‘Make th’ door behind us, lass. We’ll not let ’em escape!’ said brave John Kirkby, dauntless in a good cause, though he knew not how many there might be above. The cow-doctor fastened and locked the door, saying, ‘There!’ in a defiant tone, as he put the key in his pocket. It was to be a struggle for life or death, or, at any rate, for effectual capture or desperate escape. Bessy kneeled down by her uncle, who did not speak nor give any sign of consciousness. Bessy raised his head by drawing a pillow off the settle and putting it under him; she longed to go for water into the back kitchen, but the sound of a violent struggle, and of heavy blows, and of low, hard curses spoken through closed teeth, and muttered passion, as though breath were too much needed for action to be wasted in speech, kept her still and quiet by her uncle’s side in the kitchen, where the darkness might almost be felt, so thick and deep was it. Once – in a pause of her own heart’s beating – a sudden terror came over her; she perceived, in that strange way in which the presence of a living creature forces itself on our consciousness in the darkest room, that some one was near her, keeping as still as she. It was not the poor old man’s breathing that she heard, nor the radiation of his presence that she felt; some one else was in the kitchen; another robber, perhaps, left to guard the old man, with murderous intent if his consciousness returned. Now, Bessy was fully aware that self-preservation would keep her terrible companion quiet, as there was no motive for his betraying himself stronger than the desire of escape; any effort for which he, the unseen witness, must know would be rendered abortive by the fact of the door being locked. Yet with the knowledge that he was there, close to her, still, silent as the grave, —with fearful, it might be deadly, unspoken thoughts in his heart, —possibly even with keener and stronger sight than hers, as longer accustomed to the darkness, able to discern her figure and posture, and glaring at her like some wild beast, —Bessy could not fail to shrink from the vision that her fancy presented! And still the struggle went on up stairs; feet slipping, blows sounding, and the wrench of intentioned aims, the strong gasps for breath, as the wrestlers paused for an instant. In one of these pauses, Bessy felt conscious of a creeping movement close to her, which ceased when the noise of the strife above died away, and was resumed when it again began. She was aware of it by some subtle vibration of the air, rather than by touch or sound. She was sure that he who had been close to her one minute as she knelt, was, the next, passing stealthily towards the inner door which led to the staircase. She thought he was going to join and strengthen his accomplices, and, with a great cry, she sprang after him; but, just as she came to the doorway, through which some dim portion of light from the upper chambers came, she saw one man thrown down stairs with such violence that he fell almost at her very feet, while the dark, creeping figure glided suddenly away to the left, and as suddenly entered the closet beneath the stairs. Bessy had no time to wonder as to his purpose in so doing, whether he had at first designed to aid his accomplices in their desperate fight or not. He was an enemy, a robber, that was all she knew, and she sprang to the door of the closet, and in a trice had locked it on the outside. And then she stood frightened, panting in that dark corner, sick with terror lest the man who lay before her was either John Kirkby or the cow-doctor. If it were either of those friendly two, what would become of the other – of her uncle, her aunt, herself ? But, in a very few minutes, this wonder was ended; her two defenders came slowly and heavily down the stairs, dragging with them a man, fierce, sullen, despairing – disabled with terrible blows, which had made his face one bloody, swollen mass. As for that, neither John nor the cow-doctor were much more presentable. One of them bore the lantern in his teeth, for all their strength was taken up by the weight of the fellow they were bearing.
‘Take care,’ said Bessy, from her corner; ‘there’s a chap just beneath your feet. I dunno know if he’s dead or alive, and uncle lies on the floor just beyond.’
They stood still on the stairs for a moment. Just then the robber they had thrown down stairs stirred and moaned.
‘Bessy,’ said John, ‘run off to th’ stable and fetch ropes and gearing for to bind ’em, and we’ll rid the house on ’em, and thou can’st go and see after th’ oud folks, who need it sadly.’
Bessy was back in a very few minutes. When she came in, there was more light in the house-place, for some one had stirred up the raked fire.
‘That felly makes as though his leg were broken,’ said John, nodding towards the man still lying on the ground. Bessy felt almost sorry for him as they handled him – not over gently – and bound him, only half-conscious, as hardly and tightly as they had done his fierce, surly companion. She even felt so sorry for his evident agony, as they turned him over and over, that she ran to get him a cup of water to moisten his lips.
‘I’m loth to leave yo’ with him alone,’ said John, ‘though I’m thinking his leg is broken for sartain, and he can’t stir, even if he comes to hissel, to do yo’ any harm. But we’ll just take off this chap, and mak sure of him, and then one on us ’ll come back to yo’, and we can, may-be, find a gate or so for yo’ to get shut on him out o’ th’ house. This felly’s made safe enough, I’ll be bound,’ said he, looking at the burglar, who stood, bloody and black, with fell hatred on his sullen face. His eye caught Bessy’s as hers fell on him with dread so evident that it made him smile, and the look and the smile prevented the words from being spoken which were on Bessy’s lips. She dared not tell, before him, that an able-bodied accomplice still remained in the house, lest, somehow, the door which kept him a prisoner should be broken open, and the fight renewed. So she only said to John, as he was leaving the house:
‘Thou’ll not be long away, for I’m afeard of being left wi’ this man.’
‘He’ll noan do thee harm,’ said John.
‘No! but I’m feared lest he should die. And there’s uncle and aunt. Come back soon, John!’
‘Ay, ay!’ said he, half-pleased; ‘I’ll be back, never fear me.’
So Bessy shut the door after them, but did not lock it for fear of mischances in the house, and went once more to her uncle, whose breathing, by this time, was easier than when she had first returned into the house-place with John and the doctor. By the light of the fire, too, she could now see that he had received a blow on the head which was probably the occasion of his stupor. Round this wound, which was bleeding pretty freely, Bessy put cloths dipped in cold water, and then, leaving him for a time, she lighted a candle, and was about to go up stairs to her aunt, when, just as she was passing the bound and disabled robber, she heard her name softly, urgently called:
‘Bessy, Bessy!’ At first the voice sounded so close that she thought it must be the unconscious wretch at her feet. But once again that voice thrilled through her:
‘Bessy, Bessy! for God’s sake, let me out!’
She went to the stair-closet door, and tried to speak, but could not, her heart beat so terribly. Again, close to her ear:
‘Bessy, Bessy! they’ll be back directly; let me out, I say! For God’s sake, let me out!’ And he began to kick violently against the panels.
‘Hush, hush!’ she said, sick with a terrible dread, yet with a will strongly resisting her conviction. ‘Who are you?’ But she knew – knew quite well.
‘Benjamin.’ An oath. ‘Let me out, I say, and I’ll be off, and out of England by to-morrow night, never to come back, and you’ll have all my father’s money.’
‘D’ye think I care for that?’ said Bessy, vehemently, feeling with trembling hands for the lock; ‘I wish there was noan such a thing as money i’ the world, afore yo’d come to this. There, yo’re free, and I charge yo’ never to let me see your face again. I’d ne’er ha’ let yo’ loose but for fear o’ breaking their hearts, if yo’ hanna killed them already.’ But, before she had ended her speech, he was gone – off into the black darkness, leaving the door open wide. With a new terror in her mind, Bessy shut it afresh – shut it and bolted it this time. Then she sat down on the first chair
, and relieved her soul by giving a great and exceeding bitter cry. But she knew it was no time for giving way, and, lifting herself up with as much effort as if each of her limbs was a heavy weight, she went into the back kitchen, and took a drink of cold water. To her surprise, she heard her uncle’s voice, saying feebly:
‘Carry me up, and lay me by her.’
But Bessy could not carry him: she could only help his faint exertions to walk up stairs; and, by the time he was there, sitting panting on the first chair she could find, John Kirkby and Atkinson returned. John came up now to her aid. Her aunt lay across the bed in a fainting fit, and her uncle sat in so utterly broken-down a state that Bessy feared immediate death for both. But John cheered her up, and lifted the old man into his bed again, and, while Bessy tried to compose poor Hester’s limbs into a position of rest, John went down to hunt about for the little store of gin, which was always kept in a corner cupboard against emergencies.
‘They’ve had a sore fright,’ said he, shaking his head, as he poured a little gin and hot water into their mouths with a teaspoon, while Bessy chafed their cold feet; ‘and it and the cold have been welly too much for ’em, poor old folk!’
He looked tenderly at them, and Bessy blessed him in her heart for that look.
‘I maun be off. I sent Atkinson up to th’ farm for to bring down Bob, and Jack came wi’ him back to th’ shippon for to look after t’other man. He began blackguarding us all round, so Bob and Jack were gagging him wi’ bridles when I left.’
‘Ne’er give heed to what he says,’ cried poor Bessy, a new panic besetting her. ‘Folks o’ his sort are allays for dragging other folks into their mischief. I’m right glad he were well gagged.’
‘Well! but what I were saying were this. Atkinson and me will take t’other chap, who seems quiet enough, to th’ shippon, and it ’ll be one piece o’ work for to mind them, and the cow; and I’ll saddle old bay mare and ride for constables and doctor fra’ Highminster. I’ll bring Dr Preston up to see Nathan and Hester first, and then I reckon th’ broken-legged chap down below must have his turn, for all as he’s met wi’ his misfortunes in a wrong line o’ life.’
‘Ay!’ said Bessy. ‘We maun ha’ the doctor sure enough, for look at them how they lie! like two stone statues on a church monument, so sad and solemn.’
‘There’s a look o’ sense come back into their faces, though, sin’ they supped that gin and water. I’d keep on a-bathing his head and giving them a sup on’t fra’ time to time, if I was you, Bessy.’
Bessy followed him down stairs, and lighted the men out of the house. She dared not light them carrying their burden even, until they passed round the corner of the house; so strong was her fearful conviction that Benjamin was lurking near, seeking again to enter. She rushed back into the kitchen, bolted and barred the door and pushed the end of the dresser against it, shutting her eyes as she passed the uncurtained window, for fear of catching a glimpse of a white face pressed against the glass, and gazing at her. The poor old couple lay quiet and speechless, although Hester’s position had slightly altered: she had turned a little on her side towards her husband, and had laid one shrivelled arm around his neck. But he was just as Bessy had left him, with the wet clothes around his head, his eyes not wanting in a certain intelligence, but solemn, and unconscious to all that was passing around as the eyes of death.
His wife spoke a little from time to time – said a word of thanks, perhaps, or so; but he, never. All the rest of that terrible night, Bessy tended the poor old couple with constant care, her own heart so stunned and bruised in its feelings that she went about her pious duties almost like one in a dream. The November morning was long in coming; nor did she perceive any change, either for the worse or the better, before the doctor came, about eight o’clock. John Kirkby brought him; and was full of the capture of the two burglars.
As far as Bessy could make out, the participation of that unnatural Third was unknown. It was a relief, almost sickening in the revulsion it gave her from her terrible fear, which now she felt had haunted and held possession of her all night long, and had in fact paralysed her from thinking. Now she felt and thought with acute and feverish vividness, owing no doubt, in part, to the sleepless night she had passed. She felt almost sure that her uncle (possibly her aunt too) had recognized Benjamin; but there was a faint chance that they had not done so, and wild horses should never tear the secret from her, nor should any inadvertent word betray the fact that there had been a third person concerned. As to Nathan, he had never uttered a word. It was her aunt’s silence that made Bessy fear lest Hester knew, somehow, that her son was concerned.
The doctor examined them both closely; looked hard at the wound on Nathan’s head; asked questions which Hester answered shortly and unwillingly, and Nathan not at all: shutting his eyes, as if even the sight of a stranger was pain to him. Bessy replied in their stead to all that she could answer respecting their state; and followed the doctor down stairs with a beating heart. When they came into the house-place, they found John had opened the outer door to let in some fresh air, had brushed the hearth and made up the fire, and put the chairs and table in their right places. He reddened a little as Bessy’s eye fell upon his swollen and battered face, but tried to smile it off in a dry kind of way:
‘Yo’ see, I’m an ould bachelor, and I just thought as I’d redd up things a bit. How dun yo’ find ’em, doctor?’
‘Well, the poor old couple have had a terrible shock. I shall send them some soothing medicine to bring down the pulse, and a lotion for the old man’s head. It is very well it bled so much; there might have been a good deal of inflammation.’ And so he went on, giving directions to Bessy for keeping them quietly in bed through the day. From these directions she gathered that they were not, as she had feared all night long, near to death. The doctor expected them to recover, though they would require care. She almost wished it had been otherwise, and that they, and she too, might have just lain down to their rest in the churchyard – so cruel did life seem to her; so dreadful the recollection of that subdued voice of the hidden robber, smiting her with recognition.
All this time John was getting things ready for breakfast, with something of the handiness of a woman. Bessy half resented his officiousness in pressing Dr Preston to have a cup of tea, she did so want him to be gone and leave her alone with her thoughts. She did not know that all was done for love of her; that the hard-featured, short-spoken John was thinking all the time how ill and miserable she looked, and trying with tender artifices to make it incumbent upon her sense of hospitality to share Dr Preston’s meal.
‘I’ve seen as the cows is milked,’ said he, ‘yourn and all; and Atkinson’s brought ours round fine. Whatten a marcy it were as she were sick just this very night! Yon two chaps ’ud ha’ made short work on’t, if yo’ hadna fetched us in; and as it were, we had a sore tussle. One on ’em ’ll bear the marks on’t to his dying day, wunnot he, doctor?’
‘He’ll barely have his leg well enough to stand his trial at York Assizes; they’re coming off in a fortnight from now.’
‘Ay, and that reminds me, Bessy, yo’ll have to go witness before Justice Royds. Constables bade me tell yo’, and gie yo’ this summons. Dunnot be feared; it will not be a long job, though I’m not saying as it ’ll be a pleasant one. You’ll have to answer questions as to how, and all about it; and Jane’ (his sister) ‘will come and stop wi’ th’ oud folks; and I’ll drive yo’ in the shandry.’
No one knew why Bessy’s colour blenched, and her eye clouded. No one knew how she apprehended lest she should have to say that Benjamin had been of the gang, if, indeed, in some way, the law had not followed on his heels quick enough to catch him.
But that trial was spared her; she was warned by John to answer questions, and say no more than was necessary, for fear of making her story less clear; and as she was known, by character, at least to Justice Royds and his clerk, they made the examination as little formidable as possible.
 
; When all was over, and John was driving her back again, he expressed his rejoicing that there would be evidence enough to convict the men, without summoning Nathan and Hester to identify them. Bessy was so tired that she hardly understood what an escape it was; how far greater than even her companion understood.
Jane Kirkby stayed with her for a week or more, and was an unspeakable comfort. Otherwise she sometimes thought she should have gone mad, with the face of her uncle always reminding her, in its stony expression of agony, of that fearful night. Her aunt was softer in her sorrow, as became one of her faithful and pious nature; but it was easy to see how her heart bled inwardly. She recovered her strength sooner than her husband; but as she recovered, the doctor perceived the rapid approach of total blindness. Every day, nay, every hour of the day, that Bessy dared, without fear of exciting their suspicions of her knowledge, she told them, as she had anxiously told them at first, that only two men, and those perfect strangers, had been discovered as being concerned in the burglary. Her uncle would never have asked a question about it, even if she had withheld all information respecting the affair; but she noticed the quick, watching, waiting glance of his eye, whenever she returned from any person or place where she might have been supposed to gain intelligence if Benjamin were suspected or caught; and she hastened to relieve the old man’s anxiety, by always telling all that she had heard; thankful that as the days passed on the danger she sickened to think of grew less and less.
Day by day, Bessy had ground for thinking that her aunt knew more than she had apprehended at first. There was something so very humble and touching in Hester’s blind way of feeling about for her husband – stern, woebegone Nathan – and mutely striving to console him in the deep agony of which Bessy learnt, from this loving, piteous manner, that her aunt was conscious. Her aunt’s face looked blankly up into his, tears slowly running down from her sightless eyes, while from time to time, when she thought herself unheard by any save him, she would repeat such texts as she had heard at church in happier days, and which she thought, in her true, simple piety, might tend to console him. Yet, day by day, her aunt grew more and more sad.