He was in his riding boots and wassplashed to the waist.

  His face was paler than usual, and his pose told of fatigue.

  "Awake, man, awake!" he repeated. "Didn't you hear me?"

  "No, I--I was dozing," the chaplain faltered, as he put back hischair.

  "Just so," Clyne answered drily. "I wish I could sleep. Well, listennow. I have been back an hour, and I have read this." He laid his handon an object on the table, and Sutton with joy saw that the object wasthe book which he had left with Mrs. Gilson. "I am sorry," Clynecontinued in a constrained tone, "that I did not read it last evening.I was wrong. But--God help me, I think I am almost mad! Anyway I haveread it now, and I credit it, and I think that--she has been harshlytreated. And I am here to tell you," a little more distinctly, "thatyou can arrange the matter to your satisfaction, sir."

  Sutton stared. "Do you mean," he said, "that I may arrange for herrelease?"

  "I have settled that," Clyne answered. "Mr. Hornyold is not at home,but I have seen Mr. Le Fleming, and have given bail for her appearancewhen required; and here is Le Fleming's order for her release. I haveordered a postchaise to be ready and it will be at the door in tenminutes."

  "But then--all is done?" the chaplain said.

  "Except fetching her back," Clyne answered. "She must come here. Thereis nowhere else for her to go. But I leave that to you, since herrelease is due to you. I have done her an injustice, and done you onetoo. But God knows," he continued bitterly, "not without provocation.Nor willingly, nor knowingly."

  "I am sure of that," the chaplain answered meekly.

  "Yes. Of course," Clyne continued, awkwardly, "I shall not considerwhat you said to me as said at all. On the contrary, I am obliged toyou for doing your duty, Mr. Sutton, whatever the motive."

  "The motive----"

  "I do not say," stiffly, "that the motive was an improper one. Not atall. I cannot blame you for following up my own plan."

  "I followed my feelings," Mr. Sutton replied, with a fresh stirring ofresentment.

  "Exactly. And therefore it seems to me that as she owes her release toyour exertions, it is right that you should be the one to communicatethe fact to her, and the one to bring her away."

  The chaplain saw that his patron, persuaded that there was morebetween them than he had supposed, fell back on the old plan; that hewas willing to give him the opportunity of pushing his suit. And theblood rushed to his face. If she could be brought--if she could bebrought to look favourably on him! Ah, then indeed he was a happy man,and the dark night of despondency would be followed by a morn of joy.But with the quickness of light his thoughts passed over the variousoccasions--they were very few--on which he had addressed her. And--andan odd thing happened. It happened, perhaps, because with the chaplainthe matter was no longer a question of ambition, but of love. "Youhave no news?" he said.

  "None. And Nadin," with bitterness, "seems to be at the end of hisresources."

  "Then, Captain Clyne," Sutton replied impulsively, "there is but oneway! There is but one thing to be done. It is not I, but you, who mustbring Miss Damer back. She may still speak, but not for me!"

  "And certainly not for me!" Clyne answered, his face flushing at therecollection of his violence.

  "For you rather than for any one!"

  "No, no!"

  "Yes," the chaplain rejoined firmly. "I do not know how I know it," hecontinued with dignity, "but I know it. For one thing, I am not blind.Miss Damer has never given me a word or a look of encouragement. Ifshe thanks me," he spoke with something like a tear in his eye, "itwill be much--the kind of thanks you, Captain Clyne, give the servantthat lacquers your boots, or the dog that fetches your stick. Butyou--with you it will be different."

  "She has no reason to thank me," Clyne declared.

  "Yet she will."

  "No."

  "She will!" Sutton answered fervently--he was determined to carry outhis impulsive act of unselfishness. "And, thank you or not thank you,she may speak. She will speak, when released, if ever! She is one whowill do nothing under compulsion, nothing under durance. But she willdo much--for love."

  Clyne looked with astonishment at the chaplain. He, like Mrs. Gilson,was appraising him afresh, was finding something new in him, somethingunexpected. "How do you know?" he asked, his cheeks reddening.

  There were for certain tears in Mr. Sutton's eyes now.

  "I don't know how I know," he said, "but I do. I know! Go and fetchher; and I think, I think she will speak."

  Clyne thought otherwise, and had good reason to think otherwise; areason which he was ashamed to tell his chaplain. But in the face ofhis own view he was impressed by Sutton's belief. The suggestion wasat least a straw to which he could cling. Failing other means--and theardour of his assistants in the search was beginning to flag--whyshould he not try this? Why should he not, threats failing, throwhimself at the girl's feet, abase himself, humble himself, try atleast if he could not win by prayer and humility what she had refusedto force.

  It was a plan little to the man's taste; grievous to his pride. Butfor his son's sake, for the innocent boy's sake, he was willing
todo even this. Moreover, with all his coldness, he had sufficientnobility to feel that he owed the girl the fullest amends in hispower. He had laid hands on her. He had treated her--no matter whatthe provocation--cruelly, improperly, in a manner degrading to her anddisgraceful to himself. His face flushed as he recalled the scene andhis violence. Now it was hers to triumph, hers to blame: nor his towithhold the opportunity.

  "I will go," he said, after a brief perturbed silence. "I am obligedto you for your advice. You think that there is a chance she willspeak?"

  "I do," Sutton answered manfully. "I do." And he said more to the samepurpose.

  But later, when the hot fit ebbed, he wondered at himself. What hadcome over him? Why had he, who had so little while his patron had somuch, given up his ewe lamb, his one chance? Reason answered, becausehe had no chance and it was wise to make a virtue of necessity. But heknew that, a day or two before, he would have snapped his fingers atreason, he would have clung to his forlorn hope, he would have madefor his own advantage by the nearest road. What then had changed him?What had caused him to set the girl's happiness before his own, andwhispered to him that there was only one way by which, smirched anddiscredited as she was, she whom he loved could reach her happiness?He did not answer the question, perhaps he did not know the answer.But wandering in the darkness by the lake-side, with the firstsnowflakes falling on his shoulders, he cried again and again, "Godbless her! God bless her!" with tears running down his pale,insignificant face.