That settled, not a word was said, for who could give any comfort? Now and then, as they plodded up the hill beyond Kingsdown, the servant uttered a low curse and Sir George groaned, while Mr. Fishwick sighed in sheer exhaustion. It was a strange and dreary position for men whose ordinary lives ran through the lighted places of the world. The wind swept sadly over the dark fields. The mud clung to the squelching, dragging boots; now Mr. Fishwick was within an ace of the ditch on one side, now on the other, and now he brought up heavily against one of his companions. At length the servant gave him an arm, and thus linked together they reached the crest of the hill, and after taking a moment to breathe, began the descent.
They were within two or three hundred paces of Bathford and the bridge over the Avon when the servant cried out that some one was awake in the village, for he saw a light. A little nearer and all saw the light, which grew larger as they approached but was sometimes obscured. Finally, when they were within a hundred yards of it, they discovered that it proceeded not from a window but from a lanthorn set down in the village street, and surrounded by five or six persons whose movements to and fro caused the temporary eclipses they noticed. What the men were doing was not at once clear; but in the background rose the dark mass of a post-chaise, and seeing that — and one other thing — Sir George uttered a low exclamation and felt for his hilt.
The other thing was Mr. Dunborough, who, seated at his ease on the step of the post-chaise, appeared to be telling a story, while he nursed his injured arm. His audience, who seemed to have been lately roused from their beds — for they were half-dressed — were so deeply engrossed in what he was narrating that the approach of our party was unnoticed; and Sir George was in the middle of the circle, his hand on the speaker’s shoulder, and his point at his breast, before a man could move in his defence.
‘You villain!’ Soane cried, all the misery, all the labour, all the fears of the night turning his blood to fire, ‘you shall pay me now! Let a man stir, and I will spit you like the dog you are! Where is she? Where is she? For, by Heaven, if you do not give her up, I will kill you with my own hand!’
Mr. Dunborough, his eyes on the other’s face, laughed.
That laugh startled Sir George more than the fiercest movement, the wildest oath. His point wavered and dropped. ‘My God!’ he cried, staring at Dunborough. ‘What is it? What do you mean?’
‘That is better,’ Mr. Dunborough said, nodding complacently but not moving a finger. ‘Keep to that and we shall deal.’
‘What is it, man? What does it mean?’ Sir George repeated. He was all of a tremble and could scarcely stand.
‘Better and better,’ said Mr. Dunborough, nodding his approval. ‘Keep to that, and your mouth shut, and you shall know all that I know. It is precious little at best. I spurred and they spurred, I spurred and they spurred — there you have it. When I got up and shouted to them to stop, I suppose they took me for you and thought I should stick to them and take them in Bath. So they put on the pace a bit, and drew ahead as they came to the houses here, and then began to pull in, recognising me as I thought. But when I came up, fit and ready to curse their heads off for giving me so much trouble, the fools had cut the leaders’ traces and were off with them, and left me the old rattle-trap there.’
Sir George’s face lightened; he took two steps forward and laid his hand on the chaise door.
‘Just so,’ said Mr. Dunborough nodding coolly. ‘That was my idea. I did the same. But, Lord, what their game is I don’t know! It was empty.’
‘Empty!’ Sir George cried.
‘As empty as it is now,’ Mr. Dunborough answered, shrugging his shoulders. ‘As empty as a bad nut! If you are not satisfied, look for yourself,’ he continued, rising that Sir George might come at the door.
Soane with a sharp movement plucked the door of the chaise open, and called hoarsely for a light. A big dingy man in a wrap-rascal coat, which left his brawny neck exposed and betrayed that under the coat he wore only his shirt, held up a lanthorn. Its light was scarcely needed. Sir George’s hand, not less than, his eyes, told him that the carriage, a big roomy post-chaise, well-cushioned and padded, was empty.
Aghast and incredulous, Soane turned on Mr. Dunborough. ‘You know better,’ he said furiously. ‘She was here, and you sent her on with them!’
Mr. Dunborough pointed to the man in the wrap-rascal. ‘That man was up as soon as I was,’ he said. ‘Ask him if you don’t believe me. He opened the chaise door.’
Sir George turned to the man, who, removing the shining leather cap that marked him for a smith, slowly scratched his head. The other men pressed up behind him to hear, the group growing larger every moment as one and another, awakened by the light and hubbub, came out of his house and joined it. Even women were beginning to appear on the outskirts of the crowd, their heads muffled in hoods and mobs.
‘The carriage was empty, sure enough, your honour,’ the smith said; ‘there is no manner of doubt about that. I heard the wheels coming, and looked out and saw it stop and the men go off. There was no woman with them.’
‘How many were they?’ Soane asked sharply. The man seemed honest.
‘Well, there were two went off with the horses,’ the smith answered, ‘and two again slipped off on foot by the lane ‘tween the houses there. I saw no more, your honour, and there were no more.’
‘Are you sure,’ Sir George asked eagerly, ‘that no one of the four was a woman?’
The smith grinned. ‘How am I to know?’ he answered with a chuckle. ‘That’s none of my business. All I can say is, they were all dressed man fashion. And they all went willing, for they went one by one, as you may say.’
‘Two on foot?’
‘By the lane there. I never said no otherwise. Seemingly they were the two on the carriage.’
‘And you saw no lady?’ Sir George persisted, still incredulous.
‘There was no lady,’ the man answered simply. ‘I came out, and the gentleman there was swearing and trying the door. I forced it with my chisel, and you may see the mark on the break of the lock now.’
‘Then we have been tricked,’ Sir George cried furiously. ‘We have followed the wrong carriage.’
‘Not you, sir,’ the smith answered. ’Twas fitted up for the job, or I should not have had to force the door. If ‘twere not got ready for a job of this kind, why a half-inch shutter inside the canvas blinds, and the bolt outside, ‘swell as a lock? Mark that door! D’you ever see the like of that on an honest carriage? Why, ’tis naught but a prison!’
He held up the light inside the carriage, and Sir George, the crowd pressing forward to look over his shoulder, saw that it was as the man said. Sir George saw something more — and pounced on it greedily. At the foot of the doorway, between the floor of the carriage and the straw mat that covered it, the corner of a black silk kerchief showed. How it came to be in that position, whether it had been kicked thither by accident or thrust under the mat on purpose, it was impossible to say. But there it was, and as Sir George held it up to the lanthorn — jealously interposing himself between it and the curious eyes of the crowd — he felt something hard inside the folds and saw that the corners were knotted. He uttered an exclamation.
‘More room, good people, more room!’ he cried.
‘Your honour ha’ got something?’ said the smith; and then to the crowd, ‘Here, you — keep back, will you?’ he continued, ‘and give the gentleman room to breathe. Or will you ha’ the constable fetched?’
‘I be here!’ cried a weakly voice from the skirts of the crowd.
‘Ay, so be Easter,’ the smith retorted gruffly, as a puny atomy of a man with a stick and lanthorn was pushed with difficulty to the front. ‘But so being you are here, supposing you put Joe Hincks a foot or two back, and let the gentleman have elbow-room.’
There was a laugh at this, for Joe Hincks was a giant a little taller than the smith. None the less, the hint had the desired effect. The crowd fell back a little. Meanwhile, Sir Ge
orge, the general attention diverted from him, had untied the knot. When the smith turned to him again, it was to find him staring with a blank face at a plain black snuff-box, which was all he had found in the kerchief.
‘Sakes!’ cried the smith, ‘whose is that?’
‘I don’t know,’ Sir George answered grimly, and shot a glance of suspicion at Mr. Dunborough, who was leaning against the fore-wheel.
But that gentleman shrugged his shoulders. ‘You need not look at me,’ he said. ‘It is not my box; I have mine here.’
‘Whose is it?’
Mr. Dunborough raised his eyebrows and did not answer.
‘Do you know?’ Sir George persisted fiercely.
‘No, I don’t. I know no more about it than you do.’
‘Maybe the lady took snuff?’ the smith said cautiously.
Many ladies did, but not this one; and Sir George sniffed his contempt. He turned the box over and over in his hand. It was a plain, black box, of smooth enamel, about two inches long.
‘I believe I have seen one like it,’ said Mr. Dunborough, yawning. ‘But I’m hanged if I can tell where.’
‘Has your honour looked inside?’ the smith asked. ‘Maybe there is a note in it.’
Sir George cut him short with an exclamation, and held the box up to the light. ‘There is something scratched on it,’ he said.
There was. When he held the box close to the lanthorn, words rudely scratched on the enamel, as if with the point of a pin, became visible; visible, but not immediately legible, so scratchy were the letters and imperfectly formed the strokes. It was not until the fourth or fifth time of reading that Sir George made out the following scrawl:
‘Take to Fishwick, Castle, Marlboro’. Help! Julia.’
Sir George swore. The box, with its pitiful, scarce articulate cry, brought the girl’s helpless position, her distress, her terror, more clearly to his mind than all that had gone before. Nor to his mind only, but to his heart; he scarcely asked himself why the appeal was made to another, or whence came this box — which was plainly a man’s, and still had snuff in it — or even whither she had been so completely spirited away that there remained of her no more than this, and the black kerchief, and about the carriage a fragrance of her — perceptible only by a lover’s senses. A whirl of pity and rage — pity for her, rage against her captors — swept such questions from his mind. He was shaken by gusty impulses, now to strike Mr. Dunborough across his smirking face, now to give some frenzied order, now to do some foolish act that must expose him to disgrace. He had much ado not to break into hysterical weeping, or into a torrent of frantic oaths. The exertions of the night, following on a day spent in the saddle, the tortures of fear and suspense, this last disappointment, the shock of his fall — had all told on him; and it was well that at this crisis Mr. Fishwick was at his elbow.
For the lawyer saw his face and read it aright, and interposing suggested an adjournment to the inn; adding that while they talked the matter over and refreshed themselves, a messenger could go to Bath and bring back new horses; in that way they might still be in Bristol by eight in the morning.
‘Bristol!’ Sir George muttered, passing his hand across his brow. ‘Bristol! But — she is not with them. We don’t know where she is.’
Mr. Fishwick was himself sick with fatigue, but he knew what to do and did it. He passed his arm through Sir George’s, and signed to the smith to lead the way to the inn. The man did so, the crowd made way for them, Mr. Dunborough and the servant followed; in less than a minute the three gentlemen stood together in the sanded tap-room at the tavern. The landlord hurried in and hung a lamp on a hook in the whitewashed wall; its glare fell strongly on their features, and for the first time that night showed the three to one another.
Even in that poor place, the light had seldom fallen on persons in a more pitiable plight. Of the three, Sir George alone stood erect, his glittering eyes and twitching nostrils belying the deadly pallor of his face. He was splashed with mud from head to foot, his coat was plastered where he had fallen, his cravat was torn and open at the throat. He still held his naked sword in his hand; apparently he had forgotten that he held it. Mr. Dunborough was in scarce better condition. White and shaken, his hand bound to his side, he had dropped at once into a chair, and sat, his free hand plunged into his breeches pocket, his head sunk on his breast. Mr. Fishwick, a pale image of himself, his knees trembling with exhaustion, leaned against the wall. The adventures of the night had let none of the travellers escape.
The landlord and his wife could be heard in the kitchen drawing ale and clattering plates, while the voices of the constable and his gossips, drawling their wonder and surmises, filled the passage. Sir George was the first to speak.
‘Bristol!’ he said dully. ‘Why Bristol?’
‘Because the villains who have escaped us here,’ the lawyer answered, ‘we shall find there. And they will know what has become of her.’
‘But shall we find them?’
‘Mr. Dunborough will find them.’
‘Ha!’ said Sir George, with a sombre glance. ‘So he will.’
Mr. Dunborough spoke with sudden fury. ‘I wish to Heaven,’ he said, ‘that I had never heard the girl’s name. How do I know where she is!’
‘You will have to know,’ Sir George muttered between his teeth.
‘Fine talk!’ Mr. Dunborough retorted, with a faint attempt at a sneer, ‘when you know as well as I do that I have no more idea where the girl is or what has become of her than that snuff-box. And d — n me!’ he continued sharply, his eyes on the box, which Sir George still held in his hand, ‘whose is the snuff-box, and how did she get it? That is what I want to know? And why did she leave it in the carriage? If we had found it dropped in the road now, and that kerchief round it, I could understand that! But in the carriage. Pho! I believe I am not the only one in this!’
CHAPTER XXI
IN THE CARRIAGE
The man whose work had taken him that evening to the summit of the Druid’s Mound, and whose tale roused the Castle Inn ten minutes later, had seen aright. But he had not seen all. Had he waited another minute, he would have marked a fresh actor appear at Manton Corner, would have witnessed the dénouement of the scene, and had that to tell when he descended, which must have allayed in a degree, not only the general alarm, but Sir George’s private apprehensions.
It is when the mind is braced to meet a known emergency that it falls the easiest prey to the unexpected. Julia was no coward. But as she loitered along the lane beyond Préshute churchyard in the gentle hour before sunset, her whole being was set on the coming of the lover for whom she waited. As she thought over the avowal she would make to him, and conned the words she would speak to him, the girl’s cheeks, though she believed herself alone, burned with happy blushes; her breath came more quickly, her body swayed involuntarily in the direction whence he, who had chosen and honoured her, would come! The soft glow which overspread the heights, as the sun went down and left the vale to peace and rest, was not more real or more pure than the happiness that thrilled her. Her heart overflowed in a tender ecstasy, as she thanked God, and her lover. In the peace that lay around her, she who had flouted Sir George, not once or twice, who had mocked and tormented him, in fancy kissed his feet.
In such a mood as this she had neither eyes nor ears for aught but the coming of her lover. When she reached the corner, jealous that none but he should see the happy shining of her eyes — nor he until he stood beside her — she turned to walk back; in a luxury of anticipation. Her lot was wonderful to her. She sang in her heart that she was blessed among women.
And then, without the least warning, the grating of a stone even, or the sound of a footstep, a violent grip encircled her waist from behind; something thick, rough, suffocating, fell on her head and eyes, enveloped and blinded her. The shock of the surprise was so great that for a moment breath and even the instinct of resistance failed her; and she had been forced several steps, in what direction
she had no idea, before sense and horror awoke together, and wresting herself, by the supreme effort of an active girl, from the grasp that confined her, she freed her mouth sufficiently to scream.
Twice and shrilly; then, before she could entirely rid her head of the folds that blinded her, a remorseless grip closed on her neck, and another round her waist; and choking and terrified, vainly struggling and fighting, she felt herself pushed along. Coarse voices, imprecating vengeance on her if she screamed, again, sounded in her ears: and then for a moment her course was stayed. She fancied that she heard a shout, the rush and scramble of feet in the road, new curses and imprecations. The grasp on her waist relaxed, and seizing her opportunity she strove with the strength of despair to wrest herself from the hands that still held the covering over her head. Instead, she felt herself lifted up, something struck her sharply on the knee; the next moment she fell violently and all huddled up on — it might have been the ground, for all she knew; it really was the seat of a carriage.
The shock was no slight one, but she struggled to her feet, and heard, as she tore the covering from her head, a report as of a pistol shot. The next moment she lost her footing, and fell back. She alighted on the place from which she had raised herself, and was not hurt. But the jolt, which had jerked her from her feet, and the subsequent motion, disclosed the truth. Before she had entirely released her head from the folds of the cloak, she knew that she was in a carriage, whirled along behind swift horses; and that the peril was real, and not of the moment, momentary!
This was horror enough. But it was not all. One wild look round, and her eyes began to penetrate the gloom of the closely shut carriage — and she shrank into her corner. She checked the rising sob that preluded a storm of rage and tears, stayed the frenzied impulse to shriek, to beat on the doors, to do anything that might scare the villains; she sat frozen, staring, motionless. For on the seat beside her, almost touching her, was a man.
Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman Page 311