CHAPTER I
ACROSS THE QUICKSANDS
A head appeared at either window of the postchaise. Henrietta lookedforward. Her lover looked back.
The postchaise had nearly cleared the sands. Behind it the low line ofLancashire coast was fading from sight. Before it the long green hillof Cartmel had risen so high and drawn so near as to hide the Furnessfells. On the left, seaward, a waste of sullen shallows and quakingsands still stretched to infinity--a thing to shudder at. But thesavage head of Warton Crag, that for a full hour had guarded thetravellers' right, had given place to the gentler outlines of ArmsideKnot. The dreaded Lancashire Channels had been passed in safety, andthe mounted guide, whose task it was to lead wayfarers over thesesyrtes, and who enjoyed as guerdon the life-rent of a snug farm underCark, no longer eyed the west with anxiety, but plashed in stolidsilence towards his evening meal.
And all was well. But the margin of safety had not been large--thepostboys' boots still dripped, and the floor of the carriage was damp.Seaward the pale line of the tide, which would presently sweep in onefoaming wave across the flat, and in an instant cover it half a footdeep, was fretting abreast the point. Ten minutes later had been toolate; and the face of Henrietta's lover, whom a few hours and a Scotchminister were to make her husband, betrayed his knowledge of the fact.He looked backward and westward over the dreary flat; and fascinated,seized, possessed by the scene, he shuddered--perhaps at his ownthoughts. He would fain have bidden the postboys hasten, but he wasashamed to give the order before her. Halfway across he had set downthe uneasiness he could not hide to the fear of pursuit, to the fearof separation. But he could no longer do this; for it was plain to achild that neither horse nor man would cross Cartmel sands until thetide that was beginning to run had ebbed again.
And Henrietta looked forward. The dull grey line of coast, quicklypassing into the invisible, on which she turned her back, stood forher past; the sun-kissed peaks and blue distances of Furness, whichher fancy still mirrored, though the Cartmel shore now hid them, stoodfor the future. To those heights, beautified by haze and distance, herheart went out, finding in them the true image of the coming life, thetrue foretype of those joys, tender and mysterious, to which she washastening. The past, which she was abandoning, she knew: a cold homein the house of an unfeeling sister-in-law and a brother who when hewas not hunting was tipsy--that, and the prospect of an unlovelymarriage with a man who--horror!--had had one wife already, stood forthe past. The future she did not know; but hope painted it from herbrightest palette, and the girl's eyes filled, her lips quivered, herheart strained towards the sympathy and love that were henceforth tobe hers--towards the happiness which she had set out to seek, and thatnow for certain could not escape her. As the postchaise lumberedheavily up the rough-paved groyne that led from the sands she shookfrom head to foot. At last her feet were set upon the land beautiful.And save for the compact which her self-respect had imposed upon hercompanion, she must have given way, she must have opened all herheart, thrown herself upon his breast and wept tears of tenderanticipation.
She controlled herself. As it happened, they drew in their heads atthe same time, and his eyes--they were handsome eyes--met hers.
"Dearest!" he said.
"We are safe now?"
"Safe from pursuit. But I am not safe."
"Not safe?"
"From your cruelty."
His voice was velvet; and he sought to take her hand.
But she withheld it.
"No, sir," she said, though her look was tender. "Remember ourcompact. You are quite sure that they will pursue us along the greatroad?"
"Yes, as far as Kendal. There they will learn that we are not beforethem--that we have somewhere turned aside. And they will turn back."
"But suppose that they drive on to Carlisle--where we rejoin the northroad."
"They will not," he replied confidently. He had regained the plausibleair which he had lost while the terror of the sands was upon him. "Andif you fear that," he continued, "there is the other plan, and I thinkthe better one. To-morrow at noon the packet leaves Whitehaven forScotland, The wind is fair, and by six in the afternoon we may beashore, and an hour later you will be mine!" And again he sought todraw her into his arms.
But she repelled him.
"In either case," she said, her brow slightly puckered, "we must haltto-night at the inn of which you spoke."
"The inn on Windermere--yes. And we can decide there, sweet, whetherwe go by land or sea; whether we will rejoin the north road atCarlisle or cross from Whitehaven to"--he hesitated an instant--"toDumfries."
She was romantic to the pitch of a day which valued sensibility morehighly than sense, and which had begun to read the poetry of Byronwithout ceasing to read the _Mysteries of Udolpho_; and she wascourageous to the point of folly. Even now laughter gleamed under herlong lashes, and the bubblings of irresponsible youth were never veryfar from her lips. Still, with much folly, with vast recklessness andan infinitude of ignorance, she was yet no fool--though a hundredtimes a day she said foolish things. In the present circumstancesrespect for herself rather than distrust of her lover taught her thatshe stood on slippery ways and instilled a measure of sobriety.
"At the inn," she said, "you will put me in charge of the landlady."And looking through the window, she carolled a verse of a song asirrelevant as snow in summer.
"But----" he paused.
"There is a landlady, I suppose?"
"Yes, but----"
"You will do what I say to-day," she replied firmly--and now the finecurves of her lips were pressed together, and she hummed no more--"ifyou wish me to obey you to-morrow."
"Dearest, you know----"
But she cut him short. "Please to say that it shall be so," she said.
He swore that he would obey her then and always. And bursting againinto song as the carriage climbed the hill, she flung from her themood that had for a moment possessed her, and was a child again. Shemade gay faces at him, each more tantalising than the other; gavehim look for look, each more tender than the other; and with thetips of her dainty fingers blew him kisses in exchange for his. Herhelmet-shaped bonnet, with its huge plume of feathers, lay in her lap.The heavy coils of her fair, almost flaxen, hair were given to view,and under the fire of his flatteries the delicacy of colouring--forpallor it could scarcely be called--which so often accompanies verylight hair, and was the sole defect of her beauty, gave place toblushes that fired his blood.
But he knew something of her spirit. He knew that she had it in her toturn back even now. He knew that he might cajole, but could neverbrowbeat her. And he restrained himself the more easily, as, in spiteof the passion and eloquence--some called it vapouring--which made hima hero where thousands listened, he gave her credit for the strongernature. He held her childishness, her frivolity, her _naivete_, incontempt. Yet he could not shake off his fear of what she mightdo--when she knew.
They paid off the Guide under the walls of the oldPriory Church at Cartmel]
They paid off the guide under the walls of the old priory church atCartmel, with the children of the village crowding about the doors ofthe chaise; then with a fresh team they started up the valley thatleads to the foot of Windermere lake. But now the November day wasbeginning to draw in. The fell on their right took gloomier shape; ontheir left a brook sopped its way through low marsh-covered fields;and here and there the leafless limbs of trees pointed to the grey.And first one and then the other, with the shrill cries of moor-birdsin their ears, and the fading landscape before their eyes, fellsilent. Then, had they been as other lovers, had she stood moresafely, or he been single-hearted, he had taken her in his arms andheld her close, and comforted her, and the dusk within had been butthe frame and set-off to their love.
But as it was he feared to make overtures, and they sat each in acorner until, in sheer dread of the effect which reflection might haveon her, he asked her if she feared pursuit; adding,
"Depend upon it,darling, you need not; Sir Charles will not give a thought to thisroad."
She drummed thoughtfully with her fingers on the pane.
"I am not afraid of my brother," she said.
"Then of whom?"
"Of Anthony," she answered, and corrected herself hurriedly--"ofCaptain Clyne, I mean. He will think of this road."
"But he will not have had the news before noon," Stewart answered. "Itis eighteen miles from your brother's to the Old Hall. And besides, Ithought that he did not love you."
"He does not," she rejoined, "but he loves himself. He loves hispride. And this will hit both--hard! I am not quite sure," shecontinued very slowly and thoughtfully, "that I am not a little sorryfor him. He made so certain, you see. He thought all arranged. A weekto-day was the day fixed, and--yes," impetuously, "I am sorry for him,though I hated him yesterday."
Stewart was silent a moment.
"I hate him to-day," he said.
"Why?"
His eyes sparkled.
"I hate all his kind," he said. "They are hard as stones, stiff asoaks, cruel as--as their own laws! A man is no man to them, unless heis of"--he paused almost imperceptibly--"our class! A law is no law tothem unless they administer it! They see men die of starvation attheir gates, but all is right, all is just, all is for the best, aslong as they govern!"
"I don't think you know him," she said, somewhat stiffly.
"Oh, I know him!"
"But----"
"Oh, I know him!" he repeated, the faint note of protest in her voiceserving to excite him. "He was at Manchester. There were a hundredthousand men out of work--starving, seeing their wives starve, seeingtheir children starve. And they came to Manchester and met. And he wasthere, and he was one of those who signed the order for the soldiersto ride them down--men, women, and children, without arms, and packedso closely that they could not flee!"
"Well," she said pertly, "you would not have us all murdered in ourbeds?"
He opened his mouth, and he shut it again. He knew that he had been afool. He knew that he had gone near to betraying himself. She wasnineteen, and thoughtless; she had been bred in the class he hated;she had never heard any political doctrines save those which thatclass, the governing class, held; and though twice or thrice he hadessayed faintly to imbue her with his notions of liberty and equalityand fraternity, and had pictured her with the red cap of freedomperched on her flaxen head, the only liberty in which he had been ableto interest her had been her own!
By-and-by, in different conditions, she might be more amenable, shouldhe then think it worth while to convert her. For the present hiseloquence was stayed in midstream. Yet he could not be altogethersilent, for he was a man to whom words were very dear.
"Well," he said in a lower tone, "there is something in that, sweet.But I know worse of him than that. You may think it right to transporta man for seven years for poaching a hare----"
"They should not poach," she said lightly, "and they would not betransported!"
"But you will think differently of flogging a man to death!"
Her face flushed.
"I don't believe it!" she cried.
"On his ship in Plymouth Harbour they will tell you differently."
"I don't believe it!" she replied, with passion. And then, "How horridyou are!" she continued. "And it is nearly dark! Why do you talk ofsuch things? You are jealous of him--that is what you are!"
He saw the wisdom of sliding back into their old relations, and heseized the opportunity her words offered.
"Yes," he murmured, "I am jealous of him. And why not? I am jealous ofthe wind that caresses your cheek, of the carpet that feels yourtread, of the star that peeps in at your window! I am jealous of allwho come near you, or speak to you, or look at you!"
"Are you really?"--in a tone of childish delight. "As jealous asthat?"
He swore it with many phrases.
"And you will be so always?" she sighed softly, leaning towards him."Always--Alan?"
"To eternity!" he answered. And emboldened by her melting mood, hewould have taken her hand, and perhaps more than her hand, but at thatmoment the lights of the inn at Newby Bridge flashed on them suddenly,the roar of the water as it rushed over the weirs surprised theirears, the postboys cracked their whips, and the carriage bounded andrattled over the steep pitch of the narrow bridge. A second or twolater it came to a stand before the inn amid a crowd of helpers andstable lads, whose lanthorns dazzled the travellers' eyes.
They stayed only to change horses, then were away again. But the haltsufficed to cool his courage; and as they pounded on monotonouslythrough the night, the darkness and the dim distances of river andlake--for they were approaching the shores of Windermere--producedtheir natural effect on Henrietta's feelings. She had been travellingsince early morning cooped and cramped within the narrow chaise; shehad spent the previous night in a fever of suspense and restlessness.Now, though slowly, the gloom, the dark outlines of the woods, andthat sense of loneliness which seizes upon all who are flung for thefirst time among strange surroundings, began to tell upon the spiritseven of nineteen. She did not admit the fact to herself--she wouldhave died before she confessed it to another; but disillusion hadbegun its subtle task.
Here were all the things for which she had panted--the dear,delightful things of which she had dreamed: the whirl of thepostchaise through the night, the crack of the whips, the cries of thepostboys, the lighted inns, the dripping woods, the fear of pursuit,the presence of her lover! And already they were growing flat. Alreadythe savour was escaping from them. There were tears in her heart,tears very near her eyes.
He could have taken her hand then, and more than her hand. Forsuddenly she recognised, with a feeling nearer terror than her flightynature had ever experienced before, her complete dependence on him.Henceforth love, comfort, kindness, companionship--all must come fromhim. She had flung from her every stay but his, every hand but his. Hewas become her all, her world. And could she trust him? Not only withher honour--she never dreamed of doubting that--but could she trusthim afterwards? To be kind to her, to be good to her, to be generousto her? Thoughtless, inexperienced, giddy as she was, Henriettatrembled. A pitiful sob rose in her throat. It needed but little, verylittle, and she had cast herself in abandonment on her lover's breastand there wept out her fears and her doubts.
But he had also his anxieties, and he let the moment pass by himunmarked. He had reasons, other and more urgent than those he hadgiven her, for taking this road and for staying the night in a placewhence Whitehaven and Carlisle were equally accessible; and thosereasons had seemed good enough in the day when the fear of pursuit hadswayed him. They seemed less pertinent now. He began to wish that hehad taken another road, pursued another course. And he was deep in abrown study, in which love had no part, when an exclamation, at onceof surprise and admiration, recalled him to the present.
They had topped a bare shoulder and come suddenly in sight of LakeWindermere. The moon had not long risen above the hills on theirright, the water lay on their left; below them stretched a long palemirror, whose borrowed light, passing over the dark woods which framedit, faintly lit and explored the stupendous fells and mountains thatrose beyond. To Stewart it was no unfamiliar or noteworthy sight; andhis eyes, after a passing glance of approval, turned to the road belowthem and marked with secret anxiety the spot where two or three lightsindicated their halting-place.
But to Henrietta the sight, as unexpected as it was beautiful,appealed in a manner never to be forgotten. She held her breath, andslowly her eyes filled. Half subdued by fatigue and darkness, halfawake to the dangers and possibilities of her situation, she was inthe mood most fit to be moved by the tender melancholy of the scene.She was feeling a craving for something--for something to comfort her,for something to reassure her, for something on which to lean in theabsence of all the common things of life: and there broke on her themystic beauty of this moonlit lake, and it melted her. Her heart,hitherto untouched, awoke. The comp
act which she had made with herlover stood for naught. The tears running down her face, she turned tohim, she held out her hands to him.
"Kiss me!" she murmured. "And say--say you will be good to me! I haveonly you now!--only you!--only you!"
He caught her in his arms and kissed her rapturously; and the embracewas ardent enough to send the scarlet surging to her temples, to sether heart throbbing. But the chaise was in the very act of drawing upat the door of the inn; and it may be doubted if he tasted the fullsweetness of the occasion. A face looked in at the carriage window, onthe side farther from the lake appeared a bowing landlord, a voiceinquired, "Horses on?" The postchaise stopped.