At Large

  XXIX

  ELIZABETH RYAN

  Elizabeth Ryan did not return to Gateby after leaving Pound in thefields between the village and the shooting-box. All that night sheroamed the lanes and meadows like a restless shade. Whither herfootsteps led her she cared little, and considered less.

  Though not unconscious of the mechanical act of walking, her sense oflocomotion was practically suspended. A night on the treadmill wouldhave left upon her an impression of environment no more monotonous thanthat which remained to her when this night was spent; and she never oncehalted the whole night through.

  Her seeing mind held but one image--her husband. In her heart, dartingits poison through every vein, quivered a single passion--violent,ungovernable anger. The full, undivided force of this fierce passion wasdirected against Edward Ryan.

  Later--when the flame had gone out, and the sullen glow of stern resolveremained in its stead--the situation presented itself in the form ofalternatives. Either she must betray her husband, or set him free byending her own miserable life. One of these two things must be done, oneleft undone. There was no third way now. The third way had been tried;it should have led to compassion and justice; it had led only tofurther cruelty and wrong. One of the remaining ways must now be chosen;for the woman it little mattered which; they surely converged in death.

  At daybreak Elizabeth Ryan found herself in flat, low-lying country. Shelooked for the hills, and saw them miles away. From among those hillsshe had come. She must have been walking right through the night, shethought.

  She was by no means sure. She only knew that her brain had been terriblyactive all through the night--she could not answer for her body. Then,all at once, a deadly weariness overcame her, and a score of aches andpains declared themselves simultaneously. Prevented by sheer distractionfrom feeling fatigue as it came, by natural degrees, the moment themental strain was interrupted the physical strain manifested its resultsin the aggregate; Mrs. Ryan in one moment became ready to drop.

  She had drifted into a narrow green lane leading to a farmhouse. Shefollowed up this lane till it ended before a substantial six-barredgate. She opened the gate and entered the farmyard. She tried the doorsof the outbuildings. A cowhouse was open and empty; one of its stallswas stacked high with hay; to the top of this hay she climbed, and creptfar back to the wall, and covered her dress with loose handfuls of thehay. And there Elizabeth Ryan went near to sleeping the clock round.

  A hideous dream awoke her at last. She was trembling horribly. She hadseen her husband dead at her feet--murdered at his wife's instigation!

  The mental picture left by the dream was so vivid that the unhappy womanlay long in terror and trembling, not daring to move. Instead of palingbefore consciousness and reason, the ghastly picture gained in breadth,colour, and conviction with each waking minute. He was lying dead at herfeet--her husband--her Ned--the man for love of whom she had crossed thewide world, and endured nameless hardships, unutterable humiliation. Hewas slain by the hand of the man who had led her to him--by the ruthlessmurderer, Jem Pound!

  She remembered her words to Pound, and her teeth chattered: "Take it,even if you have to take his life with it!" Those were the very wordsshe had used in her frenzy, meaning whatever it was that Ned wore uponhis breast. He wore it, whatever it was, near to his heart; he mustvalue it next to his life. What else could it be but money? Oh, why hadshe told Pound? How could passion carry her so far? If her dream wastrue--and she had heard of true dreams--then her husband was murdered,and the guilt was hers.

  A low wail of agony escaped her, and for a moment drove her fears into anew channel. Suppose that cry were heard! She would be discoveredimmediately, perhaps imprisoned, and prevented from learning the worstor the best about her dream, which she must learn at any price and atonce! Filled with this new and tangible dread she buried herself deeperin the hay and held her breath. No one came. There was no sound but herown heart's loud beating, and the dripping and splashing of the rainoutside in the yard, and the rising of the wind. She breathed freelyagain; more freely than before her alarm. The minutes of veritablesuspense had robbed the superstitious terror of half its power, but notof the motive half, she must go back and make sure about that dreambefore carrying out any previous resolution. Until this was done,indeed, all antecedent resolves were cancelled.

  She crept down from the hay and peeped cautiously outside. She could seeno one. It was raining in torrents and the wind was getting up. With ashudder she set her face to it, and crossed the yard. At the gate shestopped suddenly, for two unpleasant facts simultaneously revealedthemselves: she had no idea of the way to Gateby, and she was famishing.Now to be clear on the first point was essential, and there was nothingfor it but to apply boldly at the farmhouse for the information; as tothe second, perhaps at the farmhouse she might also beg a crust.

  "Dear heart!" cried the good wife, answering the timid knock at thedoor. "Hast sprung from t'grave, woman?"

  "Nay," answered Elizabeth, sadly; "I am only on my way there."

  The farmer's wife, a mountain of rosy kindliness, stared curiously atthe pale frightened face before her, and up and down the draggled dress.

  "Why, Lord, thou'rt wet and cold; an' I'll be bound thou's had nobbuthay for thy bed."

  With a sudden flood of tears, Elizabeth Ryan confessed where she hadbeen sleeping all day.

  "Nay, nay, honey," said the good woman, a tear standing in her own eye,"it's nowt--it's nowt. Come in and get thysel' warmed an' dried. We'rehaving our teas, an' you shall have some, an' all!"

  Thus the poor vagrant fell among warm Yorkshire hearts and generousYorkshire hands. They gave her food, warmth, and welcome, and pitied hermore than they liked to say. And when, in spite of all protests, shewould go on her way (though the risen wind was howling in the chimney,and driving the heavy rain against the diamond panes), honest William,son of the house and soil, brought a great sack and tied it about hershoulders, and himself set her on the high road for Melmerbridge.

  "Ye'll 'ave te go there," said he, "to get te Gaatby. 'Tis six mile fromthis, an' Gaatby other fower."

  Six miles? That was nothing. So said the strange woman, as she trampedoff in the teeth of the storm; and William, hurrying homeward, wonderedwhat had made her eyes so bright and her step so brisk all at once. Heasked his parents what they thought, but they only shook their puzzledheads: they had done nothing out of the way that they knew of; how couldthey guess that it had been their lot to show the first human kindnessto a poor forlorn pilgrim from over the seas--the first the poor womanhad met with in all stony-hearted England?

  Yet her treatment at the hands of these simple people had lightened theheart of Elizabeth Ryan, and the terror of her awful dream had softenedit. Her burning rage against her husband was quenched; she thought of itwith shuddering shame. Her wild resolves were thrown to the winds; shemust have been mad when she entertained them. She must have been blindas well as mad; but now her sight was restored. Yes, now she could seethings in their true light. Now she could see who had caused herhusband's cruelty; who had poisoned him against her--subtly, swiftly,surely, at their first meeting; who had drugged her, and then shown Nedhis drunken wife at their second meeting; whom she had to thank for allher misery: the fiend, Jem Pound.

  It was true that Ned had treated her heartlessly; but, believing what hebelieved of her, could she blame him? She blamed him for listening tothe first whisper against her, from the lips of a monster; but his faultended there. He had never heard her in her own defence. He had not somuch as seen her alone. There lay the root of it all: she had beenallowed no chance of explaining, of throwing herself on his compassion.

  But now she was going to put an end to all this. She was going to him atonce, and alone. She was going to tell him all: how she had waitedpatiently for him at Townsville until the news of his capture drove heralmost frantic; how, in the impulse and madness of the moment, she hadtrusted herself to Jem Pound, and f
ollowed him, her husband, to England;how she had followed him for his own sake, in the blindness of her love,which separation and his life of crime had been powerless to lessen;how, ever since, she had been in the power of a ruffianly bully, who hadthreatened and cajoled her by turns.

  And then she would throw herself at Ned's feet, and implore his mercy.And he, too, would see clearly, and understand, and pity her, and takeher back into his life. Whether that life was bad or good, it alone washer heart's desire.

  A soft smile stole over the haggard face, upon which the wind and therain were beating more fiercely every minute. Wind and rain were nothingto her now; she could not feel them; she was back in Victoria, and thesky above was dark blue, and the trees on either side the flint-strewntrack were gaunt, grey, and sombre. The scent of the eucalyptus filledher nostrils. The strokes of two galloping horses rang out loud andclear on the rough hard road. She was mounted on one of these horses,Ned on the other. They were riding neck and neck, she and her handsomeNed--riding to the township where the little iron church was. It wastheir marriage morn. She had fled from home for ever.

  Surely he loved her then--a little? Yet he had left her, very soon,without a word or a cause; for weeks she could gather no tidings of him,until one day news came that rang through the countryside, and wasechoed throughout the colony--news that stamped her new name withinfamy. But had she changed her name, or sunk her identity, or disownedher husband, as some women might have done? No. She had employed herwoman's wit to hunt her husband down--to watch over him--to warn himwhere danger lurked. One night--it stood out vividly in her memory--shehad burst breathlessly into his bivouac, and warned him in the nick oftime: half-an-hour later the armed force found the fires still burning,but the bushrangers flown. And he had been good to her then; for it wasthen that he had given her the money to go to his only relative--asister at Townsville; and he had promised in fun to "work up" throughQueensland, some day, and meet her there. Yes, with the hounds ofjustice on his heels he had made time to be kind to her then, after afashion. It was not much, that amount of kindness, but it would beenough for her now. After all that she had gone through, she would becontent with something short of love, say even tolerance. She would tryto win the rest, in after years--years when Ned settled down in somedistant country--when Ned reformed. Could he refuse her now so small ameasure of what she gave him without stint? Surely not. It wasimpossible. Unless--unless--unless--

  What made Elizabeth Ryan clench her drenched cold fingers and draw herbreath so hard? What blotted out the visionary blue skies, tore hope andfancy to shreds, and roused her to the bleak reality of wind and rainand the sickening memory of her husband's heartlessness? What, indeed,but the suggestions of Jem Pound?

  She loathed herself for listening to a single word from that pollutedsource; yet, as Pound's words came back to her, she listened again tothem all. She thought of the pretty, delicate, pink-and-white woman herown eyes had seen by the waters of the Thames, with whom she had spoken,who had dared to offer her money. The thought became a globe of fire inher brain; and soon the poor woman had worked herself back into a frameof mind bordering upon that frenzy which had driven her hither andthither, like a derelict ship at the wind's mercy, through the longhours of the previous night. The appearance of watery lights through thestorm came not before it was time. Even to Elizabeth Ryan, with hope andpassion wrestling in her breast, there was a certain faint excitementand satisfaction in reaching a village after a six-mile tramp throughwind, rain, and dusk deepening into night. Besides, if this wasMelmerbridge, she must ask and find out the road to Gateby.

  Guided by the lights, she presently reached the north end of the long,one-sided village street; the long straight stream, now runningturbulently, was on her left as she advanced, and Melmerbridge Bankstraight ahead, at the southern end of the village. An irregular line oflights marked the houses on the right; to the left, across the beck,there were no such lights; but a set of church windows--the church beinglit up for evening service--hung gaudily against the black screen ofnight; the outline of the church itself was invisible. The deep notes ofan organ rose and fell in the distance, then died away; then suddenly,as the wayfarer gazed, the stained-glass window disappeared, and Mrs.Ryan found herself in the midst of a little stream of people who werecoming from the bridge in front of the church to the cottages on theopposite side of the road.

  From one of these people she received the directions she required, butshe noticed that most of them were talking eagerly and excitedly, in away not usual among folks fresh from worship, or indeed in a quietcountry village at any time. Little groups formed in the doorways andkept up an animated conversation. Clearly there was something ofuncommon interest astir. Mrs. Ryan passed on, mildly interested herself.

  The last houses of the village were darker. Elizabeth touched theirouter walls with her skirts as she trudged along the narrow unevenpavement. From one of them came a sound which struck her as an odd soundfor a Sabbath evening--the long, steady sweep and swish of a plane. Thishouse was a shop; for six parallel threads of light issued from thechinks of the tall shutters. Through one of these chinks a small boy wasgazing with rapt attention and one eye closed. Mrs. Ryan stopped, andout of mere curiosity peered through another.

  A burly old man was energetically planing a long, wide, roughly-shaped,hexagonal plank. The shape of the plank was startling.

  "What is it he is making?" inquired Mrs. Ryan of the small boy. Perhapsshe could see for herself, and put the question mechanically.

  The answer was prompt and short:

  "A coffin!"

  Mrs. Ryan shuddered and stood still. The urchin volunteered a comment.

  "My! ain't it a long 'un! Did ye iver see sich a long 'un, missis?"

  He was little Tom Rowntree, the sexton's son and heir, this boy, so heknew what he was talking about; one day, all being well, he would diggraves and bury folks himself; he took a profound premature interest inall branches of the hereditary avocation.

  "Who is dead?" asked Mrs. Ryan, in a hard metallic voice.

  "Haven't heard tell his name, but 'tis a sooincide, missis--a sooincide!A gent's been and shot hisself upon the bank there, this afternoon. He'sa-lyin' ower yonder at t' Blue Bell."

  "Where is that?"

  "Yonder, look--t' last house on this side. It's nigh all dark, it is,an' no one there 'cept my mother an' Mr. Robisson hisself, an' customersturned away an' all. That's 'cause Mrs. Robisson she's took thehigh-strikes--some people is that weak!"

  But there was no listener to these final words of scorn. With a ghastlyface and starting eyes, Elizabeth Ryan was staggering to the Blue Bellinn.

  A square of pale light dimly illumined a window close to the ground tothe left of the door, otherwise the inn was in darkness. Elizabeth Ryancrouched down, and never took her eyes from that window till the lightwas extinguished. Then she heard the door within open and shut, and theouter door open. A man and a woman stood conversing in low tones on thesteps, the woman's voice broken by sobs.

  "'Tisn't that I'm growing old and nervous, Mr. Robisson, and thinkin'that me own time'll come some day; no, it's not that. But all theseyears--and never such a thing to happen in the village before--littledid I think to live to be called in to the likes o' this. And such agood face as I never seed in living man, poor fellow! You never knowwhere madness comes in, and that's what it's been, Mr. Robisson. And nowI'm out o' t' room I'm that faint I don't know how to get home."

  "Come, come, I'll give you my arm and umbrella across, MistressRowntree."

  "But ye've left t' key in t' door?"

  "Oh, I'll be back quick enough; it's only a step."

  He gave her his arm, and the pair came out together and went slowly upthe village street. In less than five minutes the landlord of the BlueBell returned, locked all the doors, and went to bed, leaving the inn intotal darkness.

  A quarter of an hour later this total darkness was interrupted; a palelight glimmered in the window close to the ground to the left of thedoo
r. This light burned some ten or twenty minutes. Just before it wasput out, the window-sash was moved up slowly. Then, when all was oncemore in darkness, a figure stepped out upon the sill, leapt lightly tothe ground, and cautiously drew down the sash.