“There is no night coach from Salisbury to Exeter!” George insisted, striking the letter with his hand.
“I’ve looked in Paterson.”
“That’s odd,” Lady Ellingham said. But having said it she was content to shrug her shoulders. It was silly of George to make such a fuss about the girl! But the men’s attention was caught, and they looked inquiringly at him.
“What does it mean?” the Captain demanded. “The letter is written by the doctor. Says her mother has had a cere — cerebral attack, whatever that may be, and that if the girl wishes to see her alive she must return in the chaise and catch — I’ll tell you what! This letter is a d — d fraud! I don’t believe a word of it! There’s no night coach, and you — you ought not to have let the girl go, Kitty!”
The accusation fell sharp among them. He spoke harshly, making no attempt to hide his feelings, and Charlotte reddened with vexation. My lord went out without a word, evidently to consult Paterson for himself. My lady let her work fall into her lap. “Nonsense, George,” she said quietly. “You are romancing.”
“But there is no night coach!”
“The writer may have made a mistake.”
“But everyone has a Paterson!” Paterson’s Road Book was, be it said, the Bradshaw of that day. “And that’s not all. There’s the endorsement.” He turned the paper over. “‘To be forwarded from Salisbury by post-chaise, which will await orders at the Rt. Hon the Earl of Ellingham’s, all expenses paid. Urgent, very urgent.’ Why all this arrangement? Did the man suppose that Fred had no horses?”
“But it seems a wise arrangement,” my lady contended. “See how quickly Miss South got off.”
“To catch a night coach that doesn’t run?”
My lord came in. “No, there is no coach,” he said.
“It certainly looks fishy. What do you fellows make of it?”
“A mistake,” my lady said equably. “George is exciting himself about nothing.”
“I’m hanged if I am!” George exploded, his angry eyes challenging opposition. “Post through?” he retorted, in reply to a suggestion. “Ten to one she hasn’t the money!”
Lord Robert had an idea and he launched it. “I’ll tell you what it is,” he said. “If it is as you think, I’ll wager there’s a man at the bottom of it! Eh? What do you think? Don’t you think so?”
The Captain turned on him, but before he could annihilate him, “And perhaps,” the chaplain said, “the young lady was not quite in the dark either.”
George whirled about, but, “Gad, you think she was fly?” said my lord.
“A put-up thing, I expect!” agreed the chaplain, less discreet than usual. “At any rate,” he hedged hurriedly as the Captain’s baleful gaze again shifted to him, “it looks like it to me.”
George, tormented on all sides, opened his mouth, but before he could find words strong enough, “To be sure, to be sure!” said Sir Austin, catching the idea at last. “I see. The young lady knew what she was going to?”
You’ve got it, Sir Austin,” said Bobbie, smiling.
George found voice. “Well, I’m d — d!” he cried.
I tell you what it is! You are all as bad one as the other! You’re a set of longshore chatterers — worse, begad, than a lot of prating scandal-mongering bum-boatwomen! I’ve not the patience to listen to you! Can’t you see? Haven’t you eyes? You’ve seen the girl. Isn’t it a hundred times more likely that someone — ay, someone of your kidney, confound you! — has laid a false course for her and—”
“And set a trap for her?” broke in my lord.
“Well, I don’t know, George. Women are queer things, my lad.”
“The women you know are!” George snarled, and, muttering something very unfit for the ladies’ ears, he strode out of the room, slamming the white and gold door behind him with a violence that set the pendants on the chandeliers jangling.
Lord Robert grinned, while my lord, struck thus treacherously under the ribs, looked foolish. The other men exchanged glances and shrugged their shoulders. “By Jove!” said Bobbie, lowering his voice, “I’m afraid that George is a case. I’m afraid he is.” He shook his head sapiently. “Comes of going to sea.”
“‘Pon honour,” Sir Austin ventured, “it looks to me very much as if — I really begin to think that George—” and then my lord trod on his toe.
The Countess rose with an impassive face. “It is ten o’clock,” she said. “Shall we go, Charlotte?”
“I think it is time,” Charlotte assented, in a tone that expressed more than her words. The two rose and retired, and the men, left to themselves, had their say about it, and sniggered a little at George’s expense. But a few minutes later, as they crossed the hall on their way to the billiard-room, my lady descended upon them, her feelings for once written on her face.
“Fred!” she exclaimed, addressing him with less of form than she had used with him for a twelvemonth, “George is gone!”
My lord stood. The rest paused to listen. “Gone?” he repeated. “Gone where?”
“Gone after her! And he’s not fit.”
“The devil he has! How’s he gone!”
“He’s taken Medea.”
“Taken Medea!” my lord exclaimed, and now he was really roused. “Taken Medea, and the ground as hard as iron! If he lames that mare — by gad, but I can’t believe he’d do such a mad thing! Confound him! Are you sure, Kitty?”
“They say so. They say that he went straight to the stables, had her saddled and rode off. Bowles ran after him to try to stop him, but was only in time to see him pass the gate.”
“Confound the little baggage!” my lord cried, honestly angry for once. “She’ll be the laming of that mare, and I’ve backed her for the Ringwood Cup.”
“I wish I could think,” said my lady darkly, “that she will do no more harm than that!”
CHAPTER XXIV
MEDEA TO THE RESCUE
IT was true. George had taken Medea, though probably no one else in the house, not even my lord, could have drawn the steeplechaser from her stall for such a purpose. But the Captain’s savage eyes had wrought the miracle, though not without trouble, nor until he had fretted away five intolerable minutes, stamping to and fro in the blackness under the great chestnut tree that stood in the middle of the stable-court; the tree that of sunny noons had sheltered generations of stable brats at play — infants chuckling on their backs as they stared up at the sun-flecked foliage or boys stringing cobs — but at night was a Cacus cave sheltering for the same children unknown horrors.
In the end, and reluctantly, Tom had put an end to the Captain’s suspense. He had led out the mare, at the same time raising his lanthorn, so as to throw its light on the Captain’s face, and assure himself that he was sober. For Tom was quaking in his shoes at the thought of Mr. Coker, the stud-groom, and what that great man would have to say about it in the morning.
“You know she’s entered for the cup, Mr. George,” he said, as Medea flung up her head and hung back in the doorway, her eyes glistening in the light of the lanthorn.
“D — n the cup!” the Captain said, gathering up the reins and lifting himself to the saddle.
“Well, for God’s sake have a care, sir! The ground is hard, and I dunno what Mr. Coker will say!”
Mr. George’s answer was lost in the clatter of the mare’s hoofs as she sidled over the gravel. Tom walked beside her, throwing the light before her, and would fain have pressed home his warning. But before he had screwed up his courage to say more, the mare broke away into the night, plunging and shying. The light glinted a last time on her sleek quarters, the man heard the Captain steady her to a sharp trot, he lowered his lanthorn. “Grant she come to no harm!” he said. “But I shall catch it sweetly for this! Confound him, as if no other nag would serve his turn!” And most devoutly Tom wished as he went back to the stable that he had not been on duty.
Meanwhile the Captain turned his mount on to the turf and gave her her head. He had a
good seat for a sailor, and it was well that he had, for Medea was fresh, the cold air tickled her, and this unwonted frisk among the shadows of the night was a treat of which she was bound to make the most. The lines of trees that flanked the avenue, though she knew perfectly well what they were, gave her noble pretexts for shying, and a dozen times she broke away with a joyous flout of her heels and tore through the cold delicious air with a spirit that tried the Captain’s strength to the uttermost. Once a rabbit, scurrying under her nose, really upset her ladyship’s nerves, and her rider only saved himself with a hand in her mane. But he steadied her again with voice and rein, rode presently clear of the forest land and cantered across the far-stretching open moor at a steadier pace.
By and by he would have to take to the road, and he knew that it was hard, and he thought of Fred and the cup. But he crushed down the qualm — what mattered a horse, even Medea, beside that which he believed was at stake. He swore savagely under his breath, took a tighter hold of her and pressed her on. His full strength had not come back to him, and he was sweating as if he had ridden a race.
He had reckoned that the chaise had an hour’s start of him, and he believed that he could overtake it — if that were all. But that was not all. The thing that most troubled him, that harassed and tormented him, and more than once almost led him to draw rein, was doubt.
What if, after all, he were a fool and the whole thing a mare’s nest? The letter might be genuine, the mention of the night coach a mere error, and all that he had raised on them a structure of over-heated fancy — a house of cards! If that were so he had started out on as silly a goose-chase as any man, crazed by his imagination, had undertaken! And he would never hear the end of it.
Or worse still — if those confounded cynics with their poisonous tongues were right? If there was a plot and she was a party to it, the purpose of it that she might escape and join her lover! He knew all about Girardot; my lady had told him, had hastened to tell him. And the doubt would force itself on his mind, though he swore again and again that he knew the girl, and that she was not one to sail under false colours, that her face and her eyes gave the lie to it! He had witnessed her courage in the wood, he had been touched by her dignity when that vixen of an Ann had struck her, he had seen her, instead of swooning, take the sash from her own waist, he had watched her a dozen times, when his eyes and his mind were apparently elsewhere. And he would not believe that she was of that kind. That she could plot and lie for so vile a purpose.
And yet — if she were in love! There was the crux. Always the thought came back to him — what would not a girl do for her lover? And that rascal of a tutor was so wily, so good-looking, so smooth! Was there anywhere a man more likely to twist a girl round his fingers? Even a good girl with eyes like still pools, and lips that trembled at a harsh word?
The Captain groaned, eased the mare up the slight rise by Picket Post and felt the breeze strike more freshly on his brow. He drew rein on the farther slope and listened. Darkness flowed over the depths below him as softly and silently as the limpid stream that, unseen, swayed the long weeds in the bottom of the valley. An owl hooted in Ridley Copse on his right, but its note was so much a part of the night that it did but deepen the stillness. Beyond the valley a long pale line of sky marked the horizon, and some way beneath it a gleam of light betrayed the houses of Ringwood. But no sound of hoofs or skidded wheels rose from the road below him, and with a sigh and at a more cautious pace, with something of indecision in his movements, he began the descent.
A quarter of an hour later he trotted into the sleeping village, saw a stream of light pouring cheerfully from the door of the White Hart, and he pulled up. The sound of a horse at that late hour drew the landlord to the door, and “Has a chaise gone by, Jervis?” the Captain asked, throwing as much indifference into his tone as he could manage.
“Lord, sir,” the landlord cried, recognizing him. And he came out to his stirrup. “Is it you, Captain? Who’d ha’ thought of seeing your honour as late as this? And you in bed, I thought? A chaise? Ay, to be sure, sir, twenty minutes ago. They stopped to water.”
“Who was in it?”
“On’y a young lady, sir. From the Folly, I understood — for Salisbury.”
“Oh!” The Captain’s voice was flat. “Very good.” He turned Medea’s head for home. “Forgot something, that’s all. Too late now. Thought I might come up with her here. Good night, Jervis.”
Jervis called after him, inquiring if he would not take something. But the Captain only waved his hunting-crop in answer. He was already retracing his steps along the street. He kept the mare at a foot pace for a time, but as soon as he was clear of the houses he gave her her head and trotted smartly on, sitting low in his saddle. A mare’s nest? Yes, it looked like it, since no one had joined her. And how he would be roasted for rushing a hunter through the night, and all for nothing! The sooner he got the mare home, and safe home, the better.
But when he came, a third of the way up the hill, to the smithy at the cross-roads, he halted. Why had they stayed to water at Ringwood? Ringwood was hardly seven miles from Queen’s Folly, and there could be no need to stop — for man or beast. Was it to leave evidence, if they were followed, that the girl was alone and that all was above-board? The Captain swore, and sat for a moment undecided. Then impulsively he turned the mare’s head into the forest road on his left, struck her smartly with the crop to enforce his will upon her, and sent her along by the by-ways that on that side of the valley skirted the lower slopes of the Forest towards Fordingbridge. They would serve his purpose as well as the main road and be shorter and softer. He had lost twenty minutes of precious time, and had himself to thank for it.
The by-road ran under trees and was dark and rough, but it was soft, and wherever he could safely do so he cantered the mare. He passed through North Poulner, by Moyles Court, lying lonely and dark under its weight of tragedy, and through South Gorley, rousing all the dogs in the hamlet. He forded the Ickley brook, and at North Gorley turned to his left and got upon the main road. There he took to the turf at the side and galloped riding the harder for the doubts that plagued him and the indecision that weakened him. He was in a fever to settle the question; and if he had not turned back once and repented of it, he would have whirled about a dozen times, as a dozen times he called himself every kind of name for starting on such a hare-brained chase.
But to go back now while there remained the slightest uncertainty seemed worse than to persevere. And at length he saw a light ahead of him, in some sick-room perhaps, and quickly he clattered over the long causeway into Fordingbridge, the sliding water glinting darkly below him. He halted before the Greyhound, wedged in on his right between bridge and river.
And here again he was in luck. The house was awake, an ostler came out at once in answer to his hail. Again he inquired if a chaise had passed — a chaise for Salisbury.
The man threw the light of his lanthorn on horse and rider. “Ay, to be sure,” he said. “They be gone no more than half an hour.”
“They changed horses here?”
“Ay, they did. Anything wrong, mister?” The man’s curiosity was raised. He fancied that he knew the gentleman, but he could not put a name to him. The horse, however, was beyond denial: it was such a horse as he had not seen for a twelvemonth.
“One or two travellers?” the Captain asked.
“One or two — ?”
“Were there one or two inside?”
“Two, to be sure. A gentleman and a lady.” Again, “Anything wrong, mister?”
A long pause. “Did they get out?”
“Narra one.”
“You are sure there were two?”
“Well, I see ‘em,” the man answered dryly. “They looked to be two. And in a mortal hurry to get on. What about ‘em, mister?” He raised his lanthorn for a clearer view.
The Captain turned his back and slid stiffly to the ground. “Nothing,” he said. “Bring half a bucket of oatmeal and water, luke.
And be sharp about it.” The sight of half a crown quickened the man’s movements, and he was back in two minutes with the bucket. “That’s a gay fine mare,” he said, as he held the pail on his knee while Medea blew delicately on it, in doubt of its cleanliness. “You’ve ridden her too!”
The Captain tightened a girth. “Ay,” he said, his head under the saddle-flap. “The lady left no message here?”
“Narra a word! Kep’ out of sight, if you ask me.”
“I meant to meet them here,” the Captain explained, as he turned to watch Medea quenching her thirst in her dainty fashion. “And I’m too late.”
“Well, you’ve made haste too.”
The Captain did not answer. He swung himself up, handed over the coin, and turned for home. “Good night.”
He paced slowly away into the darkness, and passed again over the long causeway where the wind from the marshes nipped him and chilled his blood.
But the chill without was nothing to the chill within; the rushy flat through which the water flowed and whispered beneath him was not half so cold and dead as the spirit within him. So, after all, the candid eyes and the soft tremulous lips had been lies, the woman’s common wiles that took in foolish men! And she had — she had been that kind of girl! Her looks that had seemed so open, her artless manners, her gentle dignity, all had been but so many false lights set up to lead men on to shoals and rocks and shipwreck. And when she had been most open, then she had been most cunning, laughing in secret, marking with shrewd derisive eyes the stupid seaman as he tacked to and fro, masking his clumsy course.
She had affected solitude and forced a tear to her eye the while she plotted how she might most quickly join her lover! She was that kind of girl.
And with it all, with all her address, a fool! The rider’s chin sank lower on his breast. For he might not know women — here indeed was the proof, the damning proof that he did not. Kitty, even Kitty might deceive, might be every day deceiving him. But he did know men, and Girardot with his handsome face, his laughing eyes, his glib tongue, was an open book to him. Quickly, quickly would he tire of his easy conquest, and then what would be her fate? Something between a groan and a curse escaped from the Captain’s lips and he struck Medea — Medea who had never offended him.
Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman Page 730