Anthony Clyne had made no moan, but, both in his pride and his better feelings, he had suffered more than the world thought through Henrietta's elopement. He was not in love with the girl whom he had chosen for his second wife and the mother of his motherless child. But no man likes to be jilted. No man, even the man least in love, can bear with indifference or without mortification the slur which the woman's desertion casts on him. At best there are invitations to be cancelled, and servants to be informed, and plans to be altered; the condolences of some and the smiles of others are to be faced. And many troubles and much bitterness. The very boy, the apple of his eye and the core of his heart, had to be told--something.

And Anthony Clyne was proud. No man in Lancashire set more by his birth and station, or had a stronger sense of his personal dignity; so that in doing all these things he suffered. He suffered much. Nor did it end with that. His own world knew him, and took care not to provoke him by a tactless word or an inquisitive question. But the operatives in his neighbourhood, who hated him and feared him, and thanked God for aught that hurt him, gibed him openly. Taunts and jests were flung after him in the streets of Manchester; and men whose sweethearts had been flung down or roughly used on the day of Peterloo inquired after his sweetheart as he passed before the mills.

But he made no sign. And no one dreamed that the suffering went farther than the man's pride, or touched his heart. Yet it did. Not that he loved the girl; but because she was of his race, and because her own branch of the family cast her off, and because the man with whom she had fled could do nothing to protect her from the consequences of her folly. For these reasons--and a little because of a secret nobility in his own character--he suffered vicariously; he felt himself responsible for her. And the responsibility seemed more heavy after he had seen her; after he had borne away from Windermere the picture of the girl left pale and proud and lonely by the lake side.

For her figure haunted him. It rose before him in the most troublesome fashion and at the most improper times; at sessions when he sat among his peers, or at his dinner-table in the middle of a tirade against the radicals and Cobbett. It touched him in the least expected and most tender points; awaking the strongest doubts of himself, and his conduct, and his wisdom that he had ever entertained. It barbed the dart of "It might have been" with the rankling suspicion that he had himself to thank for failure. And where at first he had said in his haste that she deserved two dozen, he now remembered her defence, and added gloomily, "Or I! Or I!" The thought of her fate--as of a thing for which he was responsible--thrust itself upon him in season and out of season. He could not put her out of his mind, he could not refrain from dwelling on her. And thinking in this way he grew every day less content with the scheme of life which he had framed for her in his first contempt for her. The notion of her union with Mr. Sutton, good, worthy man as he deemed the chaplain, now jarred on him unpleasantly. And more and more the scheme showed itself in another light than that in which he had first viewed it.

Such was his state of mind, unsettled if not unhappy, and harassed if not remorseful, when a second thunderclap burst above his head, and in a moment destroyed even the memory of these minor troubles. He loved his child with the love of the proud and lonely man who loves more jealously where others pity, and clings more closely where others look askance. A fig for their pity! he cried in his heart. He would so rear his child, he would so cherish him, he would so foster his mind, that in spite of bodily defect this latest of the Clynes should be also the greatest. And while he foresaw this future in the child and loved him for the hope, he loved him immeasurably more for his weakness, his helplessness, his frailty in the present. All that was strong in the man of firm will and stiff prejudice went out to the child in a passionate yearning to protect it; to shield it from unfriendly looks, even from pity; to cover it from the storms of the world and of life.

Personally a brave man Clyne feared nothing for himself. The hatred in which he was held by a certain class came to his ears from time to time in threatening murmurs, but though those who knew best were loudest in warning, he paid no heed. He continued to do what he held to be his duty. Yet if anything had had power to turn him from his path it had been fear on his son's account; it had been the very, very small share which the boy must take in his peril. And so, at the first hint he had removed the child from the zone of trouble, and sent him to a place which he fancied safe; a place which the boy loved, and in the quiet of which health as well as safety might be gained. If the name of Clyne was hated where spindles whirled and shuttles flew, and men lived their lives under a pall of black smoke, it was loved in Cartmel by farmer and shepherd alike; and not less by the rude charcoal-burners who plied their craft in the depths of the woods about Staveley and Broughton in Furness.

On that side he thought himself secure. And so the blow fell with all the force of the unexpected. The summons of the panic-stricken servants found him in his bed; and it was a man who hardly contained himself, who hardly contained his fury and his threats, who without breaking his fast rode north. It was a hard-faced, stern man who crossed the sands at Cartmel at great risk--but he had known them all his life--and won at Carter's Green the first spark of comfort and hope which he had had since rising. Nadin was before him. Nadin was in pursuit,--Nadin, by whom all that was Tory in Lancashire swore. Surely an accident so opportune, a stroke of mercy and providence so unlikely--for the odds against the officer's presence were immense--could not be unmeant, could not be for nothing! It seemed, it must be of good augury! But when Clyne reached his house in Cartmel, and the terrified nurse who knew the depth of his love for the boy grovelled before him, the household had no added hope to give him, no news or clue. And he could but go forward. His horse was spent, but they brought him a tenant's colt, and after eating a few mouthfuls he pressed on up the lake side towards Bowness, attended by a handful of farmers' sons who had not followed on the first alarm.

Even now, hours after the awakening, and when any moment might end his suspense, any turn in the road bring him face to face with the issue--good or bad, joy or sorrow--he dared not think of the child. He dared not let his mind run on its fear or its suffering, its terrors in the villains' hands, or the hardships which its helplessness might bring upon it. To do so were to try his self-control too far. And so he thought the more of the men, the more of vengeance, the more of the hour which would see him face to face with them, and see them face to face with punishment. He rejoiced to think that abduction was one of the two hundred crimes which were punishable with death: and he swore that if he devoted his life to the capture of these wretches they should be taken. And when taken, when they had been dealt with by judge and jury, they should be hanged without benefit of clergy. There should be no talk of respite. His services to the party had earned so much as that--even in these days when radicals were listened to over much, and fanatics like Wolseley and Burdett flung their wealth into the wrong scale.

At Bowness there was no news except a word from Nadin bidding him ride on. And without alighting he pressed on, sternly silent, but with eyes that tirelessly searched the bleak, bare fells for some movement, some hint of flight or chase. He topped the hill beyond Bowness, and drew rein an instant to scan the islets set here and there on the sullen water. Then, after marking carefully the three or four boats which were afloat, he trotted down through Calgarth woods. And on turning the corner that revealed the long gabled house at the Low Wood landing he had a gleam of hope. Here at last was something, some stir, some adequate movement. In the road were a number of men, twenty or thirty, on foot or horseback. A few were standing, others were moving to and fro. Half of them carried Brown Besses, blunderbusses, or old horse-pistols, and three or four were girt with ancient swords lugged for the purpose from bacon-rack or oak chest. The horses of the men matched as ill as their arms, being of all heights and all degrees of shagginess, and some riders had one spur, and some none. But the troop meant business, it was clear, and Anthony Clyne's heart went out to them in gratitude. Hitherto he had ridden through a country-side heedless or ignorant of his loss, and of what was afoot; and the tardy intelligence, the slow answer, had tried him sorely. Here at last was an end of that. As the honest dalesmen, gathered before the inn, hauled their hard-mouthed beasts to the edge of the road to make way for him, and doffed their hats in silent sympathy, he thanked them with his eyes.

In spite of his empty sleeve he was off his horse in a moment.

"Have they learned anything?" he asked, his voice harsh with suppressed emotion.

The nearest man began to explain in the slow northern fashion. "No, not as yet, your honour. But we shall, no doubt, i' good time. We know that they landed here in a boat."

"Ay, your honour, have no fear!" cried a second. "We'll get him back!"

And then Nadin came out.

"This way, if you please, Squire," he said, touching his arm and leading him aside. "We are just starting to scour the hills, but---- "he broke off and did not say any more until he had drawn Clyne out of earshot.

Then, "It's certain that they landed here," he said, turning and facing him. "We know that, Squire. And I fancy that they are not far away. The holt is somewhere near, for it is here we lost the other fox. I'm pretty sure that if we search the hills for a few hours we'll light on them. But that's the long way. And damme!" vehemently, "there's a short way if we are men and not mice."

Clyne's eyes gleamed.

"A short way?" he muttered. In spite of Nadin's zeal the Manchester officer's manner had more than once disgusted his patron. It had far from that effect now. The man might swear and welcome, be familiar, he what he pleased, if he would also act! If he would recover the child from the cruel hands that held it! His very bluntness and burliness and sufficiency gave hope. "A short way?" Clyne repeated.

Nadin struck his great fist into the other palm.

"Ay, a short way!" he answered. "There's a witness here can tell us all we want if she will but speak. I am just from her. A woman who knows and can set us on the track if she chooses! And we'll have but to ride to covert and take the fox."

Clyne laid his hand on the other's arm.

"Do you mean," he asked huskily, struggling to keep hope within bounds, "that there is some one here--who knows where they are?"

"I do!" Nadin answered with an oath. "And knows where the child is. But she'll not speak."

"Not speak?"

"No, she'll not tell. It's the young lady you were here about before, Squire, to be frank with you."

"Miss Damer?" in a tone of astonishment.

"Ay, Squire, she!" Nadin replied. "She! And the young madam knows, d----n her! It's all one business, you may take it from me! It's all one gang! She was at the place where they landed after dark last night."

"Impossible!" Clyne cried. "Impossible! I cannot believe you."

"Ay, but she was. She let herself down from a window when the house had gone to bed that she might get there. Ay, Squire, you may look, but she did. She did not meet them; she was too soon or too late, we don't know which. But she was there, as sure as I am here! And I suspect--though Bishop, who is a bit of a softy, like most of those London men, doesn't agree--that she was in the thing from the beginning, Squire! And planned it, may be, but you'd be the best judge of that. Any way, we are agreed that she knows now. That is clear as daylight!"

"Knows, and will not tell?" Clyne cried. Such conduct seemed too monstrous, too wicked to the man who had strained every nerve to reach his child, who had ridden in terror for hours, trembling at the passage of every minute, grudging the loss of every second. "Knows, and will not tell!" he repeated. "Impossible!"

"It's not impossible, Squire," Nadin answered. "We're clear on it. We're all clear on it."

"That she knows where the child is?" incredulously. "Where they are keeping it?"

"That's it."

"And will not say?"

Nadin grinned.

"Not for us," he said, shrugging his shoulders. "She may for you. But she is stubborn as a mule. I can't say worse than that. Stubborn as a mule, Squire!"

Clyne raised his hand to hide the twitching nostril, the quivering lip that betrayed his agitation. But the hand shook. He could not yet believe that she was privy to this wickedness. But--but if she only knew it now and kept her knowledge to herself--she was, he dared not think what she was. A gust of passion took him at the thought, and whitened his face to the very lips. He had to turn away that the coarse-grained, underbred man beside him might not see too much. And a few seconds went by before he could command his voice sufficiently to ask Nadin what evidence he had of this--this monstrous charge. "How do you know--I want to be clear--how do you know," he asked, sternly meeting his eyes, "that she left the house last night to meet them? That she was there to meet them? Have you evidence?" He could not believe that a woman of his class, of his race, would do this thing.

"Evidence?" Nadin answered coolly. "Plenty!" And he told the story of the foot-prints, and of Mr. Sutton's experiences in the night; and added that one of the child's woollen mits had been found between the bottom-boards of a boat beached at that spot--a boat which bore signs of recent use. "If you are not satisfied and would like to see his reverence," he continued, "and question him before you see her--shall I send him to you?"

"Ay, send him," Clyne said with an effort. He had been incredulous, but the evidence seemed overwhelming. Yet he struggled, he tried to disbelieve. Not because his thoughts still held any tenderness for the girl, or he retained any remnant of the troublesome feeling that had haunted him; for the shock of the child's abduction had driven such small emotions from his mind. But with the country rising about him, amid this gathering of men upon whom he had no claim, but who asked nothing better than to be brought face to face with the authors of the outrage--with these proofs of public sympathy before his eyes it seemed impossible that a woman, a girl, should wantonly set herself on the other side, and shield the criminals. It seemed impossible. But then, when the first news of her elopement with an unknown stranger had reached him, he had thought that impossible! Yet it had turned out to be true, and less than the fact; since the man was not only beneath her, but a radical and a villain!

"But I will see Sutton," he muttered, striving to hold his rage in check. "I will see Sutton. Perhaps he may be able to explain. Perhaps he may be able to put another face on the matter."

The chaplain would fain have done so; more out of a generous pity for the unfortunate girl than out of any lingering hope of ingratiating himself with her. But he did not know what to say, except that though she had gone to the rendezvous she had not seen nor met any one. He laid stress on that, for he had nothing else to plead. But he had to allow that her purpose had been to meet some one; and at the weak attempt to excuse her Clyne's rage broke forth.

"She is shameless!" he cried. "Shameless! Can you say after this that she has given up all dealings with her lover? Though she passed her word and knows him for a married man?"

The chaplain shook his head.

"I cannot," he said sorrowfully. "I cannot say that. But----"

"She gave her word! Tome. To others."

"I allow it. But----"

"But what? What?" with hardly restrained rage. "Will you still, sir, take her side against the innocent? Against the child, whom she has conspired to entrap, to carry off, perhaps to murder?"

"Oh, no, no!" Mr. Sutton cried in unfeigned horror. "That I do not believe! I do not believe that for an instant! I allow, I admit," he continued eagerly, "that she has been weak, and that she has madly, foolishly permitted this wretch to retain a hold over her."

"At any rate," Clyne retorted, his rage at a white heat, "she has lied to me!"

"I admit it."

"And to others!"

The chaplain could only hold out his hands in deprecation.

"You will admit that she has continued to communicate with a man she should loathe? A man whom, if she were a modest girl, she would loathe? That she has stolen to midnight interviews with him, leaving this house as a thief leaves it? That she has cast all modesty from her?"

"Do not, do not be too hard on her!" Sutton cried, his face flushing hotly. "Captain Clyne, I beg--I beg you to be merciful."

"It is she who is hard on herself! But have no fear," Clyne continued, in a voice cold as the winter fells and as pitiless. "I shall give her fifteen minutes to come to her senses and behave herself--not as a decent woman, I no longer ask that, but as a woman, any woman, the lowest, would behave herself, to save a child's life. And if she behaves herself--well. And if not, sir, it is not I who will punish her, but the law!"

"She will speak," the chaplain said. "I think she will speak--for you."

He was deeply and honestly concerned for the girl: and full of pity for her, though he did not understand her.

"But--suppose I saw her first?" he suggested. "Just for a few minutes? I could explain."

"Nothing that I cannot," Captain Clyne answered grimly. "And for a few minutes! Do you not consider," with a look of suspicion, "that there has been delay enough already? And too much! Fifteen minutes," with a recurrence of the bitter laugh, "she shall have, and not one minute more, if she were my sister!"

Mr. Sutton's face turned red again.

"Remember, sir," he said bravely, "that she was going to be your wife."

"I do remember it!" Clyne retorted with a withering glance. "And thank God for His mercy."