“Ay, that’s it,” the other answered, nodding. “You’ve got it pat.”
“When she could speak, the alarm was given, they raised the country, the men were traced to Newby Bridge. There we know a boat met them and took them off. And the point, miss, is not so much where they landed, for that we know—’twas at the bottom of Troutbeck Lane!—as where they are now.”
She had turned pale and red and pale again, while she listened. Astonishment had given place to horror, and resentment to pity. In women, even the youngest, there is a secret tenderness for children; and the thought of this child, cast lame and helpless into the hands of strangers, and exposed, in place of the care to which he had been accustomed all his life, to brutality and hardships, pierced the crust of jealousy and melted the woman’s heart. Her eyes filled with tears, and through the tears indignation burned. For a moment even the insult which Anthony Clyne had put upon her was forgotten. She thought only of the father’s misery, his suspense, his grief. She yearned to him.
“Oh!” she cried, “the wretches!” And her voice rang bravely. “But—but why are you here? Why do you not follow them?”
Nadin’s eyes met Bishop’s. He raised his eyebrows.
“Because, miss,” he said, “we think there’s a shorter way to them. Because we think you can tell us where they are if you choose.”
“I can tell you where they are?” she repeated.
“Yes, miss. We believe that you can—if you choose. And you must choose.”
The girl stared. Then slowly she comprehended. She grasped the fact that they addressed the question to her, that they believed that she was at one with the men who had done this. And a change as characteristic of her nature as it was unexpected by those who watched her, swept over her face. Her features quivered, and, even as when Anthony Clyne’s proposal wounded her pride to the quick, she turned from them, and bowing her head on her hands broke into weeping.
They were all taken aback. They had looked some for one thing, some for another; some for rage and scorn, some for sullen denial. No one had foreseen this breakdown. Nor was it welcome. Nadin found himself checked on the threshold of success, and swore under his breath. Bishop, who had broken a lance with her before, and was more or less tender-hearted, looked vexed. Mr. Sutton showed open distress—her weeping hurt him, and at every quiver of her slight, girlish figure he winced. While Mrs. Gilson frowned; perhaps at the clumsiness and witlessness of men-folk. But she did not interfere, and the chaplain dared not interfere: and Nadin was left to deal with the girl as he pleased.