Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman

by Stanley J Weyman

  Watkyns shook his head. “I doubt it’s not to be done at all, my lady,” he said. “Here’s one stopped already, unless I am mistaken.”

  “But we can’t stay here,” Sophia protested, looking with longing at the roofs and spire that rose above the trees beyond the stream. On the bank on which they stood was a single hovel of mud, fast melting under the steady downpour.

  “I’ll see what they say, my lady,” Watkyns answered, and leaving the carriage thirty paces from the water, he went forward and joined the little group that conferred on the brink. The grooms moved on also, while the leading postboy, standing up in his stirrups, scanned the current with evident misgiving.

  “’Tis Fanshaw on the horse,” Sophia said in a low tone.

  “So it is!” Lady Betty answered. “He’s afraid to cross, it is clear! You don’t think we shall have to spend the night here?”

  The horses hanging their heads in the rain, the dripping postboys, the splashed carriage, the three faces peering anxiously at the flood, through which they must pass to gain shelter — a more desolate group it were hard to conceive; unless it was that which talked and argued on the bank, and from which Watkyns presently detached himself. He came back to the carriage.

  “It’s not to be done, my lady,” he said, his face troubled. “There’s but one opinion of that. It’s a mud bottom, they tell me, and if the horses dragged the carriage in, they could never pull it through. Most likely they wouldn’t face the water. It must fall a foot they say, before it’ll be safe to try it.”

  The maid shrieked. Even Sophia looked scared. “But what are we to do?” she said. “We cannot spend the night here.”

  “Well, my lady, the gentleman says if we keep down the water this side, there’s a paved ford a mile lower that should be passable. It’s not far from Fletching, and we could very likely cross there or get shelter in Fletching, if your ladyship should not choose to risk it.”

  “But how does the gentleman know?” Sophia asked sharply.

  “He’s of this country,” Watkyns answered. “Leastwise bred here, my lady, this side of Lewes, and says he knows the roads. It’s what he’s going to do himself. And I don’t know what else we can do, if your ladyship pleases.”

  “Well,” Sophia said doubtfully, “if you think so?”

  “Oh, yes,” Lady Betty cried impulsively. “Let us go! We can’t sit here all night. It must be nearly four now.”

  “It’s all that, my lady.”

  “And we shall have it dark, if we stay here. And shall really have to lie under a haystack. Besides, you may be sure he’ll not lead us into much danger!” she continued, with a contemptuous look at Mr. Fanshaw. “If we take care to go only where he goes we shall not run much risk.”

  As if he heard what she was saying, Mr. Fanshaw at that moment turned his horse, and passed the carriage; he was on his way to take the lane that ran down stream. A countryman plodded at his stirrup, and Sir Hervey’s grooms followed. After them came a second countryman with a sack drawn over his shoulders. As this man passed the carriage Sophia leaned from the window and called to him.

  “Does this lane lead to a better ford, my man?” she asked.

  The fellow stared at Lady Betty’s pretty face and eager eyes. “Aye, there’s a ford,” he answered, the rain dripping off his nose.

  “A better ford than this?”

  “Ay, ’tis paved.”

  “And how far from here is it?”

  “A mile, or may be a mile and a bit.”

  Sophia gave him a shilling. She nodded to Watkyns. “I think we had better go,” she said. “But I hope it may not be a long round,” she continued with a sort of foreboding. “I shall be glad when we are in the main road again.”

  The horses’ heads once turned, however, things seemed to go better. The sky grew lighter, the rain ceased, the lane, willow-lined, and in places invaded by the swollen stream that ran beside it, proved to be passable. Even the mile and a bit turned out to be no more than two miles, and in half an hour, the cavalcade, to which Mr. Fanshaw, moving in front, had the air of belonging, reached the ford.

  The stream was wide here, but so full that the brown water swept swiftly and silently over the shallows. Nevertheless it was evident that Lane knew his ground, for, to Lady Betty’s astonishment, he rode in gallantly, and spurred his horse to the other side, the water barely reaching its knees. Encouraged, the postboys cracked their whips and followed, the carriage swayed, Pettitt screamed; for a moment the water seemed rising all round them, the next they were across and jolting up the farther bank.

  “There!” Lady Betty cried with a laugh of triumph. “I’d have bet that would be all right! When I saw him go through I knew that there was not much danger. Six miles more and we shall be in Lewes.”

  Suddenly, on the bank they had left, a man appeared, waving his arms to them. The carriage had turned to the left after crossing, and the movement brought the man full into view from the window. “What is it?” Sophia asked anxiously. “What is he shouting?” And she called to Watkyns to learn what it was.

  “I think he wants help to come over, my lady,” Watkyns answered. “But I’ll ask, if your ladyship pleases.” And he went back and exchanged shouts with the stranger, while the carriage plodded up the ascent. By-and-by Watkyns overtook them. “It was only to tell me, my lady, that there was a second ford we should have to pass,” he explained.

  “A second ford?”

  “Yes, but the gentleman in front had told me so already, and that it was no worse than this, or not much; and a farm close to it, with men and a team of oxen, if we had need. I told the man that, my lady, and all he answered was, that they had only one small ox at the farm, and he kept shouting that, and nothing else. But I could not make much of him. And any way we must go on now,” Watkyns continued, with just so much sullenness as showed he had his doubts. “We came through that grandly; and with luck, my lady, we should be in Lewes before dark.”

  “At any rate let us go as fast as we can,” Sophia answered. This late mention of a second ford disturbed her, and she looked ahead with increasing anxiety.

  It was soon plain that to travel quickly in the country in which they now found themselves, was impossible. The road followed a shallow valley which wound among low hills, crowned with trees. Now the carriage climbed slowly over a shoulder, now plunged into a roughly-wooded bottom, now dragged painfully up the other side, the ladies walking. In places the road was so narrow that the wheels barely passed. It was in vain Sophia fretted, in vain Lady Betty ceased to jest, that Pettitt cast eyes to heaven in token of speechless misery, Watkyns swore and sweated to think what Sir Hervey would say of it. There was no place where the carriage could be turned; and if there had been, to go back seemed as bad as to go forward.

  By way of compensation the sky had grown clear; a flood of pale evening sunshine gilded the western slopes of the hills. The clumps that here and there crowned the summits rose black against an evening sky, calm and serene. But far as the eye could reach not a sign of man appeared; the country seemed without population. Once indeed through an opening on the left, they made out a village spire peeping above a distant shoulder; but it was two miles away, and far from their direction. The road, at the moment the sun set, wound round a hill and began to descend following the bottom of a valley. By-and-by they saw before them a row of trees running athwart the way, and marking water. Here, then, was the second ford.

  The two grooms had ridden for a time with Lane — to give Fanshaw his proper name — a couple of hundred yards ahead of the carriage. The countrymen had dropped off by tracks invisible to the strange eye, and gone to homes as invisible. Watkyns alone was beside the carriage, which was still a hundred yards short of the crossing, when one of the grooms was seen riding back to it.

  He waved his hand in the air as he reined up. “It won’t do!” he cried loudly. “We can never get over. You can see for yourself, Mr. Watkyns.”

  “I can see a fool for myself!” the val
et answered sharply. “What do you mean by frightening the ladies?”

  The groom — Sophia noticed that his face was flushed — fell sullenly behind the carriage without saying more; but the mischief was done. Pettitt was in tears, even Sophia and Lady Betty were shaken. They insisted on alighting, and joined Lane and the other groom who stood silenced by the prospect.

  The stream that barred the way was a dozen yards wide from bank to bank, the water running strong and turbid with ugly eddies, and a greedy swirl. Nor was this the worst. The road on the side on which they stood sloped gently into the stream. But on the farther side, the bank was high and precipitous, and the road rose so steeply out of the water that the little hamlet which crowned the ridge beyond hung high above their heads. It needed no experience to see that tired horses, fagged by a journey and by the labour of wading through the deep ford, would never drag the carriage up so steep a pitch.

  Sophia took it all in. She took in also the late evening light, and the desolate valley, strewn with sparse thorn trees, down which they had come — and from which this was their exit; and her eyes flashed with anger. Hitherto, in her desire to have no dealings with Lane, but to ignore, if she must bear, his company, she had refrained from questioning him; though with each mile of the lengthening distance the temptation had grown. Now she turned to him.

  “What do you mean, sir,” she cried harshly, “by bringing us to such a place as this? Is this your good ford?”

  He did not look at her, but continued to stare at the water. “It’s generally low enough,” he muttered sulkily.

  “Did you expect to find it low to-day? After the rain?”

  He did not answer, and Watkyns took the word. “If we had oxen and some ropes, or even half a dozen men,” he said, “we could get the carriage across.”

  “Then where is his farm? And the team of oxen of which you told us?” Sophia continued, addressing Lane again. “Explain, sir, explain! Why have you brought us to this place? You must have had some motive.”

  “The farm is there,” he answered sulkily, pointing to the buildings on the ridge across the water. “And it would be all right, but — but it has changed hands since I was here. And the people are — they tell, me that the place has a bad name.”

  She fancied that he exchanged a look with the groom who stood nearest; at any rate the man hastened to corroborate him. “That’s true enough!” he cried with a hiccough. “It’s dangerous, my lady, so they tell me.”

  Sophia stared. The servant’s manner was odd and free. And how did he know? “Who told you?” she asked sharply.

  “The men who came part of the way with us, my lady.”

  Sophia turned to Watkyns. “It’s a pity you did not learn this before,” she said severely. “You should not have allowed this person to decoy us from the road. For you, sir,” she continued, addressing Lane, “I cannot conceive why you have done this, or why you have brought us here, but of one thing you may be sure. If there be roguery in this you will pay a sharp reckoning for it.”

  He stood by his horse’s head, looking doggedly at the stream, and avoiding their eyes. In the silence Lady Betty’s woman began to sob, until her mistress bade her be quiet for a fool. Yet there was excuse for her. With the fading of the light the valley behind them had taken on a sinister look. The gnarled thorn trees of the upper part, the coarse marsh-grass of the lower, through which a small stream trickled, forming sullen pools among stunted alders, spoke of desolation and the coming of night. On the steep slopes above them no life moved; from the silent hamlet beyond the water came no sound or shout of challenge.

  Suddenly one of the postboys found a voice. “We could get two of the horses through,” he said, “and fetch help from Lewes. It cannot be more than four or five miles from here, and we could get a fresh team there, and with ropes and half a dozen men we could cross well enough!”

  Sophia turned to him. “You are a man,” she said. “A guinea apiece, my lads, if you are back with fresh horses in two hours.”

  “We’ll do our best, my lady,” the lad answered, touching his cap. “‘Twill be no fault of ours, if we are not back. We’ll try the house first. We’re six men,” he continued, looking round, “and need not be afraid of one or two, if they ben’t of the best.”

  But as he turned the nearest groom whispered something in his ear, and his face fell. His eyes travelled to the little cluster of buildings that crowned the opposite ridge. On the left of the steep road stood two cottages; on the right the gable end of a larger house rose heavily from the hillside, and from the sparse gorse bushes that bestrewed it.

  None of the chimneys emitted smoke; but Sophia, following the man’s eyes, saw that, early as it was, and barely inclining to dusk, a small window in the gable end showed a light. “Why,” she exclaimed, “they have a light! Let us all shout, and they must hear. Why should we be afraid? Shout!” she continued, turning to Watkyns. “Do you hear, man? What are you afraid of?”

  “Nothing, my lady,” Watkyns stammered; and he hastened to shout “Halloa! Halloa there! House!” But his pale face, and the quaver in his voice, betrayed that, in spite of his boast, he was afraid; while the faces of the other men, as they stood waiting for an answer, their eyes riveted on the house, seemed to show that they shared the feeling.

  Sophia noticed this, and was puzzled. But the next moment the postboys began to free the leaders from the harness, and to mount and ride them into the water; and in the excitement of the scene, she forgot her suspicions. One of the horses refused to cross, and, wheeling round in the stream, came near to unseating its rider. But the postboy persisted gamely, the beast was driven in again, and, after hesitating awhile, snorting in the shallows, it went through with a rush, and plunged up the bank amid an avalanche of mud and stones. The summit of the ridge gained, the postboys rose in their stirrups and looked back, waving a farewell. The next moment they passed between the cottages and the house, and disappeared.

  The group, left below, strained their eyes after them. But nothing rewarded expectation. No cry came back, no hurrying band appeared, laden with help, and shouting encouragement. From the buildings, that each moment loomed darker and darker, came no sign of life. Only, as the dusk grew, and minute by minute night fell in the valley, the light in the window of the gable end waxed brighter and brighter, until it shone a single mysterious spark in a wall of blackness.

  CHAPTER XVII

  IN THE VALLEY

  When Sophia at last lowered her eyes, and with a sigh of disappointment turned to her companions — when she awoke, as it were, and saw how fast the dusk had gathered round them, and what strides towards shutting them in night had made in those few minutes, she had much ado to maintain her composure. Lady Betty, little more than a child, and but one remove from a child’s fear of the dark, clung to her; the girl, though a natural high spirit forbade her to expose her fears, was fairly daunted by the gloom and eeriness of the scene. Pettitt seated on a step of the carriage, weeping at a word and shrieking on the least alarm, was worse than useless; while the men, now reduced to four, had withdrawn to a distance, whence their voices, subdued in earnest colloquy, came at intervals to her ears.

  What was to be done? Surely something? Surely they were not going to sit there, perhaps through the whole night, doing nothing to help themselves, wholly depending on the success of the postboys? That could not be; and impatiently Sophia summoned Watkyns. “Are we going to do nothing,” she asked sharply, “until they come back? Cannot one of the grooms return the way we came? There was the man at the mill — who warned us? He may know what to do. Send one of the servants to him.”

  “I did ask the gentleman to go,” Watkyns answered with a sniff of contempt, “or else to ride on with the postboys and guide them. He’s got us into this scrape, begging your ladyship’s pardon, and he ought to get us out! But he’s all for not separating; says that it isn’t safe, and he won’t leave the ladies. He’ll do nothing. He’s turned kind of stupid like,” the valet added with a
snort of temper.

  Sophia’s lip curled. “Then let one of the grooms go,” she said, “if he’s afraid.”

  Watkyns hesitated. “Well, the truth is, my lady,” he said, speaking low, and looking warily behind him, “they are fuddled with drink, and that’s all about it. Where they got the stuff I don’t know, but I’ve suspicions.”

  Sophia stared.

  “I think I can guess what is in the gentleman’s holsters,” Watkyns continued, nodding mysteriously. “And I’ve a notion they had a share of it, when my back was turned. But why I cannot say. Only they are not to be trusted. I’d go back myself, for it is well to have two strings; and I could take one of their horses. But I don’t like to leave you with him, my lady.”

  “With the gentleman?”

  “Yes, my lady. Seeing he has given the men drink.”

  Sophia laughed in scorn. “You need not trouble yourself about him,” she said. “We are not afraid of him. Besides it is not as if I were alone. There are three of us. As to the house opposite, however, that’s another matter.”

  He was off his guard. “Oh, there’s no fear of that!” he said.

  “No? But I thought you said there was.”

  “This side of the water, my lady — I mean,” he answered hurriedly. “There are stepping-stones you see a little above here; but they are covered now, and the people can’t come over.”

  “You are sure of that?”

  “Quite sure, my lady.”

  “Then you had better go,” Sophia said with decision. “We’ve had nothing to eat since midday, and we are half famished. We cannot stay here all night.”

  Watkyns hesitated. “Your ladyship is right,” he said, “it is not as if you were alone. And the moon will be up in an hour. Still, my lady, I don’t know as Sir Hervey would like me to leave you?”

  But in the end he gave way and went; and was scarcely out of hearing before she was sorry that she had sent him, and would fain, had it been possible, have recalled him.