Then he rallied his forces. He bethought him how abnormal was the chance, how celestial the dream, how sweet the rapture of possessing the charms that now flouted him. And he took heart of grace. He raised his head, he enlisted in the cause all the doggedness of his nature. He recalled stories, inaccurately remembered, of Swift and Voltaire and Rousseau, all dependants who had loved, and all men of no greater capacity, it was possible, than himself. What slights had they not encountered, what scornful looks, and biting gibes! But they had persisted, having less in their favour than he had; and he would persist. And he would triumph as they had triumphed. What matter a trifling loss of countenance as he passed by the coach-office, or a burning sensation down the spine when those whom he had left tittered behind him? He laughed best who laughed last.
For such a chance would never, could never fall to him again. The Caliph of Bagdad was dead, and princesses wedded no longer with calendars. Was he to toss away the one ticket which the lottery of life had dropped in his lap? Surely not. And for scruples—he felt them no longer. The girl’s stinging words, her scornful taunt, had silenced the small voice that on his way hither had pleaded for her; urging him to spare her loneliness, to take no advantage of her defenceless position. Bah! If that were all, she could defend herself well.
So Henrietta, when she came downstairs, a little paler and a little prouder, and with the devil, that is in all proud women, a little nearer to urging her on something, no matter what, that might close a humiliating scene, was not long in discovering a humble black presence that by turns followed and evaded her. Mr. Sutton did not venture to address her directly. To put himself forward was not his rôle. But he sought to commend himself by self-effacement; or at the most by such meek services as opening the door for her without lifting his eyes above the hem of her skirt, or placing a thing within reach before she learned her need of it. Nevertheless, whenever she left her room she caught sight of him; and the consciousness that he was watching her, that his eyes were on her back, that if her gown caught in a nail of the floor he would be at hand to release it, wore on her nerves. She tried to disregard him, she tried to be indifferent to him. But there he always was, pale, obstinate, cringing, and waiting. And so great is the power of persistence, that she began to fear him.
Between his insidious court and the dread of Mr. Hornyold’s gallantries she was uncomfortable as well as wretchedly unhappy. The position shamed her. She felt that it was her own conduct which she had to thank for their pursuit; and for Anthony Clyne’s more cruel insult, which she swore she would never forgive. She knew that in the old life, within the fence where she had been reared, no one had ever dared to take a liberty with her or dreamed of venturing on a freedom. Now it was so different. So different! And she was so lonely! She stood fair game for all. Presently even the village louts would nudge one another when she passed, or follow her in the hope of they knew not what.
Already, indeed, if she passed the threshold she had a third follower; whose motives were scarcely less offensive than the motives of the other two. Mr. Bishop had been away for nearly a week scouring the roads between Cockermouth and Whitehaven, and Maryport and Carlisle. He had drawn, as he hoped, a net round the quarry—if it had not already escaped. In particular, he had made sure that trusty men—and by trusty men Mr. Bishop meant men who would not refuse to share the reward with their superiors—watched the most likely places. These arrangements had taken his brown tops and sturdy figure far afield: so that scarce a pot-house in all that country was now ignorant of the face of John Bishop of Bow Street, scarce a saddle-horse was unversed in his weight. Finally he had returned to the centre of his spider’s web, and rather than be idle he was giving himself up to stealthy observation of Henrietta.
For he had one point in common with Mr. Sutton. While the Low Wood folk exhausted themselves in surmises and believed in a day a dozen stories of the girl who had dropped so strangely among them, the runner knew who she was. Perforce he had been taken into confidence. But thereupon his experience of the criminal kind led him astray. He remembered how stubbornly she had refused to give her name, to give information, to give anything; and he suspected that she knew where Walterson lay hid. He thought it more than likely that she was still in relations with him. A girl of her breeding, the runner argued, does not give up all for a romantic stranger unless she loves him: and once in love, such an one sticks at nothing. So he too haunted her footsteps, vanished when she came, and appeared when she retreated; and all with an air of respect which maddened the victim and puzzled the onlookers.
But for this she had been able to spend these days of loneliness and incertitude in wandering among the hills. She was young enough to feel confinement irksome, and she yearned for the open and the unexplored. She fancied that she would find relief in plunging into the depths of woods where, on a still day, the leaves floated singly down to mingle with the dying ferns. She thought that in long roaming, with loosened hair and wind-swept cheeks, over Wansfell Pike, or to the upper world of the Kirkstone or the Hog-back beyond Troutbeck, she might forget, in the wilds of nature, her own small woes and private griefs. At least on the sheep-trodden heights there would be no one to reproach her, no one to fling scorn at her.
And two mornings later she felt that she must go; she must escape from the eyes that everywhere beset her. She marked down Mr. Bishop in the road before the house, and, safe from him, she slipped out at the back, and, almost running, climbed the path that led to the hills. She passed through the wood and emerged on the shoulder; and drew a deep breath, rejoicing in her freedom. One glance at the lake spread out below her—and something still and sullen under a grey sky—and she passed on. She had a crust in her pocket, and she would remain abroad all day—for it was mild. With the evening she would return footsore and utterly weary. And she would sleep.
She was within a few yards of the gate of Hinkson’s farm when she saw coming towards her the last man whom she wished to meet—Mr. Hornyold. He was walking beside his nag, with the rein on his arm and his eyes on the road. His hands were plunged far into the fobs of his breeches, and he was studying something so deeply that he did not perceive her.
The memory of their last meeting—on that very spot—was unpleasantly fresh in Henrietta’s mind, and the impulse to escape was strong. Hinkson’s gate was within reach of her arm, the dog was asleep in the kennel; in a twinkling she was within and making for the house. Any pretence would do, she thought. She might ask for a cup of water, drink it, and return to the road. By that time he would have gone on his way.