The doctor shut out the frightened maids and shut out Miss Peacock. But Arthur was only at the beginning of his resources. His nerve was good and he aided Farmer in his examination, while Jos, standing out of sight behind the curtain, calm but quivering in every nerve, handed to him or to Calamy what they needed. Even then, however, and while he was thus employed, Arthur found occasion to whisper a cheering word to the girl, to reassure her and give her hope. He forced her to take a glass of wine, and when Calamy, shaking his head, muttered that he had known a man to recover who had been worse hurt — but he was a strong young fellow — he damned the butler for an old fool, regardless of the fact that coming from Calamy this was a cheerful prognostic.
Presently he made her go downstairs. “Nothing more can be done now,” said he. “The doctor thinks well of him so far. He and I will stay with him to-night. You must save yourself, Jos. You will be needed to-morrow.”
He left the room with her, and as she would not go to bed he made her lie down on a couch, and covered her with a cloak. He had dropped the tone of patronage, almost of persiflage, which he had used to her of late, and he was kindness itself, behaving to her as a brother; so that she did not know how to be thankful enough for his presence, or for the relief from responsibility which it afforded. Afterwards, looking back on that long, strange night, during which lights burned in the rooms till dawn, and odd meals were served at odd times, and stealthy feet trod the stairs, and scared faces peeped in only to be withdrawn — looking back on that strange night, and its happenings, it seemed to her that without him she could not have lived through the hours.
In truth there was not much sleep for anyone. The village doctor, who lived in top-boots, and went his rounds on horse-back, and by old-fashioned people was called the apothecary, could say nothing for certain; in the morning he might be able to do so. But in the morning — well, perhaps by night, when the patient came to himself, he might be able to form an opinion. To Arthur he was more candid. The eye was beyond hope — it could not be saved, and he feared that the other eye was injured; and there was serious concussion. He played with his fob seals and looked sagely over his gold-rimmed spectacles as he mouthed his phrases. Whether there was a fracture he could not say at present.
He had seen in a long life and a country practice many such cases, and was skilful in treating them. But — no active measures. “Dr. Quiet,” he said, “Dr. Quiet, the best of the faculty, my dear. If he does not always effect a cure, he makes no mistakes. We must leave it to him.”
So morning came, and passed, and noon; and still nothing more could be done. With the afternoon reaction set in; the house resigned itself to rest. Two or three stole away to sleep. Arthur dozed in an arm-chair. The clock struck with abnormal clearness, the cluck of a hen in the yard was heard in the attics. So the hours passed until sunset surprised a yawning house, and in the parlor they pressed one another to eat, and in the kitchen unusual luxuries were consumed with a ghoulish enjoyment, and no fear of the housekeeper. And still Farmer could add nothing. They must wait and hope. Dr. Quiet! He praised him afresh in the same words.
Some hours earlier, and before Josina, after much scolding by Miss Peacock, had retired to her room to lie down, Arthur had told his story.
He did not go into details. “It would only shock you, Jos,” he said. “It was Thomas, of course, and I hope to heaven he’ll swing for it. I suppose he knew that your father was carrying a large sum, and he must have struck him, possibly as he turned to say something, and then thrown him out. We must set the hue and cry after him, but Clement will see to that. It was lucky that he turned up when he did.”
She drew a sharp breath; this was the first she had heard of Clement. And in her surprise “Clement?” she exclaimed. Then, covering her confusion as well as she could, “Mr. Ovington? Do you mean — he was there, Arthur?”
“By good luck he was, just when he was wanted. Poor chap. I can tell you it knocked him fairly down. All the same, I don’t know what might not have happened if he had not come up. I sent him for Farmer, and it saved time.”
“I did not know that he had been there,” she murmured, too self-conscious to ask further questions.
“Well, you wouldn’t, of course. He’d been fishing, I fancy, and came along just when it made all the difference. I don’t know what I should have done without him.”
“And Thomas? You are sure that it was Thomas? What became of him?”
“He made off across the fields. It was dark and useless to follow him — we had other things to think of, as you may imagine. Ten to one he has made for Manchester, but Clement will see to that. Oh, we’ll have him! But there, I’ll not tell you any more, Jos. You look ill as it is, and it will only spoil your sleep. Do you go upstairs and lie down, or you will never be able to go on.” And, Miss Peacock fussily seconding his advice, Jos consented and went.
Arthur’s manner had been kind, and Jos thought him kind. A brother could not have been more anxious to spare her unpleasant details. But, told as he had told it, the story left her under the impression that Clement’s part had been secondary only, and slight, and that if there were a person to whom she owed the preservation of her father’s life, it was Arthur, and Arthur only. Which she was the more ready to believe, in view of the masterly way in which he had managed all at the house, had taken the upper hand in all, and saved her, and spared her.
Yet Arthur had been careful to state no facts which could be contradicted by evidence, should the whole come out — at an inquest, for instance. He had foreseen the possibility of that, and had been careful. Indeed, it was with that in his mind that he had — well, that he had not gone into details.
CHAPTER XVI
Clement had walked with the doctor to the door and had secured a last word with Arthur outside, but he had not ventured to enter the house, much less to ask for Josina. He knew how heavily the shock would fall on her, and his heart was wrung for her. But he knew also, or he guessed, that the poignancy of her grief would be sharpened by remorse, and he felt that in the first outburst of self-reproach his presence would be the last she would welcome.
It was not a pleasant thought for a lover; but then how much worse, he reflected, would it have been for her, had she never made up her mind to confession. And in his own person how much better he now stood. He had saved the Squire’s life, and had saved it in circumstances that must do him credit. He had run his risks, and been put to the test, and he had come manfully out of it; and he still felt that elation of spirit, that readiness to do and dare, to meet fresh ventures, which attends on a crisis successfully encountered.
He was not in a mood to be dashed by trifles therefore, or Arthur, when he came out to speak to him, would have dashed him, for Arthur was rather short with him. “You can do nothing here,” he said. “We are tumbling over one another. Get after that rascal. He has got away with four hundred in gold and we must recover it. Watkins at the Griffin may know where he’ll make for.”
“He’s in livery, isn’t he?”
“Begad, so he is! I’d not thought of that! I’ll have his place watched in case he steals back to change. But do you see Watkins.”
Clement took his dismissal meekly and went to Watkins. He soon learned all that the inn-keeper knew, which amounted to no more than a conviction that Thomas would make for Manchester. Watkins shook his head over the livery. The rascal was no fool; he’d have got rid of that. “Oh, he’s a clever chap, sir, and a gallus bad one.” he continued. “He’d talk here that daring that he’d lift the hair on my head. But I never thought that he’d devil enough,” in a tone of admiration, “to attack the Squire! Well, he’ll swing this time, if he’s taken! You’re not in very good fettle yourself, sir. You know that your cheek’s bleeding?”
“It’s nothing. And you think he’ll make for Manchester?”
“As sure as sure! He’s done that this time, sir, as he never can be safe but in a crowd. And where’d he go but where he knows? He’ll be in Manchester before to
morrow night, and it’ll take you all your time, sir, finding him there! It’s a mortal big place, I understand, and he’ll have got rid of his livery, depend on it!”
“I’ll find him,” Clement said. And he meant it. His blood was hot, he had tasted of adventure and he found it more to his liking than day-books and ledgers. And already he had made up his mind that it was his business to pursue Thomas. He was angered by the rascal’s cowardly attack upon an old man, and were it only for that he would take him. But apart from that he saw that if he recovered the Squire’s money it would be another point to his credit — if the Squire recovered. If the old man did not, well, still he would have done something. As he rode home, and passed the scene of the robbery, he laid his plans.
He would leave the search in that district to the Head Constable at Aldersbury. But he expected little from this. In those days if a man was robbed it was the man’s own business and that of his friends to follow the thief and seize him if they could. In London the Bow Street Runners saw to it, and in one or two of the big cities there were police officers organized on similar lines. But in the country there were only parish constables, elderly men, often chosen because they were past work.
Clement knew, then, that he must rely on himself, and he tried to imagine what Thomas would do, and what route he would take if he made for Manchester. Not through Aldersbury, for there he would run the risk of recognition. Nor would he venture into either of the direct roads thence — through Congleton or by Tarporley; for it was along these roads that he would be likely to be followed. How, then? Through Chester, Clement fancied. The man was already on the Chester side of Aldersbury, and he could make at once for that place, while in the full stream of traffic between Chester and Manchester his traces would be lost. Travelling on foot and by night, he might reach Chester about ten in the morning, and probably, having money and being footsore, he would take the first Manchester coach that left after ten.
At this point Clement found himself crossing the West Bridge, the faint scattered lights of the town rising to a point before him. His first business was to knock up the constable and tell his tale. This done, he made for the bank, where he found the household awaiting his coming in some alarm, for it was close on midnight. Here he had to tell his story afresh, amid expressions of wonder and pity, while Betty fetched sponge and water and bathed his cheek; nor, modestly as he related his doings, could he quite conceal the part that he had played. The banker listened, approved, and for once experienced a new sensation. He was proud of his son. Moreover, as a dramatic sequel to the Squire’s withdrawal of the money, the story touched him home.
Then Clement, as he ate his supper, came to his point. “I’m going after him,” he said.
The banker objected. “It’s not your business, my lad,” he said. “You’ve done enough, I’m sure.”
“But the point is — it’s bank money, sir.” Clement had grown cunning.
“It was — this morning.”
“And he was a client this morning — and may be tomorrow.”
The banker considered. There was something in that; and this sudden interest in the bank was gratifying. Yet — yet he did not quite understand it. “You seem to be confoundedly taken up with this,” he said, “but I don’t see why you need mix yourself up with it farther. The scoundrel’s neck is in a halter and he won’t be taken without a struggle. Have you thought of that?”
“I’d take him if he were ten,” Clement said — and blushed at his own enthusiasm. He muttered something about the man being a villain, and the sooner he was laid by the heels the better.
“Yes, by someone. But I don’t see why you need be the one.”
“Anyway, I’m going to do it, sir,” Clement replied with unexpected independence. “I shall go by the Nantwich coach at half-past five, drop off at Altringham, and catch him as he goes through. True, if he goes by Frodsham I may miss him, but I fancy that the morning coach by Frodsham leaves Chester too early for him. And, after all, I can’t stop every bolt-hole.”
Ovington wondered anew, seeing his son in a new light. This was not the idler with his eyes on the ledger and his thoughts abroad, whom he had known in the bank, but a young man with purpose in his glance and a cut on his cheek-bone, who looked as if he could be ugly if it came to a pinch. A quite new Clement — or new at any rate to him.
He reflected. The affair would be talked of, and certainly it would be a feather in the bank’s cap if the money, which the Squire had withdrawn, were recovered through the bank’s exertions. Viewed in that light there was method in the lad’s madness, whatever had bitten him, “Well, I think it is a dangerous business,” he said at last, “and it is not your business. But go, if you will, only you must take Payne with you.”
Payne was the bank man-of-all-work, but Clement would not hear of Payne. If he could be called at five, he asked no more. Even if all the seats on the Victory were booked, they would find room for him somewhere.
“But your face?” Betty said. “Isn’t it painful? It’s turning black.”
“I’ll bet that villain’s is as black!” he retorted. “I know I got home on him once. Only let me be called.”
But his father saw that, as he passed through the hall, he took one of the bank pistols out of the case in which they were kept, and slipped it into his pocket. The banker wondered anew, and felt perhaps more anxiety than he showed. At any rate, it was he who called the lad at five and saw that he drank the coffee that Betty had prepared, and that he ate something. At the last, indeed, Clement feared that his father might offer to accompany him, but he did not. Possibly he had decided that if his son was bent on proving his mettle in this odd business, it was wisest not to balk him.
The sun was rising as Clement’s coach rattled down the Foregate between the old Norman towers that crown the Castle Hill, and the long austere front of the school, with its wide low casements twinkling in the first beams. Early milk-carts drew aside to give the coach passage, white-eyed sweeps gazed enviously after it, mob-caps at windows dreamt of holidays and sighed to be on it and away. Soon it burst merrily from the crowded houses and met the morning freshness and the open country and the rolling fields. The mists were rising from the valley behind, as the horses breasted the ascent above the old battle-field, swept down the farther slope, and at eight miles an hour climbed up Armour Hill between meadows sparkling with dew and coverts flickering with conies. Down the hill at a canter, which presently carried it rejoicing into Wem. There the first relay was waiting, and away again they went, bowling over the barren gorse-clad heath that brought them presently through narrow twisting streets to the White Lion at Whitchurch. Again, “Horses on!” and merrily they travelled down the gentle slope to the Cheshire plain, where miles of green country spread themselves in the sunshine, a land of fatness and plenty, of cheese and milk and slow-running brooks. The clock on Nantwich church was showing a half after eight, as with a long flourish from the bugle they passed below it, and halted for breakfast at the Crown, in the stubborn old Round-head town.
Half an hour to refresh, topping up with a glass of famous Nantwich ale, and away again. But now the sun was high, the world abroad, the roads were alive with traffic. Onwards from Nantwich, where they began to run alongside the Ellesmere Canal, with its painted barges and gay market boats, the road took on a new importance, and many a smiling wayside house, Lion or Swan, cheered the travellers on their way. Spanking four-in-hands, handled by lusty coachmen, the autocrats of the road, chaises-and-four with postboys in green or yellow, white-coated farmers and parsons on hackneys, commercials in gigs, and publicans in tax-carts, pedlars, packmen, the one-legged sailor, and Punch and Judy — all these met or passed them; and huge wains laden with Manchester goods and driven by teamsters in smocks with long whips on their shoulders. And the inns! The inns, with their swaying signs and open windows, their benches crowded with loungers and their yards echoing with the cry of “Next team!” — the inns, with their groaning tables and huge joints and gleamin
g silver, these came so often, swaggered so loudly, imposed themselves so royally, that half the life of the road seemed to be in and about them.
And Clement saw it all and rejoiced in it all, though his eyes never ceased to search for a dour-looking man with a bruised face. He rejoiced in the cantering horses and the abounding life about him, in the freedom of it and the joyousness of it, his pulses leaping in tune with it; and not the less in tune, so splendid a thing is it to be young and in love, because he had fought a fight and slept only three hours. He watched it all pass before him, and if he had ever believed in his father’s scheme of an iron way and iron horses he lost faith in it now. For it was impossible to believe that any iron road running across fields and waste places could vie with this splendid highway, this orderly procession of coaches, travelling and stopping and meeting with the regularity of a weaver’s shuttle, these long lines of laden wagons, these swift chaises horsed at every stage! He saw stables that sheltered a hundred roadsters and were not full; ostlers to whom a handful of oats in every peck gave a gentleman’s income; teams that were clothed and curried as tenderly as children; mighty caravanserais full to the attics. A whole machinery of transport passed under his wondering eyes, and the railway, the Valleys Railway — he smiled at it as at the dream of a visionary.
They swept through Northwich before noon, and an hour later Clement dropped off the coach in front of the Bowling Green Inn at Altringham, and knew that his task lay before him. The little town had no church, but it boasted for its size more bustle than he had expected, and as he eyed its busy streets and its flow of traffic his spirits sank; it did not call itself one of the gates of Manchester for nothing. However, he had not come to stand idle, and the first step, to seek out a constable, was easy. But to secure that worthy’s aid — he was but a deputy, a pot-bellied, spectacled shoemaker — was another matter. The man rolled up his leather apron and pushed his horn-rimmed glasses on to his forehead, but he shook his head. “A very desperate villain,” he said, “a very desperate villain! But lor’, master, a dark sullen chap with a black eye and legs a little bandy? Why, I be dark and I be bandy, and for black eyes — I’m afeared there’s more than one o’ that cut on the road.”
Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman Page 647