Quince, with a protracted intonation of wonder and incredulity, which plainly implied a suspicion that I was dreaming.
“Yes, Mary. When we went into that dreadful room — that dark, round place — I saw his foot on the ladder. His foot, Mary. I can’t be mistaken. I won’t be questioned. You’ll find I’m right. He’s here. He never went in that ship at all. A fraud has been practised on me — it is infamous — it is terrible. I’m frightened out of my life. For heaven’s sake, look back again, and tell me what you see.”
“Nothing, Miss,” answered Mary, in contagious whispers, “but that wooden-legged chap, standin’ hard by the door.”
“And no one with him?”
“No one, Miss.”
We got without pursuit through the gate in the paling. I drew breath so soon as we had reached the cover of the thicket near the chestnut hollow, and I began to reflect that whoever the owner of the foot might be — and I was still distinctly certain that it was no other than Dudley — concealment was plainly his object. I need not, then, be at all uneasy lest he should pursue us.
As we walked slowly and in silence along the grassy footpath, I heard a noise calling my name from behind. Mary Quince had not heard it at all, but I was quite certain.
It was repeated twice or thrice, and, looking in considerable doubt and trepidation under the hanging boughs, I saw Beauty, not ten yards away, standing among the underwood.
I remember how white the eyes and teeth of the swarthy girl looked, as with hand uplifted toward her ear, she watched us while, as it seemed, listening for more distant sounds.
Beauty beckoned eagerly to me, advancing, with looks of great fear and anxiety, two or three short steps toward me.
“She baint to come,” said Beauty, under her breath, so soon as I had nearly reached her, pointing without raising her hand at Mary Quince.
“Tell her to sit on the ash-tree stump down yonder, and call ye as loud as she can if she sees any fellah a-comin’ this way, an’ rin back to me;” and she impatiently beckoned me away on her errand.
When I returned, having made this dispositions, I perceived how pale the girl was.
“Are you ill, Meg?” I asked.
“Never ye mind. Well enough. Listen, Miss; I must tell it all in a crack, an’ if she calls, rin awa’ to her, and le’ me to myself, for if fayther or t’other un wor to kotch me here, I think they’d kill me a’most. Hish!”
She paused a second, looking askance, in the direction where she fancied Mary Quince was. Then she resumed in a whisper.
“Now, lass, mind ye, ye’ll keep what I say to yourself. You’re not to tell that un nor any other for your life, mind, a word o’ what I’m goin’ to tell ye.”
“I’ll not say a word. Go on.”
“Did ye see Dudley?”
“I think I saw him getting up the ladder.”
“In the mill? Ha! that’s him. He never went beyond Todcaster. He staid in Feltram arter.”
It was my turn to look pale now. My worst conjecture was established.
Chapter 56.
I Conspire
“THAT’S A BAD un, he us — oh, Miss, Miss Maud! It’s nout that’s good as keeps him an’ fayther —(mind, lass, ye promised you would not tell no one)— as keeps them two a-talkin’ and a’smokin’ secret-like together in the mill. An’ fayther don’t know I found him out. They don’t let me into the town, but Brice tells me, and he knows it’s Dudley; and it’s nout that’s good, but summat very bad. An’ I reckon, Miss, it’s all about you. Be ye frightened, Miss Maud?”
I felt on the point of fainting, but I rallied.
“Not much, Meg. Go on, for Heaven’s sake. Does Uncle Silas know he is here?”
“Well, Miss, they were with him, Brice told me, from eleven o’clock to nigh one o’ Tuesday ngiht, an’ went in and come out like thieves, ‘feard ye’d see ’em.”
“And how does Brice know anything bad?” I asked, with a strange freezing sensation creeping from my heels to my head and down again — I am sure deadly pale, but speaking very collectedly.
“Brice said, Miss, he saw Dudley a-cryin’ and lookin’ awful black, and says he to fayther, ‘Tisn’t in my line nohow, an’ I can’t;’ and says fayther to he, ‘No one likes they soart o’ things, but how can ye help it? The old boy’s behind ye wi’ his pitchfork, and ye canna stop.’ An’ wi’ tha the bethought him o’ Brice, and says he, ‘What be ye a-doin’ there? Get ye down wi’ the nags to blacksmith, do ye.’ An’ oop gits Dudley, pullin’ his had ower his brows, an’ says he, ‘I wish I was in the Seamew. I’m good for nout wi’ this thing a-hangin’ ower me.’ An’ that’s all as Brice heard. An’ he’s afeard o’ fayther and Dudley awful. Dudley could like him to pot if he crossed him, and he and fayther ‘ud think nout o’ havin’ him afore the justices for poachin’, and swearin’ him into gaol.”
“But why does he think it’s about me?”
“Hish!” said Meg, who fancied she heard a sound, but all was quiet. “I can’t say — we’re in danger, lass. I don’t know why — but he does, an’ so do I, an’, for that matter, so do ye.”
“Meg, I’ll leave Bartram.”
“Ye can’t.”
“Can’t. What do you mean, girl?”
“They won’t let ye oot. The gates is all locked. They’ve dogs — they’ve bloodhounds, Brice says. Ye can’t git oot, mind; put that oot o’ your head.
“I tell ye what ye’ll do. Write a bit o’ a note to the lady yonder at Elverston; an’ though Brice be a wild fellah, and ‘appen not ower good sometimes, he likes me, an’ I’ll make him take it. Fayther will be grindin’ at mill to-morrow. Coom ye here about one o’clock — that’s if ye see the mill-sails a-turnin’— and me and Brice will meet ye here. Bring that old lass wi’ ye. There’s an old French un, though, that talks wi’ Dudley. Mind ye, that un knows nout o’ the matter. Brice be a kind lad to me, whatsoe’er he be wi’ others, and I think he won’t split. Now, lass, I must go. God help ye; God bless ye; an’, for the world’s wealth, don’t ye let one o’ them see ye’ve got ought in your head, not even that un.”
Before I could say another word, the girl had glided from me, with a wild gesture of silence, and a shake of her head.
I can’t at all account for the state in which I was. There are resources both of energy and endurance in human nature which we never suspect until the tremendous voice of necessity summons them into play. Petrified with a totally new horror, but with something of the coldness and impassiveness of the transformation, I stood, spoke, and acted — a wonder, almost a terror, to myself.
I met Madame on my return as if nothing had happened. I heard her ugly gabble, and looked at the fruits of her hour’s shopping, as I might hear, and see, and talk, and smile, in a dream.
But the night was dreadful. When Mary Quince and I were alone, I locked the door. I continued walking up and down the room, with my hands clasped, looking at the inexorable floor, the walls, the ceiling, with a sort of imploring despair. I was afraid to tell my dear old Mary. The least indiscretion would be failure, and failure destruction.
I answered her perplexed solicitudes by telling her that I was not very well — that I was uneasy; but I did not fail to extract from her a promise that she would not hint to mortal, either my suspicions about Dudley, or our