by G. A. Henty
CHAPTER XI.
THE COUP DE MAIN.
It was two o'clock in the morning; Miss Harmer was at her devotions.Half her nights were so spent. Not that she felt any more need forprayer than she had formerly done, nor that she had one moment's remorseor compunction concerning the course she had adopted; in that respectshe was in her own mind perfectly justified. He whom she had looked upto for so many years for counsel and advice, he who to her representedthe Church, had enjoined her to act as she had done, had assured herthat she was so acting for the good of the Church, and that its blessingand her eternal happiness were secured by the deed; and she did not foran instant doubt him. The only moment that she had wavered, the onlytime she had ever questioned whether she was doing right, was when PollyAshleigh had so vividly described the chamber, and when it had seemed toher that the secret was in the course of being revealed by dreams. Shethought it altogether natural and right that the estate of her Catholicancestors--the estate which her elder brother had actually devised tothe Church, and which had been only diverted from that destination bywhat she considered an actual interposition of the evil onehimself--should go as they had intended. So that she never questioned inher own mind the right or justice of the course she had taken.
Miss Harmer rose at night to pray, simply because she had been taught inthe stern discipline of the convent in which she had been brought up andmoulded to what she was, that it was right to pass a part of the nightin prayer, and she had never given up the custom. And, indeed, it wasnot merely from the force of custom that she made her devotions; for sheprayed, and prayed earnestly, and with all her strength, prayed for theincrease and triumph of the Church, that all nations and people might bebrought into its fold, and that God would show forth His might and powerupon its enemies. On this night she was more wakeful than usual, for thewind was blowing strongly round the old walls of Harmer Place, andsounded with a deep roar in its great chimneys. This was always pleasantmusic to her; for she, like her dead brothers, loved the roar and battleof the elements, and the fierce passionate spirit within her seemed toswell and find utterance in the burst of the storm.
Suddenly she paused in the midst of her devotions; for amidst the roarand shriek of the wind she thought she heard the wild cry of a person indistress. She listened awhile; there was no repetition of the sound, andagain she knelt, and tried to continue her prayers; but tried in vain:she could not divest herself of the idea that it was a human cry, andshe again rose to her feet. Stories she had heard of burglaries androbbers came across her. She knew that there was a good deal of valuableplate in the house; and then the thought, for the first time, occurredto her, that perhaps it was her sister's voice that she had heard. Shedid not hesitate an instant now, but went to a table placed against thebed on which lay two pistols: curious articles to be found in a lady'sbedroom, and that lady more than seventy years old. But Miss Harmer wasprepared for an emergency like this. For the last year Father Eustacehad been warning her of the danger of it; not perhaps that he had anyidea that a burglary would actually be attempted, but he wished to beresident in the house, and to this, with her characteristic obstinacywhen she had once made up her mind to anything, she refused to assent.The Harmers' chaplains she said never had been resident; there was ahouse in the village belonging to them, which they had built speciallyfor their chaplains to reside in, and which they had so inhabited formore than a hundred years, and she did not see why there should be anychange now. Father Eustace had urged that the sisters slept in a part ofthe building far removed from the domestics, and that if the house wereentered by burglars they might not be heard even if they screamed everso loud.
"I am not likely to scream, although I am an old woman," Miss Harmer hadanswered grimly; and the only result of Father Eustace's warning hadbeen, that Miss Harmer had ordered a brace of her brother's pistols tobe cleaned and loaded, and placed on the table at her bedside; and itwas the duty of the gardener to discharge and reload these pistols everyother morning, so that they might be in perfect order if required.
Miss Harmer's pistols were rather a joke among the servants; and yetthey all agreed that if the time ever did come when she would be calledupon to use them, the stern old woman would not hesitate or flinch for amoment in so doing.
So with a pistol in one hand, and a candle in the other, Miss Harmerwent out of her door and along the short corridor which led to hersister's bedroom--a strange gaunt figure, in a long white dress coveringher head--in fact a nun's attire, which she put on when she prayed atnight, and from underneath which the stiff white frills of her capbristled out strangely. She walked deliberately along, for she believedthat she was only deceiving herself, and that the cry which she hadthought she heard was only a wilder gust of wind among the trees. Whenshe reached her sister's door, she paused and listened. Then she startedback, for within she could hear low murmured words in men's voices, andthen a strange stifled cry: she hesitated but for one moment, todeliberate whether she should go back to fetch the other pistol--thenthat strange cry came up again, and she threw open the door and entered.She was prepared for something, but for nothing so terrible as met hereyes. The room was lighted by the two candles which still burned in alittle oratory at one end of the room before a figure of the Virgin; achair lay overturned near it, and it was evident that Angela Harmer had,like her sister, been engaged at her devotions when her assailants hadentered the room, and when she had given that one loud cry which had atlast brought her sister to her assistance. But all this Cecilia Harmerdid not notice then, her eyes were fixed on the group in the middle ofthe room.
There, in a chair, her sister was sitting, a man, standing behind it,held her there; another was leaning over her, doing something--what hersister could not see; a third stood near her, seemingly givingdirections; all had black masks over their faces.
Angela Harmer was a pitiful sight: her white nun's dress was all tornand disarranged; her cap was gone; her thin grey hair hung down hershoulders; her head and figure were dripping wet--she having faintedfrom pain and terror, and having been evidently recovered by pouring thecontents of the water-jug over her, for the empty jug lay on the groundat her feet. Her face was deadly pale with a ghastly expression ofterror and suffering, made even more horrible to see, by a redhandkerchief which one of the ruffians had stuffed into her mouth as agag.
It was a dreadful sight, and Miss Harmer gave a loud cry when she sawit. She rushed forward to her sister's aid, discharging as she did so,almost without knowing it, her pistol at the man nearest to her. As shefired, there was a volley of deep oaths and fierce exclamations; the onewho was holding Angela Harmer, with a jerk sent the chair in which shewas sitting backwards, bringing her head with fearful force against thefloor. There was a rush to the door; one of the robbers struck CeciliaHarmer a violent blow on the head with the butt end of a heavy pistolwhich he held in his hand, stretching her insensible on the ground; andthen the three men rushed downstairs, and through the hall window, bywhich they had entered; across the grounds--but more slowly now, for onewas lagging behind--and out into the road.
There in the lane a horse and light cart were standing, the horse tiedup to a gate. Two of them jumped at once into the cart. "Jump up, mate!"the shorter of the two said, and with the exception of fierce oaths ofdisappointment, it was the first word which had been spoken sinceCecilia Harmer had entered the room. "Jump up, mate! we have no time tolose."
"I can't," the man said; "that she-devil has done for me."
"You don't say that," the other said, getting out of the cart again. "Ithought she had touched you by the way you walked, but I fancied it wasa mere scratch. Where is it?"
"Through the body," the man said, speaking with difficulty now, for itwas only by the exercise of almost superhuman determination that he hadsucceeded in keeping up with the others.
"Well, you are a good plucked 'un, mate," the man said, admiringly."Here, Bill, lend me a hand to get him into the cart."
The other man got down, and the two lifted th
eir almost insensiblecompanion into the cart, laid him as tenderly as they could in the strawat the bottom, and then, jumping in themselves, drove off down the hillas fast as the horse could gallop. This speed they kept up until theywere close to Canterbury; and then they slackened it, and drove quietlythrough the town, not to excite the suspicions of such policemen as theypassed in the streets. When clear of the town, they again put the horseto his fullest speed. Once, after going three or four miles, they drewup, where a little stream ran under the road. Here one of them fetchedsome water, and sprinkled it on the face of the wounded man, who was nowinsensible. They then poured some spirits, from a flask one of themcarried, between his lips, and he presently opened his eyes and lookedround.
"Cheer up, mate; you will do yet," one said, in a tone of roughkindness.
The wounded man shook his head.
"Yes, yes, you will soon be all right again, and we shan't drive so fastnow we are quite safe. There, let's have a look at your wound."
They found that, as he had said, he was hit in the body. The wound hadalmost ceased bleeding now, and there was nothing to be done for it.With an ominous shake of the head, they remounted the cart, and drovegently on.
"This is a bad job, Bill."
"A ---- bad job," the other said, with an oath; "about as bad as I everhad a hand in. Who would have thought that old cat would have held outagainst that? I know I could not have done it."
"No, nor I either. I would have split on my own mother before I couldhave stood that. I am afraid it is all up with him," and he motionedtowards the man at the bottom of the cart.
The other nodded.
"What are we to do with him, Schoolmaster?"
"We must leave him at Parker's, where we got the cart. He can't be takenany farther. I will ask him." And he stopped the cart, and told thewounded man, who was conscious now, what they intended to do, and askedif he could suggest anything better.
He shook his head.
"He is a good fellow; he will make you comfortable, never you fear."
The man seemed now to want to ask a question, and The Schoolmasterleaned over him to catch the words.
"Did you take anything?"
The man hesitated a little.
"Well, mate, truth is I did. I grabbed a watch and chain, and a diamondcross, which were laying handy on the table."
The wounded man looked pleased.
"I am glad of that; they will think it is only a common burglary. Idon't think the woman will ever tell."
"I don't think she will," the other said, carelessly. "I expect it wastoo much for her, and Bill threw her over mortal hard. I thought it apity at the time, but I don't know now that it was not for the best. Theold fool, why did she give us all that trouble, when one word would havesettled the whole business."
"Do you think we are safe?" the wounded man asked.
"Safe! aye; we are safe enough. We shall drive into the place the sameside we went out, and no one will suspect us honest countrymen of beingLondon cracksmen."
Nor would any one have done so.
After passing through Canterbury, they had taken disguises from thebottom of the cart, and even had it been light no one would have guessedthey were not what they seemed--countrymen going into early market. Theshorter one was in a shooting jacket and gaiters, and looked like afarmer's son; the other had on a smock-frock and a red handkerchiefround his neck, and with his big slouching figure looked exactly like afarm labourer.
They drove along at a steady pace for another two hours. They had sometime since left the main road, to avoid the towns of Sittingbourne andChatham, and they were now in the lanes and byways skirting Rochester.The man called Bob was a native of Chatham, and knew all the countrywell. It was nearly six o'clock, and was still pitch dark, and sincethey had left Canterbury they had not met a single person.
In a short time they entered the highroad again, about a mile on theLondon side of Rochester, and turned their tired horse's head back againin the direction of that town. They kept along this till the lights ofRochester were close to them, and then turned again from the main roaddown a narrow lane, and stopped at a house about a hundred yards fromthe road.
The morning was beginning to break now, not giving much light, butsufficient to show that it was a small house standing in a yard, whichthe sense of smell, rather than sight, at once told to be a tanyard.
There was a gate in the wall, which was unfastened, for it yieldedeasily when one of the men got down from the cart and pushed it; he thenled the horse and cart in, and closed the gate after them, and thenknocked at the door of the house with his hand. In a minute or two aman's head appeared at an upper window.
"Is it you, boys?" he asked.
"All right, Parker; make haste and come down as quickly as you can."
The door was soon opened, and a man came out--a big man, with a notdishonest face, respectably dressed, and evidently the master of theplace.
"So you are come back?" he said. "I don't want to ask any questions, buthave you done well?"
"No," was the answer; "as bad as bad can be. Our mate has gothurt--badly hurt, too."
"Where is he?"
"In the cart."
The man gave a long whistle.
"The devil he is! This is a pretty kettle of fish, upon my word. What isto be done?"
"He must be left here, Parker,--that's the long and short of it. Thereis not the least fear of his being traced here; we have never seen asoul since we left Canterbury."
"I don't suppose there is much fear," the man said gruffly; "but if heshould be, I am done for."
"Not a bit of it, Parker; you have only to show the receipt we gave you,and stick to the story we agreed upon, and which happens to be true.Three men called upon you, and said that they wanted to hire a lightcart for a day, and that they heard you let one out sometimes. You toldthem that as you did not know them, you could not trust the horse withstrangers, and so they left thirty-five pounds in your hands assecurity,--that they brought back the cart in the morning, and said oneof their number had fallen out and got hurt, and that you agreed to lethim stay for a day or so till he got well; and that you did not find,till the other two men had left, that the one who remained had beenwounded by a bullet."
Here a slight groan from the cart called their attention to it.
"But what on earth am I to do with him?"
"Put him up in one of the garrets. You don't keep a servant; there willbe no one to know anything about it; and as for the pay, there istwenty-five pounds left in your hands, after taking the ten pounds forthe hire of the trap--that will be enough for you, won't it?"
"Aye, aye," the man said. "I am not thinking of the money. I would notdo it for ten times the money if I had the choice; as I have not, Iwould do it whether I am paid or not. The first thing is to get himupstairs."
Accordingly the three men lifted him out of the cart, and carried him ascarefully as they could upstairs, and laid him on a bed. The tanner thensummoned his wife, a respectable-looking woman, who was horrified at thesight of the pallid and nearly lifeless man upon the bed.
"Oh, William!" she said, bursting into tears, "and so it has come tothis! Did I not agree to stop with you only on the condition that youhad nothing more to do with this business beyond taking care of things,and keeping them hid till all search for them should be over? and didyou not give me your solemn oath that you would do nothing else?"
"No more I have, Nancy," the man said; "no more I have, girl. I have hadnothing to do with this job. I don't know what it is, or where it cameoff, no more than a babe, though no doubt we shall hear all about itsoon enough. But here the man has come home in our cart, and here hemust be, unless you want him put out into one of the sheds."
"No, no, William; we must do what we can for him, but that is littleenough. He looks dying, and he ought to have a doctor. But what can wesay to him?--how can we explain how he got hurt?--who can we trust? Oh,William, this is a bad business!" and the woman wrung her handsdespairingly.
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The wounded man made a slight movement, as if he would speak.
"What is it, mate?" the man called The Schoolmaster said, leaning overhim.
The wounded man murmured, with a great effort, the words--
"Dr. Ashleigh, Canterbury."
"Dr. Ashleigh, of Canterbury," the tanner said, when the other repeatedthe words aloud. "I have heard of him as a clever man and a kind one;but how can we trust in him more than another?"
The wounded man tried to nod his head several times to express that hemight be trusted.
"You are quite sure?" the tanner asked.
Strong and positive assent was again expressed.
"You know him?"
"Yes, yes."
"Will he come?"
"Yes," again.
"Well, it must be risked," the tanner said; "the man must not die like adog here, with no one to see after him. Perhaps when the ball is out hemay get round it yet. I will take my other horse, and ride over at once.I have been over there several times to buy bark, so there will benothing out of the way in it. Don't be uneasy," he said, kindly, to thewounded man. "You will be as safe here as you would be in your ownplace, and I will get the doctor to you before night. Now, boys, you goand put on the changes you brought down from London with you, and getoff by the next train. I will saddle up, and start at once. By the way,what name shall I say to the doctor?"
A sharp pang of pain passed over the wounded man's face.
"Come, Bill," The Schoolmaster said, with rough kindness, "we don't wantto hear the mate's name; so we will be off at once. Goodbye, mate. It isa bad job; but keep up your spirits, and you will soon get round again.You are a good plucked one, and that's all in your favour;" and the twomen, with this parting, went off to re-disguise themselves previous totheir starting for London.
The tanner again leant over the bed, and the wounded man said, with agreat effort, "Tell him Robert, Sophy's husband, is dying, and wants tospeak with him."
The tanner repeated the words over, to be sure he had them right; hethen, assisted by his wife, cut the clothes from Robert, so as to movehim as little as possible; they placed him carefully in the bed; and thetanner gave his wife instructions to give him a little weakbrandy-and-water from time to time, and a few spoonsful of broth in themiddle of the day, if he could take it. He then collected the clothesthat he had taken off Robert Gregory, carried them downstairs, andburned them piece by piece in the kitchen fire.
After that he went out into the yard. It was not a large yard, but therewere several pits with the skins lying in the tan, and there was a pileof oak bark in one corner. On one side of the yard was a long shed, inwhich some of the other processes were carried on; on the other side wasthe stable. The tanner next took out the straw from the cart, which wasall saturated with blood, and brought some fresh straw from the stable;this he mixed with it, making it into a pile, and fetching a brand fromthe fire, set it alight, and watched it until it was entirely consumed;he then scattered the ashes over the yard. Next he carefully washed thecart itself, put fresh straw into the bottom, wheeled it into the shed,and cleaned down the horse which had been out all night; and then,having put everything straight, he saddled the other horse, mounted it,and started for Canterbury.