Starvecrow Farm

by Stanley John Weyman

“They will come back,” she murmured steadfastly; “they will come back! They will come back! And in the meantime I must be brave for the child’s sake. I have only to wait! And they will come back!”

Nevertheless, it was hard to wait. It was hard not to let her thoughts run on the things which might prevent their return. They might be put to flight, they might be discovered and killed, they might be taken and refuse to say where she was. And then? Then?

But for the child’s sake she must not, she would not, think of that. She must dwell, instead, on the shortness of the time that had elapsed since they left her. She could not guess what the hour was, but she judged that it was something after midnight now, and that half of the dark hours were gone. Even so, she had long to wait before she could expect to be visited. She must have patience, therefore. Above all, she must not think of the mountain of earth above her, of the two thick doors that shut her off from the living world, of the vault that almost touched her head as she sat. For when she did the air seemed to fail her, and the grip of frenzied terror came near to raising her to her feet. Once on her feet and in that terror’s grasp, she knew that she would rave and shriek, and beat on the walls—and go mad!

But she would not think of these things. She would sit quite still and hold the child more tightly to her, and be sensible. And be sensible! Above all, be sensible!

She thought of many things as she sat holding herself as it were; of her old home and her old life, the home and the life that seemed so far away, though no more than a few weeks divided her from them. But more particularly she thought of her folly and of the events of the last month; and of the child and of the child’s father, and—with a shudder—of Walterson. How silly, how unutterably silly, she had been! And what stuff, what fustian she had mistaken for heroism; while, through all, the quiet restraint of the true master of men had been under her eyes.

Not that all the fault had been hers. She was sure of that even now. Captain Clyne had known her as little as she had known him, and had misjudged her as largely. That he might know her better was her main desire now; and that he might know it, whatever the issue, she had an inspiration. She took from her neck the gold clasp which had aroused old Hinkson’s greed, and she fastened it securely inside the child’s dress. If the child were rescued, the presence of the brooch would prove that she had succeeded in her quest, and been with the boy.

After that she dozed off, and presently, strange to say, she slept. Fortunately, the child also was worn out; and the two slept as soundly in the grim silence of the buried vault, with the load of earth above them and the water trickling from the well-hole beside them, as in the softest bed. They slept long, yet when Henrietta at last awoke it was happily to immediate consciousness of the position and of the need of coolness. The boy had been first to rouse himself and was crying for a light, and for something to quench his thirst. A little milk remained in the can, and with infinite precaution she groped for the vessel and found it. The milk was sour, but the boy lapped it eagerly, and Henrietta wetted her own lips, for she, too, was parched with thirst. She could have drunk ten times as much with pleasure, but she denied herself, and set the rest in a safe place. She did not know how long she had slept, and the fear that they might be left to meet a dreadful death would lift its head, hard as she strove to trample on it.

She gave the child a few spoonfuls of porridge and encouraged him to crawl about in the darkness. But after some restless, querulous moanings he slept again, and Henrietta was left to her thoughts, which continually grew more uneasy. She was hungry; and that seemed to prove that the morning was come and gone. If this were so were they to remain there all day? And if all day, all night? And all next day? And if so, if they were not discovered by next day, why not—forever?

Again she had to struggle against the hysterical terror that gripped and choked her. And resist it without action she could not. She rose, and in the dark felt her way to the hatchway by which she had entered. Again she passed her fingers down the smooth edges where it met the brickwork. She sought something, some bolt, some peg, some hinge—anything that, if it did not lead to freedom, might hold her thoughts and give her occupation. But there was nothing! And when she had set her ear against the thick wood, still there was nothing. She turned from it, and went slowly and doggedly round the prison on her knees, feeling the brickwork here and there, and in very dearth of hope, searching with her fingers for that which had baffled her eyes. Round, and round again; with just a pause to listen and a stifled sob. But in vain. All, as she might have known, was toil in vain. All was futile, hopeless. And then the child awoke, and she had to take him up and soothe him and give him the last of the milk and the porridge. He seemed a little stronger and better. But she—she was growing frightened—horribly frightened. She must have been hours in that place; and she was very near to that breakdown, which she had kept at bay so long.

For she had no more food. And, worse, with the sound of water almost in her ears, with the knowledge that it ran no more than a few feet from her in a clear and limpid stream, she had nothing more with which she could quench the boy’s thirst or her own. And she had no light. That frantic struggle to free herself, that strength of despair which might, however improbably, have availed her, were and must be futile for her, fettered and maimed by a darkness that could be felt. She drew the child nearer and hugged him to her. He was her talisman, her all, the tie that bound her to sanity, the being outside herself for whom she was bound to think and plan and be cool.