... every head was uncovered as Clyne ... rode to the door
The farmers were Tories to a man. Even Brougham’s silver tongue had failed (in the election of the year before) to turn them against the Lowthers. They were of the class from whom the yeomanry were drawn, and they had scant sympathy with the radical weavers of Rochdale and Bury, Bolton and Manchester. Had they caught the villains at this moment, they had made short work of them. They watched the slight figure with its empty sleeve as it passed into the house, and their looks of compassion were exceeded only by their curses loud and deep. And pitiful indeed was the tale which those, who were forced to leave, carried home to their wives and daughters on the fells.
The chaplain, hovering on the edge of the chattering groups, could not come at once at his patron, who had no sooner reached the head of the stairs than he was beset by Nadin and others with reports and arrangements. But as soon as Clyne had gone wearily to his room to take some food before starting afresh—for it was determined to continue the search as soon as the moon rose—the chaplain went to him with his book under his arm.
He found Clyne seated before the fire, with his chin on his hand and his attitude one of the deepest despondency. He had borne up with difficulty under the public gaze; he gave way, martinet as he was, the moment he was alone. The reflection that the child might have been within reach of his voice, yet beyond his help, that it might be crying to him even now, and crying in vain, that each hour which exposed it to hardship endangered its life—such thoughts harrowed the father’s feelings almost beyond endurance. Sutton suspected from his attitude that he was praying; and for a moment the chaplain, touched and affected, was in two minds about disturbing him. But he, too, had his harassing thoughts. His heart, too, burned with pity. And to turn back now was to abandon hope—grown forlorn already—of freeing Henrietta that evening. He went forward therefore with boldness. He laid his book on the table, and finding himself unheeded, cleared his throat.
“I have something here,” he said—and his voice despite himself was needlessly stiff and distant—“which I think it my duty, Captain Clyne, to show you without delay.”
Clyne turned slowly and rose as he turned.
“To show me?” he muttered.
“Yes.”
“What is it? You have not”—raising his eyes with a sudden intake of breath—“discovered anything? A clue?”