Starvecrow Farm Part 23

"Well, she has not told yet, or they had been here," Bess answered.

"But she may speak--by-and-by."

"Curse her!"

"And that is why I am not so sorry your folks are coming," she continued, with a queer look at him. "If they'll help us, we'll stop her mouth. And she'll not speak now, nor by-and-by."

He looked up, startled.

"You don't mean--no!" he cried sharply, "I'll not have it."

"Bless her pretty, white fingers!" she murmured.

"I'll not have her hurt!" he repeated, with vehemence. "I've done her harm enough."

"Not so much harm as you would have done her, if you'd had your way!"

she replied. And her face grew hard. "But now she's to be sacred, is she? Her ladys.h.i.+p's pretty, white fingers are not to be pinched--if you swing for it! Very well! It's your neck will be pulled, not mine."

He fidgeted on his stool, but he did not answer. His eyes roved round the bare miserable room, with its low ceiling, its deep shadows, and its squalor. At last:

"What do you mean?" he asked querulously. "Why can't you speak plain?"

"I thought I had spoken plain enough," she replied. "But if she's not to be touched, there's an end of it."

"What would you do?"

"What I said--shut her mouth."

He shuddered and his face, already sallow from long confinement, grew greyer.

"No," he said, "I'll not do it."

She laughed in scorn of him.

"I don't mean that," she said. "I would get her into our hands, hold her fast, stow her somewhere where she'll not speak! Maybe in Tyson's hiding-hole. She'll catch a cold, but what of that? 'Twill be no worse for her than for you, if you've to go there. And the men may be a bit rough with her," Bess continued, with a malignant smile, while her eyes scrutinized his face, "I'll not forbid them, for I don't love her, and I'd like well to see her brought down a bit! But we'll not squeeze her pretty throat, if that is what you had in your mind."

He s.h.i.+vered.

"I wouldn't trust you!" he muttered.

She laughed as if he paid her a compliment.

"Wouldn't you, lad?" she said. "Well, perhaps not. I'd not be sorry to spoil her beauty. But the men--men are such fools--'ll be rather for kissing than killing!"

"All the same, I don't like it," he muttered.

"You'll like hanging less!" she retorted.

He felt, he knew that he played a sorry part. But it was not he who had brought Henrietta to the house, it was fate. It was not his fault that she had seen him; it was his misfortune. Could he be expected to surrender his life to spare her a little fright, a trifling inconvenience, an inconsiderable risk? Why should he? Would she do it for him? On the contrary, he recalled the look of horror which she had bent on him; she who had so lately laid her head on his shoulder, had listened to his blandishments, had thought him perfect. He was vain, and that hardened him.

"I don't see how you'll do it," he said slowly.

"Leave that to me," Bess answered. "Or rather, do what I tell you--and the bird will come to the whistle, my lad!"

"What'll you do?"

She told him, and when she had told him she put before him pen and ink and paper; the pen and ink and paper which had been obtained that he might write to Thistlewood. But when it came to details and he knew what he was to write and what lure to throw out, he flung the pen from him. He told her angrily that he would not do it. After all, Henrietta had believed in him, had trusted him, had given up all for him.

"I'll not do it," he repeated. "I'll not do it! You want to do the girl a mischief!"

She flared up at that.

"Then you'll hang!" she cried brutally, hurling the words at him.

"And, thank G.o.d, it will be she will hang you! Why, you fool," she continued vehemently, "you were for doing her a worse turn, just to please yourself! And not a scruple!"

"No matter," he answered, thrusting his hands in his pockets and looking sullenly before him. "I'll not do it!"

Her face was dark with anger, and cruel. What is more cruel than jealousy?

"And that is your last word?" she cried.

He scowled at the table, aware in his heart that he would yield. For he knew--and he resented the knowledge--that he and Bess were changing places; that the upper hand which knowledge and experience and a fluent tongue had given him was pa.s.sing to her for whom Nature intended it. The weak will was yielding, the strong will was a.s.serting itself. And she knew it also; and in her jealousy she was no longer for humouring him. Brusquely she pushed together the pen and ink and paper.

"Very good," she said. "If that is your last word, be it so; I've done!"

But "Wait!" he protested feebly. "You are so hasty."

"Wait?" she retorted. "What for? What is the use? Are you going to do it?"

He fidgeted on his stool.

"I suppose so," he muttered at last. "Curse you, you won't listen to what a man says."

"You are going to do it?"

He nodded.

"Then why not say so at once?" she answered. "There, my lad," she continued, thrusting the writing things before him, "short and sweet, as n.o.body knows better how to do it than yourself! Half a dozen lines will do the trick as well as twenty."

To his credit be it said, he threw down the pen more than once, sickened by the task which she set him. But she chid, she cajoled, she coaxed him; and grimly added the pains she was at to the account of her rival. In the end, after a debate upon time and place, in which he was all for procrastination--feeling as if in some way that salved his conscience--the letter was written and placed in her hands.

Then "What sort is this Thistlewood?" she asked. "A gentleman?"

"You wouldn't know, one way or the other," he answered, with ill-humour.

"Maybe not," she replied; "but would you call him one?"

"He's been an officer, and he's been to America, and he's been to France. I don't suppose," looking round him with currish scorn, "that he's ever been in such a hole as this!"