“Ay, as the foot has done with the shoe—till next time!” Mrs. Gilson retorted, drawing her simile from the articles in her hand. “For shame. For shame, young woman!” severely. “When it was trusting to that I kept you here and kept you out of gaol!”
Henrietta had not thought of that side of the case; and the reminder, finding a joint in her armour, stung her.
“You don’t know to whom you are talking!” she cried.
“I know that I am talking to a fool!” the landlady retorted. “But there,” she continued irefully, “you may talk to a fool till you are dead and ’twill still be a fool! So it’s only one bit of advice I’ll give you. You dress and come down or you’ll be dragged down! And I suppose, though you are not too proud to trapse the roads to meet your Joe—ay,” raising her voice as Henrietta turned in a rage, and fled, “you may slam the door, you little vixen, for a vixen you are! But you’ve heard some of my opinion of you, and you’ll hear more! I’m not sure that you’re not a thorough bad ’un!” Mrs. Gilson continued, lowering her voice again and speaking to herself—though her words were still audible. “That I’m not! But any way there’ll be one here by-and-by you’ll have to listen to! And he’ll make your ears burn, my lady, or I’m mistaken!”
It was bad enough to hear through the ill-fitting door such words as these. It was worse to know that plainer words might be used downstairs in the hearing of man and maid. But Henrietta had the sense to know that her position would be made worse by avoiding the issue, and pride enough to urge her to face it. She hastened to dress herself, though her fingers shook with indignation as well as with cold.
It was only when she was nearly ready to descend that she noticed how large was the crowd collected before the inn. She could hardly believe that her escapade—much as it might interest the police officer—was the cause of this. And a chill of apprehension, a thrill of anticipation of she knew not what, kept her for a moment standing before the window. She had done, she told herself, no harm. She had no real reason to fear. And yet she was beginning to fear. Anger was beginning to give place to dismay. For it was clear that something out of the common had happened; besides the group in the road, three or four persons were inspecting the boats drawn up on the foreshore. And on the lake was a stir unusual at this season. Half a mile from the shore a boat under sail was approaching the landing-place from the direction of Wray Woods. It was running fast before the bitter lash of the November wind that here and there flecked the grey and melancholy expanse with breakers. And round the point from the direction of Ambleside a second boat was reaching, with the wind on her quarter. She fancied that the men in these boats made signs to those on the shore; and that the excitement grew with their report. While she gazed two or three of the people in the road walked down to the water. And with a puckered brow, and a face a shade paler than usual, she hesitated; wishing that she knew what had happened and was sure that the stir had not to do with her.
She would have preferred to wait upstairs until the boats arrived. But she remembered Mrs. Gilson’s warning. Moreover, she was beginning to comprehend—as men do, and women seldom do—that there is a force which it is futile to resist—that of the law. Sooner or later she must go down. So taking her courage in both hands she opened her door, and striving to maintain a dignified air she descended the stairs, and made her way past the passage window to Mr. Rogers’s room.
It was empty, and first appearances were reassuring. Her breakfast was laid and waiting, the fire was cheerful, the room tended to encouragement. But the murmur of excited voices still rose from the highway below, and kept her uneasy: and when she went to the side-window to view the scene of last night’s evasion, she stamped her foot with vexation. For where the tracks of feet were clearest they had been covered with old boxes to protect them from the frosty sunshine which the day promised; and the precaution smacked so strongly of the law and its methods that it had an ill look. Not Robinson Crusoe on his desert island had made a more ridiculous fuss about a foot-print or two!
She was still knitting her brows over the device when there came a knock at the door. She turned and confronted Bishop. The man’s manner as he entered was respectful enough, but he had not waited for leave to come in. And she had a sickening feeling that he was taking possession of her, that he would not leave her again, that from this time she was not her own. The gravity of the bluff red face did not lessen this feeling. And though she would fain have asked him his business and challenged his intrusion she could not find a word.
“I take it, you’d as soon see me alone, miss,” he said. And he closed the door behind him, and stood with his hat in his hand. “You’d best go on with your breakfast, for you look a bit peaky—you’re a bit shaken, I expect, by what has happened. But don’t you be afraid,” with something like a wink, “there’s no harm will happen to you if you are sensible. Meanwhile I’ll talk to you, by your leave, while you eat. It will save time, and time’s much. I suppose,” he continued, as she forced herself to take her seat and pour out her tea, “there’s no need to tell you, miss, what has happened?”