"Stow it!" Bess answered, as she darkened the lanthorn. "It"s to be as I say. Here, give me your wrist, girl."
But at that, fear gripped Henrietta. She hung back with a white face.
"What are you going to do with me?" she cried. "What are you----"
"In two minutes you"ll see!" Bess retorted. And with a quick movement she grasped the girl"s arm. "And be as wise as I am. Lay hold of her other arm," she continued to Giles. "It"s no use to struggle, my lady!--and if she cries out down her at once. You hear, do you?" she continued, addressing Henrietta, who with terror found herself as helpless as a doe in the hound"s fangs. "Then mum, and it"ll be the better for you. Here, do you take the lanthorn," she went on, handing it to Giles, "and I"ll carry the victuals. You can hold her?"
"I"ll break her wrist if she budges," the man replied. "But, after all, isn"t she as well here?"
"No, she"s not!" Bess answered, with decision. "Do you"--to Lunt--"open the yard door for us, and stand by till we come in again.
No, not you," to the gipsy, who had again stepped forward. "You"re too ready, my lad, and I don"t trust you."
Fortunately for Henrietta, the sight of the plate of food relieved her of her worst fears. She was not to be done to death, but in all probability to be consigned to the hiding place which held the boy.
And though the prospect was not cheerful, and Bess"s manner was cruel and menacing, Henrietta felt that if this were the worst she could face it. She could bear even what the child bore, and by sharing its hardships she might do something to comfort it. Always, too, there was the chance of escape; and from the place, be it out-house or stable, in which they held the boy confined, escape must be more feasible than from the house, with its bolts and bars.
She had time to make these calculations between the kitchen and the yard door; through which they half-led, half-pushed her into the night. With all a woman"s natural timidity on finding herself held and helpless in the dark, she had to put restraint upon herself not to try to break loose, not to scream. But she conquered herself and let them lead her, unresisting and as one blindfold, where they pleased.
It was clear that they knew the place well. For, though the darkness in the depths of this bowl in the hills was absolute, they did not unmask the lanthorn; but moved confidently for a distance of some fifty yards. The dog, kenneled near, had given tongue as they left the house. But once only. And when they paused, all was so still in the frosty mist that wrapped them about and clutched the throat, that Henrietta"s ear caught the trickle of water near at hand.
"Where are we?" she muttered. "Where are we?" She hung back in sudden, uncontrollable alarm.
"Mum, fool!" Bess hissed in her ear. "Be still, or it will be the worse with you. Have you," she continued, in the same low tone, "undone the door, lad?"
For answer a wooden door groaned on its hinges.
"Right!" Bess murmured. "Bend your head, girl!"
Henrietta obeyed, and pushed forward by an unseen hand, she advanced three paces, and felt a warmer air salute her cheek. The door groaned again; she heard a wooden bolt thrust home. Bess let her hand go and unmasked the lanthorn.
Henrietta shivered. She was in a covered well-head, whence the water, after filling a sunken caldron, about which the moss hung in dark, snaky wreaths, escaped under the wooden door. Some yeoman of bygone days had come to the help of nature, and after enlarging a natural cavity had enclosed it, to protect the water from pollution. The place was so small that it no more than held the three who stood in it, nor all of them dry-shod. And Henrietta"s heart sank indeed before the possibility of being left to pa.s.s the night in this dank cave.
Bess"s next movement freed her from this fear. The girl turned the light on the rough wall, and seizing an innocent-looking wooden peg, which projected from it, pushed the implement upwards. A piece of the wall, of the shape and size of a large oven door, fell downwards and outwards, as the tail of a cart falls. It revealed a second cavity of which the floor stood a couple of feet higher than the ground on which they were. It was very like a s.p.a.cious bread-oven, though something higher and longer; apparently it had been made in the likeness of one.
But Henrietta did not think of this, or of its shape or its purpose.
For the same light, a dim, smoky lamp burning at the far end of the place, which revealed its general aspect, disclosed a bundle of straw and a forlorn little form.
She gasped. For that any human creature, much more a child, should be confined in such a place, buried in the bowels of the earth, seemed so monstrous, so shocking, that she could not believe it!
"Oh!" she cried, forgetting for the moment her own position and her own fate, forgetting everything in her horror and pity. "You have not left the child here! And alone! For shame! For shame!" she continued, turning on them in the heat of her indignation and fearing them no more than a hunter fears a harmless snake--which excites disgust, but not terror. "What do you think will happen to you?"
For a moment, strange to say, her indignation cowed them. For a moment they saw the thing as she saw it; they were daunted. Then Bess sneered:
"You don"t like the place?"
"For that child?"
"For yourself?"
She was burning with indignation, and for answer she climbed into the place, and went on her hands and knees to the child"s side. She bent over it, and listened to its breathing.
"Is"t asleep?" Bess asked. There was a ring of anxiety in her tone.
And when Henrietta did not answer, "It"s not dead?" she muttered.
"Dead? No," Henrietta replied, with a shudder. "But it"s--it"s----"
"What?"
"It breathes, but--but----" She drew its head on to her shoulder and peered more closely into the small white face. "It breathes, but--but what is the matter with it? What have you done to it?"--glancing at them suspiciously. For the boy, after returning her look with lack-l.u.s.tre eyes, had averted his face from the light and from hers.
"It"s had a dose," Bess answered roughly--she had had her moment of alarm. "In an hour or two it will awake. Then you can feed it. Here"s the porridge. And there"s milk. It was fresh this morning and must be fresh enough now. Hang the brat, I"m sure it has been trouble enough.
Now you can nurse it, my la.s.s, and I wish you joy of it, and a gay good-night! And before morning you"ll know what it costs to rob Bess Hinkson of her lad!"
"But the child will die!" Henrietta cried, rising to her feet--she could stand in the place, but not quite erect. "Stay! Stay! At least take----"
"What?"
"Take the child in! And warm and feed it! Oh, I beg you take it!"
Henrietta pleaded. "It will die here! It is cold now! I believe it is dying now!"
"Dying, your grand-dam!" the girl retorted, scornfully. "But if we take it, will you stay?"
"I will!" Henrietta answered. "I will!"
"So you will! And the child, too!" Bess retorted. And she slammed-to the door. But again, while Henrietta, appalled by her position, still stared at the place, the shutter fell, and Bess thrust in her dark, handsome face. "See here!" she said. "If you begin to scream and shout, it will be the worse for you, and do you remember that! I shall not come, but I shall send Saul. He"s took a fancy to you, and will find a way of silencing you, I"ll bet!" with an unpleasant smile. "So now you know! And if you want his company you"ll shout!"
She slammed the shutter to again with that, and Henrietta heard the bolt fall into its place.
The girl stood for a moment, staring and benumbed. But presently her eyes, which at first travelled wildly round, grew more sober. They fell on her tiny fellow-prisoner, and, resting on that white, unconscious cheek, on those baby hands clenched in some bygone paroxysm, they filled slowly with tears.
"I will think of the child! I will think of the child!" she murmured.
And, crouching down, she hugged it to her with a sensation of relief, almost of happiness. "I thank G.o.d I came! I thank G.o.d I am here to protect it!"
And resolutely averting her eyes from the low roof and oven-like walls, that, when she dwelt too long on them, seemed, like the famous dungeon of Poe, to contract about her and choke her, she devoted herself to the child; and as she grew scared by its prolonged torpor, she strove to rouse it. At first her efforts were vain. But she persisted in them. For the vision which she had had in the cell at Kendal--of the child holding out pleading hands to her--rose to her memory. She was certain that at that moment the child had been crying for aid. And surely not for nothing, not without purpose, had the cry come to her ears who now by so strange a fate was brought to the boy"s side.
At intervals she felt almost happy in this a.s.surance; as she pressed the child to her, and watched by the dim, yellow light its slow recovery from the drug. Her present danger, her present straits, her position in this underground place, which would have sent some mad, were forgotten. And the past and the future filled her thoughts; and Anthony Clyne. Phrases of condemnation and contempt which _he_ had used to her recurred, as she nursed his child; and she rejoiced to think that he must unsay them! The bruises which he had inflicted still discoloured her wrist, and moved strange feelings in her, when her eyes fell upon them. But he would repent of his violence soon!
Very soon, very soon, and how completely! The thought was sweet to her!
She was in peril, and a week before she had been free as air. But then she had been without any prospect of reinstatement, any hope of regaining the world"s respect, any chance of wiping out the consequences of her mad and foolish act. Now, if she lived, and escaped from this strait, he at least must thank her, he at least must respect her. And she was sure, yes, she dared to tell herself, blushing, that if he respected her, he would know how to make the world also respect her.
But then again she trembled. For there was a darker side. She was in the power of these wretches; and the worst--the thought paled her cheek--might happen! She held the child more closely to her, and rocked it to and fro in earnest prayer. The worst! Yes, the worst might happen. But then again she fell back on the reflection that _he_ was searching for them, and if any could find them he would. He was searching for them, she was sure, as strenuously, and perhaps with more vengeful purpose than when he had sought the child alone! By this time, doubtless, she was missed, and he had raised the country, flung wide the alarm, set a score moving, fired the dalesmen from Bowness to Ambleside. Yes, for certain they were searching for her. And they must know, careful as she had been to hide her trail, that she could not have travelled far; and the scope of the search, therefore, would be narrow, and the scrutiny close. They could hardly fail, she thought, to visit the farm in the hollow; its sequestered and lonely position must invite inquiry. And if they entered, a single glance at the disordered kitchen would inform the searchers that something was amiss.
So far Henrietta"s thoughts, as she clasped the boy to her and strove to warm him to life against her own body, ran in a current chequered but more or less hopeful. But again the supposition would force itself upon her--the men were desperate, and the woman was moved by a strange hatred of her. What if they fled, and left no sign? What if they escaped, and left no word of her? The thought was torture! She could not endure it. She put the child down, and rising to her knees, she covered her eyes with her hands. To be buried here underground! To die of hunger and thirst in this bricked vault, as far from hope and help, from the voices and eyes of men and the blessed light of the sun, as if they had laid her alive in her coffin!
Oh, it was horrible! She could not bear it; she could not bear to think of it. She sprang, forgetting herself, to her feet, and the blow which the roof dealt her, though her thick hair saved her from injury, intensified the feeling. She was buried! Yes, she was buried alive!
The roof seemed to be sinking upon her. These brick walls so cunningly arched, and narrowing a t either end, as the ends of a coffin narrow, were the walls of her tomb! Those faint lines of mortar which seclusion from the elements had preserved in their freshness, presently she would attack them with her nails in the frenzy of her despair. She glared about her. The weight, the ma.s.s of the hill above, seemed to press upon her. The air seemed to fail her. Was there no way, no way of escape from this living tomb--this grave under the tons and tons and tons of rock and earth?
And then the child--perhaps she had put him from her roughly, and the movement had roused him--whimpered. And she shook herself free--thank G.o.d--free from the hideous dream that had obsessed her. She remembered that the men were not yet fled, nor was she abandoned. She was leaping, thank Heaven, far above the facts. In a pa.s.sion of relief she knelt beside the child, and rained kisses on him, and swore to him, as he panted with terror in her arms, that he need not fear, that he was safe now, and she was beside him to take care of him! And that all would be well if he would not cry. All would be well. For she bethought herself that the child must not know how things stood. Fear and suffering he might know if the worst came; but not the fear, not the mental torture which she had known for a few moments, and which in so short a time had driven her almost beside herself.