Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman

by Stanley J Weyman

  However, for a time there was to be no galloping. Sir George when all were up took a lanthorn from the nearest man, and bidding one of the others run at his stirrup, led the way into the road, where he fell into a sharp trot, his servant and Mr. Fishwick following. The attorney bumped in his saddle, but kept his stirrups and gradually found his hands and eyesight. The trot brought them to Manton Corner and the empty house; where Sir George pulled up and dismounted. Giving his reins to the stable-boy, he thrust open the doors of the yard and entered, holding up his lanthorn, his spurs clinking on the stones and his skirts swaying.

  ‘But she — they cannot be here?’ the lawyer ejaculated, his teeth chattering.

  Sir George, busy stooping and peering about the yard, which was grass-grown and surrounded by walls, made no answer; and the other two, as well as Mr. Fishwick, wondered what he would be at. But in a moment they knew. He stooped and took up a small object, smelt it, and held it out to them. ‘What is that?’ he asked curtly.

  The stable-man who was holding his horse stared at it. ‘Negro-head, your honour,’ he said. ‘It is sailors’ tobacco.’

  ‘Who uses it about here?’

  ‘Nobody to my knowing.’

  ‘They are from Bristol, then,’ Soane answered. And then ‘Make way!’ he continued, addressing the other two who blocked the gateway; and springing into his saddle he pressed his horse between them, his stirrups dangling. He turned sharp to the left, and leaving the stable-man to stare after them, the lanthorn swaying in his hand, he led the way westward at the same steady trot.

  The chase had begun. More than that, Mr. Fishwick was beginning to feel the excitement of it; the ring of the horses’ shoes on the hard road, the rush of the night air past his ears exhilarated him. He began to feel confidence in his leader, and confidence breeds courage. Bristol? Then Bristol let it be. And then on top of this, his spirits being more composed, came a rush of rage and indignation at thought of the girl. The lawyer clutched his whip, and, reckless of consequences, dug his heels into his horse, and for the moment, in the heat of his wrath, longed to be up with the villains, to strike a blow at them. If his courage lasted, Mr. Fishwick might show them a man yet — when the time came!

  Trot-trot, trot-trot through the darkness under the stars, the trees black masses that shot up beside the road and vanished as soon as seen, the downs grey misty outlines that continually fenced them in and went with them; and always in the van Sir George, a grim silent shape with face set immovably forward. They worked up Fyfield hill, and thence, looking back, bade farewell to the faint light that hung above Marlborough. Dropping into the bottom they cluntered over the wooden bridge and by Overton steeple — a dim outline on the left — and cantering up Avebury hill eased their horses through Little Kennet. Gathering speed again they swept through Beckhampton village, where the Bath road falls off to the left, and breasting the high downs towards Yatesbury, they trotted on to Cheril.

  Here on the hills the sky hung low overhead, and the wind sweeping chill and drear across the upland was full of a melancholy soughing. The world, it seemed to one of them, was uncreate, gone, and non-existent; only this remained — the shadowy downs stretching on every side to infinity, and three shadowy riders plodding across them; all shadowy, all unreal until a bell-wether got up under the horses’ heads, and with a confused rush and scurry of feet a hundred Southdowns scampered into the grey unknown.

  Mr. Fishwick found it terrible, rugged, wild, a night foray. His heart began to sink again. He was sore too, sweating, and fit to drop from his saddle with the unwonted exertion.

  And what of Sir George, hurled suddenly out of his age and world — the age des philosophes, and the smooth world of White’s and Lord March — into this quagmire of feeling, this night of struggle upon the Wiltshire downs? A few hours earlier he had ridden the same road, and the prize he now stood in danger of losing had seemed — God forgive him! — of doubtful value. Now, as he thought of her, his heart melted in a fire of love and pity: of love that conjured up a thousand pictures of her eyes, her lips, her smile, her shape — all presently dashed by night and reality; of pity that swelled his breast to bursting, set his eyes burning and his brain throbbing — a pity near akin to rage.

  Even so, he would not allow himself to dwell on the worst. He had formed his opinion of the abduction; if it proved correct he believed that he should be in time to save her from that. But from the misery of suspense, of fear, of humiliation, from the touch of rough hands and the shame of coarse eyes, from these things — and alone they kindled his blood into flame — he was powerless to save her!

  Lady Dunborough could no longer have accused him of airs and graces. Breeding, habit, the custom of the gaming-table, the pride of caste availed to mask his passions under a veil of reserve, but were powerless to quell them. What was more remarkable, so set was he on the one object of recovering his mistress and putting an end to the state of terror in which he pictured her — ignorant what her fate would be, and dreading the worst — he gave hardly a thought to the astounding discovery which the lawyer had made to him. He asked him no questions, turned to him for no explanations. Those might come later; for the moment he thought not of his cousin, but of his mistress. The smiles that had brightened the dull passages of the inn, the figure that had glorified the quiet streets, the eyes that had now invited and now repelled him, these were become so many sharp thorns in his heart, so many goads urging him onward.

  It was nine when they saw the lights of Calne below them, and trotting and stumbling down the hill, clattered eagerly into the town. A moment’s delay in front of the inn, where their questions speedily gathered a crowd, and they had news of the chaise: it had passed through the town two hours before without changing horses. The canvas blinds were down or there were shutters; which, the ostler who gave them the information, could not say. But the fact that the carriage was closed had struck him, and together with the omission to take fresh horses, had awakened his suspicions.

  By the time this was told a dozen were round them, listening open-mouthed; and cheered by the lights and company Mr. Fishwick grew brave again. But Sir George allowed no respite: in five minutes they were clear of the houses and riding hard for Chippenham, the next stage on the Bristol road; Sir George’s horse cantering free, the lawyer’s groaning as it bumped across Studley bridge and its rider caught the pale gleam of the water below. On through the village they swept, past Brumhill Lane-end, thence over the crest where the road branches south to Devizes, and down the last slope. The moon rose as they passed the fourth milestone out of Calne; another five minutes and they drew up, the horses panting and hanging their heads, in the main street of Chippenham.

  A coach — one of the night coaches out of Bristol — was standing before the inn, the horses smoking, the lamps flaring cheerfully, a crowd round it; the driver had just unbuckled his reins and flung them either way. Sir George pushed his horse up to the splinter-bar and hailed him, asking whether he had met a closed chaise and four travelling Bristol way at speed.

  ‘A closed chaise and four?’ the man answered, looking down at the party; and then recognising Sir George, ‘I beg your honour’s pardon,’ he said. ‘Here, Jeremy,’ to the guard — while the stable-man and helpers paused to listen or stared at the heaving flanks of the riders’ horses— ‘did we meet a closed chaise and four to-night?’

  ‘We met a chaise and four at Cold Aston,’ the guard answered, ruminating. ‘But ’twas Squire Norris’s of Sheldon, and there was no one but the Squire in it. And a chaise and four at Marshfield, but that was a burying party from Batheaston, going home very merry. No other, closed or open, that I can mind, sir, this side of Dungeon Cross, and that is but two miles out of Bristol.’

  ‘They are an hour and a half in front of us!’ Sir George cried eagerly. ‘Will a guinea improve your memory?’

  Ay, sir, but ‘twon’t make it,’ the coachman answered, grinning. ‘Jeremy is right. I mind no others. What will your honour want with them?
’

  ‘They have carried off a young lady!’ Mr. Fishwick cried shrilly. ‘Sir George’s kinswoman!’

  ‘To be sure?’ ejaculated the driver, amid a murmur of astonishment; and the crowd which had grown since their arrival pressed nearer to listen. ‘Where from, sir, if I may make so bold?’

  ‘From the Castle at Marlborough.’

  Dear me, dear me, there is audaciousness, if you like! And you ha’ followed them so far, sir?’

  Sir George nodded and turned to the crowd. ‘A guinea for news!’ he cried. ‘Who saw them go through Chippenham!’

  He had not long to wait for the answer. ‘They never went through Chipnam!’ a thick voice hiccoughed from the rear of the press.

  ‘They came this way out of Calne,’ Sir George retorted, singling the speaker out, and signing to the people to make way that he might get at him.

  ‘Ay, but they never — came to Chipnam,’ the fellow answered, leering at him with drunken wisdom. ‘D’you see that, master?’

  ‘Which way, then?’ Soane cried impatiently. ‘Which way did they go?’

  But the man only lurched a step nearer. ‘That’s telling!’ he said with a beery smile. ‘You want to be — as wise as I be!’

  Jeremy, the guard, seized him by the collar and shook him. ‘You drunken fool!’ he said. ‘D’ye know that this is Sir George Soane of Estcombe? Answer him, you swine, or you’ll be in the cage in a one, two!’

  ‘You let me be,’ the man whined, straggling to release himself. ‘It’s no business of yours,’ Let me be, master!’

  Sir George raised his whip in his wrath, but lowered it again with a groan. ‘Can no one make him speak?’ he said, looking round. The man was staggering and lurching in the guard’s grasp.

  ‘His wife, but she is to Marshfield, nursing her sister,’ answered one. ‘But give him his guinea, Sir George. ‘Twill save time maybe.’

  Soane flung it to him. ‘There!’ he said. ‘Now speak!’

  ‘That’sh better,’ the man muttered. ‘That’s talking! Now I’ll tell you. You go back to Devizes Corner — corner of the road to De-vizes — you understand? There was a car — car — carriage there without lights an hour back. It was waiting under the hedge. I saw it, and I — I know what’s what!’

  Sir George flung a guinea to the guard, and wheeled his horse about. In the act of turning his eye fell on the lawyer’s steed, which, chosen for sobriety rather than staying powers, was on the point of foundering. ‘Get another,’ he cried, ‘and follow!’

  Mr. Fishwick uttered a wail of despair. To be left to follow — to follow alone, in the dark, through unknown roads, with scarce a clue and on a strange horse — the prospect might have appalled a hardier soul. He was saved from it by Sir George’s servant, a stolid silent man, who might be warranted to ride twenty miles without speaking. ‘Here, take mine, sir,’ he said. ‘I must stop to get a lanthorn; we shall need one now. Do you go with his honour.’

  Mr. Fishwick slid down and was hoisted into the other’s saddle. By the time this was done Sir George was almost lost in the gloom eat the farther end of the street. But anything rather than be left behind. The lawyer laid on his whip in a way that would have astonished him a few hours before, and overtook his leader as he emerged from the town. They rode without speaking until they had retraced their steps to the foot of the hill, and could discern a little higher on the ascent the turn for Devizes.

  It is possible that Sir George hoped to find the chaise still lurking in the shelter of the hedge; for as he rode up to the corner he drew a pistol from his holster, and took his horse by the head. If so, he was disappointed. The moon had risen high and its cold light disclosed the whole width of the roadway, leaving no place in which even a dog could lie hidden. Nor as far as the eye could travel along the pale strip of road that ran southward was any movement or sign of life.

  Sir George dropped from his saddle, and stooping, sought for proof of the toper’s story. He had no difficulty in finding it. There were the deep narrow ruts which the wheels of a chaise, long stationary, had made in the turf at the side of the road; and south of them was a plat of poached ground where the horses had stood and shifted their feet uneasily. He walked forward, and by the moonlight traced the dusty indents of the wheels until they exchanged the sward for the hard road. There they were lost in other tracks, but the inference was plain. The chaise had gone south to Devizes.

  For the first time Sir George felt the full horror of uncertainty. He climbed into his saddle and sat looking across the waste with eyes of misery, asking himself whither and for what? Whither had they taken her, and why? The Bristol road once left, his theory was at fault; he had no clue, and felt, where time was life and more than life, the slough of horrible conjecture rise to his very lips.

  Only one thing, one certain thing remained — the road; the pale ribbon running southward under the stars. He must cling to that. The chaise had gone that way, and though the double might be no more than a trick to throw pursuers off the trail, though the first dark lane, the first roadside tavern, the first farmhouse among the woods might have swallowed the unhappy girl and the wretches who held her in their power, what other clue had he? What other chance but to track the chaise that way, though every check, every minute of uncertainty, of thought, of hesitation — and a hundred such there must be in a tithe of the miles — racked him with fears and dreadful surmises?

  There was no other. The wind sweeping across the hill on the western extremity of which he stood, looking over the lower ground about the Avon, brought the distant howl of a dog to his ears, and chilled his blood heated with riding. An owl beating the coverts for mice sailed overhead; a hare rustled through the fence. The stars above were awake; in the intense silence of the upland he could almost hear the great spheres throb as they swept through space! But the human world slept, and while it slept what work of darkness might not be doing? That scream, shrill and ear-piercing, that suddenly rent the night — thank God, it was only a rabbit’s death-cry, but it left the sweat on his brow! After that he could, he would, wait for nothing and no man. Lanthorn or no lanthorn, he must be moving. He raised his whip, then let it fall again as his ear caught far away the first faint hoof-beats of a horse travelling the road at headlong speed.

  The sound was very distant at first, but it grew rapidly, and presently filled the night. It came from the direction of Chippenham. Mr. Fishwick, who had not dared to interrupt his companion’s calculations, heard the sound with relief; and looking for the first gleam of the lanthorn, wondered how the servant, riding at that pace, kept it alight, and whether the man had news that he galloped so furiously. But Sir George sat arrested in his saddle, listening, listening intently; until the rider was within a hundred yards or less. Then, as his ear told him that the horse was slackening, he seized Mr. Fishwick’s rein, and backing their horses nearer the hedge, once more drew a pistol from his holster.

  The startled lawyer discerned what he did, looked in his face, and saw that his eyes were glittering with excitement. But having no ear for hoof-beats Mr. Fishwick did not understand what was afoot, until the rider appeared at the road-end, and coming plump upon them, drew rein.

  Then Sir George’s voice rang out, stern and ominous. ‘Good evening, Mr. Dunborough,’ he said, and raised his hat. ‘Well met! We are travelling the same road, and, if you please, will do the rest of our journey together.’

  CHAPTER XIX

  AN UNWILLING ALLY

  Under the smoothness of Sir George’s words, under the subtle mockery of his manner, throbbed a volcano of passion and vengeance. But this was for the lawyer only, even as he alone saw the moonlight gleam faintly on the pistol barrel that lurked behind his companion’s thigh. For Mr. Dunborough, it would be hard to imagine a man more completely taken by surprise. He swore one great oath, for he saw, at least, that the meeting boded him 110 good; then he sat motionless in his saddle, his left hand on the pommel, his right held stiffly by his side. The moon, which of the two hung
a little at Sir George’s back, shone only on the lower part of Dunborough’s face, and by leaving his eyes in the shadow of his hat, gave the others to conjecture what he would do next. It is probable that Sir George, whose hand and pistol were ready, was indifferent; perhaps would have hailed with satisfaction an excuse for vengeance. But Mr. Fishwick, the pacific witness of this strange meeting, awaited the issue with staring eyes, his heart in his mouth; and was mightily relieved when the silence, which the heavy breathing of Mr. Dunborough’s horse did but intensify, was broken on the last comer’s side, by nothing worse than a constrained laugh.

  ‘Travel together?’ he said, with an awkward assumption of jauntiness, ‘that depends on the road we are going.’

  ‘Oh, we are going the same road,’ Sir George answered, in the mocking tone he had used before.

  ‘You are very clever,’ Mr. Dunborough retorted, striving to hide his uneasiness; ‘but if you know that, sir, you have the advantage of me.’

  ‘I have,’ said Sir George, and laughed rudely.

  Dunborough stared, finding in the other’s manner fresh cause for misgiving. At last, ‘As you please,’ he said contemptuously. ‘I am for Calne. The road is public. You may travel by it.’

  ‘We are not going to Calne,’ said Sir George.

  Mr. Dunborough swore. ‘You are d —— d impertinent!’ he said, reining back his horse, ‘and may go to the devil your own way. For me, I am going to Calne.’

  ‘No,’ said Sir George, ‘you are not going to Calne. She has not gone Calne way.’