The person he addressed was about to reply when an agitated figure, wig awry, cravat loosened, eyes staring, forced itself through the crowd, and, flinging itself on Sir George, clutched him by the open breast of his green riding-coat. It was Mr. Fishwick, but Mr. Fishwick transfigured by a great fright, his face grey, his cheeks trembling. For a moment such was his excitement he could not speak. Then ‘Where is she?’ he stuttered, almost shaking Sir George on his feet. ‘What have you done with her, you — you villain?’ Soane, with misgivings gnawing at his heart, was in no patient mood. In a blaze of passion he flung the attorney from him. ‘You madman!’ he said; ‘what idiocy is this?’
Mr. Fishwick fell heavily against a stout gentleman in splashed boots and an old-fashioned Ramillies, who fortunately for the attorney, blocked the way to the wall. Even so the shock was no light one. But, breathless and giddy as he was the lawyer returned instantly to the charge. ‘I denounce you!’ he cried furiously. ‘I denounce this man! You, and you,’ he continued, appealing with frantic gestures to those next him, ‘mark what I say! She is the claimant to his estates — estates he holds on sufferance! To-morrow justice would have been done, and to-night he has kidnapped her. All he has is hers, I tell you, and he has kidnapped her. I denounce him! I—’
‘What Bedlam stuff is this?’ Sir George cried hoarsely; and he looked round the ring of curious starers, the sweat standing on his brow. Every eye in the hall was upon him, and there was a great silence; for the accusation to which the lawyer gave tongue had been buzzed and bruited since the first cry of alarm roused the house. ‘What stuff is this?’ he repeated, his head giddy with the sense of that which Mr. Fishwick had said. ‘Who — who is it has been kidnapped? Speak! D — n you! Will no one speak?’
‘Your cousin,’ the lawyer answered. ‘Your cousin, who claims—’
‘Softly, man — softly,’ said the landlord, coming forward and laying his hand on the lawyer’s shoulder. ‘And we shall the sooner know what to do. Briefly, Sir George,’ he continued, ‘the young lady who has been in your company the last day or two was seized and carried off in a post-chaise half an hour ago, as I am told — maybe a little more — from Manton Corner. For the rest, which this gentleman says, about who she is and her claim — which it does not seem to me can be true and your honour not know it — it is news to me. But, as I understand it, Sir George, he alleges that the young lady who has disappeared lays claim to your honour’s estates at Estcombe.’
‘At Estcombe?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Sir George did not reply, but stood staring at the man, his mind divided between two thoughts. The first that this was the solution of the many things that had puzzled him in Julia; at once the explanation of her sudden amiability, her new-born forwardness, the mysterious fortune into which she had come, and of her education and her strange past. She was his cousin, the unknown claimant! She was his cousin, and —
He awoke with a start, dragged away by the second thought — hard following on the first. ‘From Manton Corner?’ he cried, his voice keen, his eye terrible. ‘Who saw it?’
‘One of the servants,’ the landlord answered, ‘who had gone to the top of the Mound to clean the mirrors in the summer-house. Here, you,’ he continued, beckoning to a man who limped forward reluctantly from one of the side passages in which he had been standing, ‘show yourself, and tell this gentleman the story you told me.’
‘If it please your honour,’ the fellow whimpered, ‘it was no fault of mine. I ran down to give the alarm as soon as I saw what was doing — they were forcing her into the carriage then — but I was in such a hurry I fell and rolled to the bottom of the Mound, and was that dazed and shaken it was five minutes before I could find any one.’
‘How many were there?’ Sir George asked. There was an ugly light in his eyes and his cheeks burned. But he spoke with calmness.
‘Two I saw, and there may have been more. The chaise had been waiting in the yard of the empty house at the corner, the old Nag’s Head. I saw it come out. That was the first thing I did see. And then the lady.’
‘Did she seem to be unwilling?’ the man in the Ramillies asked. ‘Did she scream?’
‘Ay, she screamed right enough,’ the fellow answered lumpishly. ‘I heard her, though the noise came faint-like. It is a good distance, your honour’ll mind, and some would not have seen what I saw.’
‘And she struggled?’
‘Ay, sir, she did. They were having a business with her when I left, I can tell you.’
The picture was too much for Sir George. Gripping the landlord’s shoulder so fiercely that Smith winced and cried out, ‘And you have heard this man,’ he said, ‘and you chatter here? Fools! This is no matter for words, but for horses and pistols! Get me a horse and pistols — and tell my servant. Are you so many dolls? D — n you, sir’ — this to Mr. Fishwick— ‘stand out of my way!’
CHAPTER XVII
MR. FISHWICK, THE ARBITER
Mr. Fishwick, who had stepped forward with a vague notion of detaining him, fell back. Sir George’s stern aspect, which bore witness to the passions that raged in a heart at that moment cruelly divided, did not encourage interference; and though one or two muttered, no one moved. There is little doubt that he would have passed out without delay, mounted, and gone in pursuit — with what result in the direction of altering the issue, it is impossible to state — if an obstacle had not been cast in his way by an unexpected hand.
In every crowd, the old proverb has it, there are a knave and a fool. Between Sir George bursting with passion, and the door by which he had entered and to which he turned, stood Lady Dunborough. Her ladyship had been one of the first to hear the news and to take the alarm; it is safe to say, also, that for obvious reasons — and setting aside the lawyer and Sir George — she was of all present the person most powerfully affected by the news of the outrage. But she had succeeded in concealing alike her fears and her interest; she had exclaimed with others — neither more nor less; and had hinted, in common with three-fourths of the ladies present, that the minx’s cries were forced, and her bonne fortune sufficiently to her mind. In a word she had comported herself so fitly that if there was one person in the hall whose opinion was likely to carry weight, as being coolly and impartially formed, it was her ladyship.
When she stepped forward therefore, and threw herself between Sir George and the door — still more when, with an intrepid gesture, she cried ‘Stay, sir; we have not done with you yet,’ there was a sensation. As the crowd pressed up to see and hear what passed, her accusing finger pointed steadily to Sir George’s breast. ‘What is that you have there?’ she continued. ‘That which peeps from your breast pocket, sir?’
Sir George, who, furious as he was, could go no farther without coming in contact with her ladyship, smothered an oath. ‘Madam,’ he said, ‘let me pass.’
‘Not until you explain how you came by that fan,’ she answered sturdily; and held her ground.
‘Fan?’ he cried savagely. ‘What fan?’
Unfortunately the passions that had swept through his mind during the last few minutes, the discovery he had made, and the flood of pity that would let him think of nothing but the girl — the girl carried away screaming and helpless, a prey to he knew not whom — left in his mind scant room for trifles. He had clean forgotten the fan. But the crowd gave him no credit for this; and some murmured, and some exchanged glances, when he asked ‘What fan?’ Still more when my lady rejoined, ‘The fan in your breast,’ and drew it out and all saw it, was there a plain and general feeling against him.
Unheeding, he stared at the fan with grief-stricken eyes. ‘I picked it up in the road,’ he muttered, as much to himself as to them.
‘It is hers?’
‘Yes,’ he said, holding it reverently. ‘She must have dropped it — in the struggle!’ And then ‘My God!’ he continued fiercely, the sight of the fan bringing the truth more vividly before him, ‘Let me pass! Or I shall be doing some one a mi
schief! Madam, let me pass, I say!’
His tone was such that an ordinary woman must have given way to him; but the viscountess had her reasons for being staunch. ‘No,’ she said stoutly, ‘not until these gentlemen have heard more. You have her fan, which she took out an hour ago. She went to meet you — that we know from this person’ — she indicated Mr. Fishwick; ‘and to meet you at your request. The time, at sunset, the place, the corner of Manton Lane. And what is the upshot? At that corner, at sunset, persons and a carriage were waiting to carry her off. Who besides you knew that she would be there?’ Lady Dunborough continued, driving home the point with her finger. ‘Who besides you knew the time? And that being so, as soon as they are safely away with her, you walk in here with an innocent face and her fan in your pocket, and know naught about it! For shame! for shame! Sir George! You will have us think we see the Cock Lane Ghost next. For my part,’ her ladyship continued ironically, ‘I would as soon believe in the rabbit-woman.’
‘Let me pass, madam,’ Sir George cried between his teeth. ‘If you were not a woman—’
‘You would do something dreadful,’ Lady Dunborough answered mockingly. ‘Nevertheless, I shall be much mistaken, sir, if some of these gentlemen have not a word to say in the matter.’
Her ladyship’s glance fell, as she spoke, on the stout red-faced gentleman in the splashed boots and Ramillies, who had asked two questions of the servant; and who, to judge by the attention with which he followed my lady’s words, was not proof against the charm which invests a viscountess. If she looked at him with intention, she reckoned well; for, as neatly as if the matter had been concerted between them, he stepped forward and took up the ball.
‘Sir George,’ he said, puffing out his cheeks, ‘her ladyship is quite right. I — I am sorry to interfere, but you know me, and what my position is on the Rota. And I do not think I can stand by any longer — which might be adaerere culpae. This is a serious case, and I doubt I shall not be justified in allowing you to depart without some more definite explanation. Abduction, you know, is not bailable. You are a Justice yourself, Sir George, and must know that. If this person therefore — who I understand is an attorney — desires to lay a sworn information, I must take it.’
‘In heaven’s name, sir,’ Soane cried desperately, ‘take it! Take what you please, but let me take the road.’
‘Ah, but that is what I doubt, sir, I cannot do,’ the Justice answered. ‘Mark you, there is motive, Sir George, and praesentia in loco,’ he continued, swelling with his own learning. ‘And you have a partem delicti on you. And, moreover, abduction is a special kind of case, seeing that if the participes criminis are free the femme sole, sometimes called the femina capta, is in greater danger. In fact, it is a continuing crime. An information being sworn therefore—’
‘It has not been sworn yet!’ Sir George retorted fiercely. ‘And I warn you that any one who lays a hand on me shall rue it. God, man!’ he continued, horror in his voice, ‘cannot you understand that while you prate here they are carrying her off, and that time is everything?’
‘Some persons have gone in pursuit,’ the landlord answered with intent to soothe.
‘Just so; some persons have gone in pursuit,’ the Justice echoed with dull satisfaction. ‘And you, if you went, could do no more than they can do. Besides, Sir George, the law must be obeyed. The sole point is’ — he turned to Mr. Fishwick, who through all had stood by, his face distorted by grief and perplexity— ‘do you wish, sir, to swear the information?’
Mrs. Masterson had fainted at the first alarm and been carried to her room. Apart from her, it is probable that only Sir George and Mr. Fishwick really entered into the horror of the girl’s position, realised the possible value of minutes, or felt genuine and poignant grief at what had occurred. On the decision of one of these two the freedom of the other now depended, and the conclusion seemed foregone. Ten minutes earlier Mr. Fishwick, carried away by the first sight of Sir George, and by the rage of an honest man who saw a helpless woman ruined, had been violent enough; Soane’s possession of the fan — not then known to him — was calculated to corroborate his suspicions. The Justice in appealing to him felt sure of support; and was much astonished when Mr. Fishwick, in place of assenting, passed his hand across his brow, and stared at the speaker as if he had suddenly lost the power of speech.
In truth, the lawyer, harried by the expectant gaze of the room, and the Justice’s impatience, was divided between a natural generosity, which was one of his oddities, and a suspicion born of his profession. He liked Sir George; his smaller manhood went out in admiration to the other’s splendid personality. On the other hand, he had viewed Soane’s approaches to his client with misgiving. He had scented a trap here and a bait there, and a dozen times, while dwelling on Dr. Addington’s postponements and delays, he had accused the two of collusion and of some deep-laid chicanery. Between these feelings he had now to decide, and to decide in such a tumult of anxiety and dismay as almost deprived him of the power to think.
On the one hand, the evidence and inferences against Sir George pressed him strongly. On the other, he had seen enough of the futile haste of the ostlers and stable-helps, who had gone in pursuit, to hope little from them; while from Sir George, were he honest, everything was to be expected. In his final decision we may believe what he said afterwards, that he was determined by neither of these considerations, but by his old dislike of Lady Dunborough! For after a long silence, during which he seemed to be a dozen times on the point of speaking and as often disappointed his audience, he announced his determination in that sense. ‘No, sir; I — I will not!’ he stammered, ‘or rather I will not — on a condition.’
‘Condition!’ the Justice growled, in disgust.
‘Yes,’ the lawyer answered staunchly; ‘that Sir George, if he be going in pursuit of them, permit me to go with him. I — I can ride, or at least I can sit on a horse,’ Mr. Fishwick continued bravely; ‘and I am ready to go.’
‘Oh, la!’ said Lady Dunborough, spitting on the floor — for there were ladies who did such things in those days— ‘I think they are all in it together. And the fair cousin too! Cousin be hanged!’ she added with a shrill ill-natured laugh; ‘I have heard that before.’
But Sir George took no notice of her words. ‘Come, if you choose,’ he cried, addressing the lawyer. ‘But I do not wait for you. And now, madam, if your interference is at an end—’
‘And what if it is not?’ she cried, insolently grimacing in his face. She had gained half an hour, and it might save her son. To persist farther might betray him, yet she was loth to give way. ‘What if it is not?’ she repeated.
‘I go out by the other door,’ Sir George answered promptly, and, suiting the action to the word, he turned on his heel, strode through the crowd, which subserviently made way for him, and in a twinkling he had passed through the garden door, with Mr. Fishwick, hat in hand, hurrying at his heels.
The moment they were gone, the babel, suppressed while the altercation lasted, rose again, loud as before. It is not every day that the busiest inn or the most experienced traveller has to do with an elopement, to say nothing of an abduction. While a large section of the ladies, seated together in a corner, tee-hee’d and tossed their heads, sneered at Miss and her screams, and warranted she knew all about it, and had her jacket and night-rail in her pocket, another party laid all to Sir George, swore by the viscountess, and quoted the masked uncle who made away with his nephew to get his estate. One or two indeed — and, if the chronicler is to be candid, one or two only, out of as many scores — proved that they possessed both imagination and charity. These sat apart, scared and affrighted by their thoughts; or stared with set eyes and flushed faces on the picture they would fain have avoided. But they were young and had seen little of the world.
On their part the men talked fast and loud, at one time laughed, and at another dropped a curse — their form of pity; quoted the route and the inns, and weighed the chances of Devizes or Bat
h, Bristol or Salisbury; vaguely suggested highwaymen, an old lover, Mrs. Cornelys’ ballet; and finally trooped out to stand in the road and listen, question the passers-by, and hear what the parish constable had to say of it. All except one very old man, who kept his seat and from time to time muttered, ‘Lord, what a shape she had! What a shape she had!’ until he dissolved in maudlin tears.
Meanwhile a woman lay upstairs, tossing in passionate grief and tended by servants; who, more pitiful than their mistresses, stole to her to comfort her. And three men rode steadily along the western road.
CHAPTER XVIII
THE PURSUIT
The attorney was brave with a coward’s great bravery; he was afraid, but he went on. As he climbed into his saddle in the stable-yard, the muttering ostlers standing round, and the yellow-flaring light of the lanthorns stretching fingers into the darkness, he could have wept for himself. Beyond the gates and the immediate bustle of the yard lay night, the road, and dimly-guessed violences; the meeting of man with man, the rush to grips under some dark wood, or where the moonlight fell cold on the heath. The prospect terrified; at the mere thought the lawyer dropped the reins and nervously gathered them. And he had another fear, and one more immediate. He was no horseman, and he trembled lest Sir George, the moment the gates were passed, should go off in a reckless gallop. Already he felt his horse heave and sidle under him, in a fashion that brought his heart into his mouth; and he was ready to cry for quarter. But the absurdity of the request where time was everything, the journey black earnest, and its issue life and death, struck him, and heroically he closed his mouth. Yet, at the remembrance that these things were, he fell into a fresh panic.
Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman Page 308