Still the darkness was not yet Egyptian; night had not yet completely fallen. She could see the figures of Lane and the two servants, seated a score of paces away on a fallen thorn tree, to which they had tethered their horses. She could dimly make out Lady Betty’s face, as the girl sat beside her in the carriage, getting what comfort she could from squeezing her hand; and Pettitt’s, who sat with them, for it would have been cruel to exclude her in her state of terror. But the knowledge that by-and-by she would lose all this, the knowledge that by-and-by they must sit in that gloomy hollow, ignorant of what was passing near them, and at the mercy of the first comer, began to fill even Sophia with dread. She began to fear even Lane. She remembered that he had cause to dislike her; that he might harbour thoughts of revenge. If it were true that he had made the men drunk ——
“It’s absurd,” Lady Betty whispered, pressing her hand. “He would not dare! He’s just a clothes peg! You’re not afraid of him?”
“No,” Sophia answered bravely, “I don’t know that I am afraid of any one. Only — —”
“Only you wish you had not let Watkyns go?”
“Yes.”
“So do I!” Lady Betty whispered eagerly. “But I did not like to say so. I was afraid you would think me afraid. What I can’t make out is, why some of the men don’t go over and get help where the light is, instead of riding miles and miles for it.”
“They seem to think that the people are not to be trusted.”
“But why? What do they think that they are?” Lady Betty asked nervously.
“I don’t know! Watkyns said something of smugglers from Goudhurst.”
“And how does he know?”
“From Lane, I suppose.”
“Who brought us here, the little wretch! There!” Betty exclaimed, clutching her companion, “what is that? Oh, they have got a candle.”
Lane had produced one from his holsters; the men had lighted it. By-and-by, he brought it to the carriage, shading it with his hat; with a sheepish air he prayed the ladies to make use of it. Sophia added distrust to her former contempt of him, and would have declined the gift; but Lady Betty’s trembling hand prayed mutely for the indulgence, and she let him place it in the lanthorn in the carriage. It conferred a kind of protection; at least they could now see one another’s faces.
She soon regretted her easiness, however, for instead of withdrawing when he had performed the office, Lane lingered beside the door. He asked Lady Betty the time, he went away a little, returned, a flitting shadow on the fringe of light; finally he stood irresolute watching them, at a distance of a couple of yards. Sophia bore this as long as she could; at last, out of patience, she asked him coldly if he had not another candle. It was now quite dark.
“No, my lady,” he said humbly, “I’ve no other.”
She wished that she had bitten her tongue off before she put the question, for now it appeared barbarous to send him into the darkness. He seemed, too, to see the advantage he had gained, and by-and-by he ventured to take his seat on a log beside the carriage. He cast a timid look at Lady Betty, and heaved an audible sigh.
If he hoped to move that hard little heart by sighing, however, he was much mistaken. Cheered by the light, Lady Betty was herself again. Sophia felt her begin to shake, and knew that in a moment the laugh, half hysterical, half mirthful, would break all bounds; and she sought to save the situation. “Where are the men?” she said hurriedly. “Will you be good enough to ask one of them to come to me?”
Lane rose, and went reluctantly; soon he came stumbling back into the circle of light.
“I cannot find them,” he stammered, standing by the carriage.
“Not find them?” Sophia answered, staring at him. “Are they not there?”
“No, my lady,” he returned, glancing nervously over his shoulder and back again. “At least I — I can’t find them, ma’am. It is very dark. You don’t think,” he continued — and for the first time she discerned by the poor light of the candle that he was trembling, “that — that they can have fallen into the river?”
His tone alarmed her, even while she thought his fears preposterous. “Fallen into the river?” she exclaimed contemptuously. “Nonsense, sir! Are you trying to frighten us?” And without waiting for an answer, she raised her voice and called “George! George!”
No answer. She stepped quickly from the carriage. “Take me,” she said imperiously, “to where you left them.”
Lady Betty protested; Pettitt clutched at her habit, begged her to stay. But Sophia persisted, and groped her way after Lane until he came to a stand, his hand on the bark of the fallen blackthorn, beside which she had last seen the men. “They were here,” he said, in the tone of one half dazed. “They were. They were just here.”
“Yes, I remember,” she answered. And undeterred by Pettitt’s frantic appeals to her to return, she called the man again and again; still she got no answer.
At length, fear of she knew not what came on her, and shaken by the silence of the valley through which her voice rang mournfully, she hurried back to the carriage, and sprang into it in a panic; the man Lane following close at her elbow. It was only when she had taken her seat, and found him clutching the door of the carriage and pressing as near as he could come, that she saw he was ashake with fear; that his eyes were staring, his hair almost on end.
“They’ve fallen into the river,” he cried wildly, his teeth chattering. “I never thought of that! They have fallen in, and are drowned!”
“Don’t be a fool, man!” Sophia answered sharply. She was striving to keep fear at bay, while Lady Betty awestricken, clung to her arm. “We should have heard a cry or something.”
“They were drunk,” he whispered. “They were drunk! And now they are dead! They are dead! Dead!”
Pettitt shrieked at the word; and Sophia, between fear and rage, uncertain whether he was frightened or was trying to frighten them, bade him be silent. “If you can do nothing, at least be still,” she cried wrathfully. “You are worse than a woman. And do you, Pettitt, behave yourself. You should be taking care of your mistress, instead of scaring her.”
The man so far obeyed that he sank on the step of the carriage, and was silent. But she heard him moan; and despite her courage she shuddered. Fear is infectious; it was in vain she strove against the uneasy feelings communicated by his alarm. She caught herself looking over her shoulder, starting at a sound; trembling when the candle flickered in the lanthorn or the feeble ring of light in which they sat, in that hollow of blackness, wavered or varied. By-and-by the candle would go out; there was but an inch of it now. Then they would be in the dark; three women and this craven, with the hidden river running silent, bankful beside them, and she knew not what, prowling, hovering, groping at their backs.
On a sudden Lane sprang up. “What is that?” he cried, cowering against the door, and clutching it as if he would drag it open and force himself in among them. “See, what is it? What is it?”
But it was only the first shaft of light, shot by the rising moon through a notch in the hills, that had scared him. It struck the thorn tree where the men had sat, and slowly the slender ray widened and grew until all the upper valley through which they had come lay bathed in solemn radiance. Gradually it flooded the bottom, and dimmed the yellow, ineffectual light of their taper; at length only the ridge beyond the water remained dark, pierced by the one brooding spark that seemed to keep grave vigil in the hill of shadow.
The women breathed more freely; even Pettitt ceased to bewail herself. “They will be back soon, with the horses,” Sophia said, gazing with hopeful eyes into the darkness beyond the ford. “They must have left us an hour and more.”
“An hour?” Lady Betty answered with a shiver. “Three, I vow! But what is the man doing?” she continued, directing Sophia’s attention to Lane. “I declare he’s a greater coward than any of us!”
He was, if the fact that the light which had relieved their fears had not removed his stood for anything
. He seemed afraid to move a yard from them; yet he seldom looked at them, save when a gust of terror shook him, and he turned as if to grip their garments. His hand on the door of the carriage, he gazed now along the valley down which they had come, now towards the solitary light beyond the stream; and it was impossible to say which prospect alarmed him the more. Sophia, whom his restlessness filled with apprehension, noticed that he listened; and that more than once, when Lady Betty spoke or Pettitt complained, he raised his hand, as if he took the interruption ill. And the longer she watched him, the more she was infected with his uneasiness.
On a sudden he turned to her. “Do you hear anything?” he asked.
She listened. “No,” she answered, “I hear nothing but the wind passing through the trees.”
“Not horses?”
She listened again, inclining her head to catch any sound that might come from the other side of the stream. “No,” she replied, “I don’t.”
He touched her shoulder. “Not that way!” he exclaimed. “Not that way! Behind us!”
Suddenly Lady Betty spoke. “I do!” she said. “But they are a long way off. It’s Watkyns coming back. He must have found horses, for I hear more than one!”
“It’s not Watkyns!” Lane answered and he took two steps from the carriage, then came back. “Get out!” he cried hoarsely. “Do you hear? Get out! Or don’t say I didn’t warn you. Do you hear?” he repeated, when no one stirred; for Sophia, her worst suspicions confirmed, was speechless with surprise, and the others cowered in their places, thinking him gone mad. “Get out, get out, and hide if you can. They are coming!” he continued wildly. “I tell you they are coming. And it is off my shoulders. In ten minutes they’ll be here, and if you’re not hidden, it’ll be the worse for you. I’ve told you!”
“Who are coming!” Sophia said, her lips forming the words with difficulty.
“Hawkesworth!” he answered. “Hawkesworth! He and two more, as big devils as himself. If you don’t want to be robbed and worse, hide, hide! Do you hear me?” he continued, pulling frantically at Sophia’s habit. “I’ve told you! I’ve done all I can! It’s not on my head!”
For an instant she sat, turned to stone; deaf to the cries, to the prayers, to the lamentations of the others. Hawkesworth? The mere name of him, with whom she had once fancied herself in love, whom now she feared and loathed, as she feared and loathed no other man, stopped the current of her blood. “Hawkesworth,” she whispered, “Hawkesworth? Here? Following us? Do you mean it?”
“Haven’t I told you?” Lane answered with angry energy. “He was at Grinstead, at the White Lion, last night. I saw him, and — and the woman. You’d made me mad, you know, and — and they tempted me! They tempted me!” he whined. “And they’re coming. Can’t you hear them now? They are coming!”
Yes, she could hear them now. In the far distance up the valley the steady fall of horses’ hoofs broke the night silence. Steadily, steadily, the hoof-beats drew nearer and nearer. Now they were hushed; the riders were crossing a spongy bit, where a spring soaked the road — Sophia could remember the very place. Now the sound rose louder, nearer, more fateful. Trot-trot, trot-trot, trot-trot! Yes, they were coming. They were coming! In five minutes, in ten minutes at most they would be here!
It was a crisis to try the bravest. Round them the moonlight flooded the low wide mouth of the valley. As far as the eye reached, all was bare and shelterless. A few scattered thorn trees, standing singly and apart, mocked the eye with a promise of safety, which a second glance showed to be futile. The only salient object was the carriage stranded beside the ford, a huge dark blot, betraying their presence to eyes a furlong away. Yet if they left its shelter, whither were they to turn, where to hide themselves? Sophia, her heart beating as if it would suffocate her, tried to think, tried to remember; while Lady Betty clung to her convulsively, asking what they were to do, and Pettitt, utterly overcome, sobbed at the bottom of the carriage, as if she were safer there.
And all the time the tramp of the approaching horses, borne on the night breeze, came clearer and sharper, clearer and sharper to the ear; until she could distinguish the ring of bit and bridle as the men descended the valley. She looked at Lane. The craven was panic-stricken, caught hither and thither, by gusts of cowardice; there was no help there. Her eye passed to the river, and her heart leapt, for in the shadowed bank on the other side she read hope and a chance. There in the darkness they could hide; there — if only they could find the stepping-stones which Watkyns had said were upstream.
Quick as thought she had Lady Betty out, and seizing her woman by the shoulder, shook her impatiently. “Come,” she cried, “come, we must run. We must run! Come, or we shall leave you.”
But Pettitt only grovelled lower on the floor, deaf to prayers, orders, threats. At last, “We must leave her,” Sophia cried, when she had wasted a precious minute in vain appeals. “Come! We must find the stepping-stones. It is the only chance.”
“But is the danger — so great?” the child panted.
“It’s — oh, come! Come!” Sophia groaned. “You don’t understand.” And seizing Lady Betty by the hand she ran with her to the water’s edge, and in breathless haste turned up the stream. They had gone twenty yards along the bank, the elder’s eyes searching the dark full current, when Sophia stopped as if she had been shot. “The jewels!” she gasped.
“The jewels?”
“Yes, I’ve left them.”
“Oh, never mind them now!” Betty wailed, “never mind them now!” and she caught at her to stay her, but in vain. Already Sophia was half-way back to the carriage. She vanished inside it; in an incredibly short space — though it seemed long to Betty, trembling with impatience and searching the valley with eyes of dread — she was out again with the jewel-case in her hand, and flying back to her companion. “They are his!” she muttered, as she urged her on again. “I couldn’t leave them. Now, the stones! The stepping-stones! Oh, child, use your eyes! Find them, or we are lost!”
The fear of Hawkesworth lay heavy on her; she felt that she should die if his hand touched her. It was unfortunate that all the bank on which they stood was light; it was in their favour that the moon had now risen high enough to shine on the stream. They ran fifty yards without seeing a sign of what they sought. Then — at the very moment when the pursuers’ voices broke on their ears, and they realised that in a minute or two they must be espied — they came to a couple of thorn trees, standing not far apart, that afforded a momentary shelter. A yard farther, and Lady Betty stumbled over something that lay in the shadow of the trees. She recoiled with a cry. “It’s a man!” she murmured.
“The grooms!” Sophia answered, her wits sharpened by necessity; and she felt for and shook one of the sleepers, tugged at his clothes, even buffeted him in a frenzy of impatience. “George! George!” she muttered; and again she shook him. But in vain; and as quickly as she had knelt she was on foot again, and had drawn the child on. “Drugged!” she muttered. “They are drugged! We must cross! We must cross! It’s our one chance!”
She hurried her on, bending low; for beyond the two thorn trees all lay bare and open. Suddenly a cry rent the night; an oath, and a woman’s scream followed and told them that their flight was known. Their hands clasped, their knees shaking under them, they pressed on, reckless now, expecting every moment to hear footsteps behind them. And joy! Sophia nearly swooned, as she saw not five yards ahead of them a ripple of broken water that ran slantwise across the silver; and in a line with it a foot above the surface, a rope stretched taut from bank to bank.
The stones were covered, all save one; but the rope promised a passage, more easy than she had dared to expect. “Will you go first, or shall I?” was on the tip of her tongue; but Lady Betty wasted no time on words. She was already in the water, and wading across, her hands sliding along the rope, her petticoats floating out on the surface of the current. The water was cold, and though it rose no higher than her knees, ran with a force that but for t
he rope must have swept her off her feet. She reached the middle in safety, however, and Sophia who dared not throw the weight of two on the rope, was tingling to follow, when the dreaded sound of feet on the bank warned her of danger. She turned her head sharply. A man stood within five paces of her.
A pace nearer, and Sophia would have flung herself into the stream! heedless of the rope, heedless of all but the necessity of escape. In the nick of time, however, she saw that it was not Hawkesworth who had found her, but Lane the poor rogue who had ruined them. In a low harsh voice, she bade him keep his distance.
“I don’t know what to do!” he faltered, wringing his hands and looking back in terror. “They’ll murder me! I know they will! But there’s smallpox the other side! You’re going into it! There are three dead in the house, and everybody’s fled. I don’t know what to do,” he whined.
LADY BETTY WASTED NO TIME ON WORDS. SHE WAS ALREADY IN THE WATER AND WADING ACROSS
Sophia answered nothing, but slid into the stream and waded across. As she drew her wet skirts out of the water, and, helped by Lady Betty, climbed the bank, she heard the chase come down the side she had left; and thankful for the deep shadow in which they stood, she pressed the girl’s hand to enjoin silence, as step by step they groped their way from the place. To go as far as possible from the crossing was her object; her fear that a stumble or a rolling stone — for the side of the ridge below the houses was steep and rough — would discover their position. Fortunately the darkness which lay there was deepened by contrast with the moonlit country on the farther side; and they crept some forty yards along the hill before they were brought up short by a wattled fence. They would have climbed this, but as they laid hands on it they heard men shouting, and saw two figures hurry along the opposite bank, and come to a stand, at the point where they had crossed. A moment Sophia hung in suspense; then Hawkesworth’s voice thrilled her with terror. “Over!” he cried. “Over, fool, and watch the top!” And she heard the splashing of a horse as it crossed the ford, and the thud of its hoofs as it dashed up the road.
Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman Page 356