“And I,” she had answered with spirit, “will not tell you.”
At that he had looked at her with the old sternness, but her eyes had no longer fallen before his. And then he had been called away to follow one of the hasty clues, the wild-goose scents which were reported from hour to hour—by pedlars coming in from the dales, or by hazy parish constables who took every stranger for a rogue. Twice he had turned in his saddle, twice reined in his horse, before he passed out of sight; and she had known that he wrestled with himself, that he was near, very near, to giving way, and sacrificing her upon the altar of his child. But he had gone on, and not returned. And though it had grieved her to see how drawn and haggard was his face, how near to failing the wiry strength of his frame, she had rejoiced on her own account. He might say what he liked, forbid as he chose, it would go hard with her if she could not find the opportunity she needed, if she, who had suffered all along and in the esteem of all, did not make use of the means of clearing herself that remained to her.
Courage at least should not be wanting; and she would be cunning, too. Already she dreamed of a happy return with the child; and her cheeks grew warm and her eyes soft as she conjured up the scene, and imagined herself leading the boy to his father and receiving his thanks. Then he would confess—more fully than he had yet confessed—how he had wronged her, how far from her thoughts had been harm to the boy. And she—ah, but she must first do her part. She must first do that which she had to do.
So she went craftily about her task, counting up those whom she had to fear and ticking them off. Before Clyne had left the house a mile behind him she had learned where Nadin was, and a second officer whom she suspected of watching her movements. They were abroad and she had naught to fear from them. There remained Mr. Sutton and Bishop. For the former, “Horrid man!” she thought in her ingratitude, “I suppose he will look to be thanked every time I see him!” And she was confirmed in this, when she marked him down. He was walking to and fro before the door.
“I must go out at the back!” she concluded.
But there still remained the bluff but civil Bishop. She had little doubt that he was the Cerberus left to guard her. And no doubt at all when she learned from Modest Ann that he was taking his early dinner in the coffee-room with the door wide open.
“Waiting to see if I go out,” she said.
“Well, miss,” Ann answered, “I shouldn’t wonder if he was!”
Henrietta looked at her very kindly.
“Don’t you think,” she asked slowly, “that you could somehow get rid of him, Ann?”