He heard her fumbling for the handle, and, though he did not believe that she would carry out her threat while the carriage was moving at speed, the excuse served him. “So you are stubborn, are you!” he replied, his anger roused. “Softly, softly! We are not at an end yet!” And he found and seized her hand and drew her forcibly towards him. She uttered a cry, and with her free hand she struck the glass furiously, shattering it.
“Stop! Stop!” she screamed. “Help!”
“Dear, dear little fool!” he said, and easily mastering her — for what could she do in that space? — he drew her to him. She struggled, and then, panting, desisted. “Frightened little heart,” he murmured. “Heart of my heart, what are you afraid of? See, I do not harm you. I do not hurt you. I do but prevent you harming yourself. Those little hands were never meant for that, but to be cherished, fondled, kissed, adored!”
She gasped, helpless, despairing. But even in that desperate strait she kept her wits, and his words suggested something. “Oh, the blood! My wrist!” she cried suddenly. “My wrist! Give me a handkerchief!” Terror rang in her voice. “For pity’s sake a handkerchief! I shall bleed to death!”
Alarmed, he released her for a moment and felt for his handkerchief. “Now that comes,” he said reproachfully, “of obstinacy. I told you that those little hands were never meant—”
But, “Oh, a light!” she sobbed hysterically. “A light! It is bleeding — bleeding over me! I shall die.”
He folded the handkerchief, and the moment he gave to that task, which required the use of both hands, was fatal. In the darkness she had found the handle and this time she succeeded in turning it. As he leaned towards her with the handkerchief, she hurled herself bodily against the door. It gave way, and she flung herself recklessly from the carriage, the grasp that he made at her skirt missing her by inches.
He swore and shouted. “Stop! Stop!” he cried.
CHAPTER XXVI
THE FLIGHT IN THE NIGHT
RACHEL fell with stunning violence, and had she struck the road she might have paid for her resolution with her life. Fortunately she fell on the turf beside the way, and even before the carriage came to a halt she had staggered to her feet. Shaken and breathless as she was, the will to escape was still uppermost, and there was in that small frame wit as well as courage. The road was open, without fence on either side, but she had the quickness to foresee that she would be first sought on the side towards which she had fallen; and before Girardot set foot on the road she had staggered across it and crept through the shallow ditch on the other side. While the tutor, appalled by the catastrophe, was still unshipping with shaking fingers one of the lamps, she pushed her way through the brambles, and by the time he reached the spot, and began to throw his light — which blinded him to all but the ground on which it shone — about him, she had sunk down behind a bush and lay still as a hare in her form. But the bushes that hid her were no more than three or four paces from the road, and never did poor Puss’s heart beat more wildly than the girl’s.
Girardot fully expected to find her lying dead or injured in the way, and when he failed to do so, his first feeling was one of pure relief. But to that, anger at her obstinacy, anger and a baser feeling quickly succeeded, and once assured that she had escaped with uninjured limbs, the tutor ran back along the road, flashing his light before him and calling on her to stop. He wasted half a minute in this, while she cautiously edged herself a little farther into the covert. Then, persuaded that she had not gone that way, he returned as speedily as he could, and did what she had foreseen that he would do. He crossed the ditch on the side on which she had fallen, and pushed his way amid the undergrowth, still calling her name and throwing his light hither and thither.
She had waited, trembling the while, for this, and the moment that her ears told her that he was breaking his way through the bushes, she rose, and under cover of the noise groped her way farther into the thicket. It was a wild edge of common, a wilderness of brambles, thick in one place, thin in another, and set sparsely with thorn-trees. She tore her gown and her hands and scratched her face, but in her excitement she felt no pain, and as long as she dared and she could hear her pursuer moving she crept stealthily on. Then when she heard him leap back into the road, she sank down again. She heard his voice rise, answering the questions of the postboy. And now she guessed that he was beating the ditch on the side next to her.
But she was by this time at some distance, twenty or thirty yards from the road, and she was wiser than to move. She trembled indeed, when she saw his light flashing over her head and knew that he had at last entered the brake and was beating the edge of it this way and that. But she only held her breath and crouched the lower. The wind of the night soughed over her, the unknown fathomless night that ordinarily held so many terrors for her. But now her only terror was of him.
And oh, the relief when she saw his light retreating and again heard his feet sound on the hard road. A second conference followed, but now the voices were less distinct. Apparently the conclusion at which he and the postboy arrived was that the fugitive had been quicker on her feet than they had calculated — that she had, after all, fled back by the way they had come. At any rate, the carriage was turned, not without delay and some cracking of the whip. A moment later she saw with tremulous thankfulness the lights travelling back towards Fordingbridge.
Five minutes she waited until the last sound of the horses’ feet had died away, and then she scrambled back into the road. She was free, but now that the crisis was over she sobbed with excitement and could hardly stand. Her left hand, strained in the fall, was nearly useless, she had lost a shoe, her knees trembled, her heart seemed to be bursting. And she was alone on an unknown road, in a strange country, in winter.
Many a one, as unused to hardships as she was, would have lost hope and sunk down in a swoon that at that season might end in death. But Rachel was of firmer will. Mother, sister, home rose before her, and though her head ached and she was very sick, she limped painfully away along the road. Some house, some help she must find if she persevered; and though more than once sheer giddiness brought her to a stand, always she went on again. The stones of the road bruised her unshod foot, a cow that bounced up before her drew from her a gasp of terror; but she held on. The cottage fireside shining in the night beckoned her, and more than once, and half unconsciously, she called on her mother.
And by and by hope cheered her. High up on her left she espied in the universal gloom a single light, and she pressed on desperately towards it. A light! If it was not a star it must mean a house, it must mean help. But the road, which at this point was hedged on either side, did not always lead towards it; at times she lost sight of the light, and the ascent that rose to it taxed her last reserve of strength. But at last she drew abreast of it; she saw dimly a gap in the hedge, and conjectured a gate, found it and leant upon it. She made out a low building, from a window in which the blessed ray seemed to beam, and she staggered across a sloping farmyard, groped for and found a door. Too weak to call out and sinking with fatigue, she beat on the door with her uninjured hand.
She leant her head against the rough wood. If they would not come? If they would not let her in? She knew that she had not the strength to go farther. She tried to cry out, but no sound issued from her parched throat. If they did not come she must fall where she was. Again and desperately she struck the door.
Then, joy! She heard a heavy step descending naked stairs, saw a gleam of light under the door, heard the slow trapesing of slippered feet across a stone floor. A voice asked gruffly who was there. She forced herself to utter some faint sound, the door was opened, slowly and suspiciously, and blinded by the sudden light the girl tottered across the threshold.
“Lord ha’ mercy!” cried the stout woman, half dressed, who confronted her. She held up the light that she carried, and with amazement, and it must be owned with suspicion, she surveyed the stranger. “Who be you, wench?”
The girl could on
ly point to her throat and whisper a hoarse word. But her white, drawn face, her torn, disordered dress, and the blood that disfigured her, all spoke for her. “God ha’ mercy!” the woman repeated. “What has happened to you?”
Without waiting for an answer, and though her surprise had still in it something of misgiving, she thrust forward a chair, and Rachel sank into it. After another searching look the woman bustled away and returned bearing a mug of milk. Again she looked her visitor over, withheld the milk, and hurried up the boxed-in stairs. A moment and she was down again, attended by a faint smell of brandy. “There, sip up that,” she said, and, setting her arms akimbo, stood staring at the girl. After a pause, “Ha, someone set on you?” she asked.
Rachel had drunk and gasped, and a little colour returned to her cheeks. She heaved a deep sigh, but instead of answering the question she looked at the door. “Can you lock it?” she whispered. “Oh, please, please lock it!”
The woman shrugged her shoulders, but complied. She had fancied at first that the girl was a gipsy, and at farmhouses gipsies are no welcome visitors. But by this time her eyes had assured her that, torn and stained as the girl’s clothes were, they were no country wench’s. She marked the unshod and muddied foot, the scratched and bloodstained face, and pity got the better of suspicion. “Lord’s sake,” she repeated, “someone has mishandled you, child! And someone should pay for it. Seems a constable’s job. D’you come in here, and I’ll stir up the embers. You’re all of a shake wi’ cold.”
Beckoned to follow, Rachel limped after her into an inner kitchen where a half-extinguished fire smouldered on the hearth. The woman placed her on a settle while she stirred the wood to a blaze and lowered a kettle that hung above it. “I saw the light,” Rachel whispered thankfully.
“Then ’twas lucky my old man was sick. But you” — the woman stared at her—” you be no Whitsbury girl. Who be you, if I may ask? It is late for a young lass like you to be tramping the roads.”
“Someone — I wanted to get away from someone,” Rachel faltered. “I jumped out of a carriage. You are sure, you are quite sure, you won’t let anyone in?”
“No fear! The door’s locked, and ‘twon’t be opened again, noways. But there’s my old man a-thumping. He’ll be in a fine stew to think what it’s about. Do you take another sip, my dear. There’s naught in it to harm you, only a spoonful of what John Tredescant, the goodman’s cousin that lives seaward, sent us Christmas-time. Do you take off your stockings, miss,” she continued, with another shrewd glance at her clothes, “and I’ll bring you water to fettle yourself when I’ve fettled my man. I’ll make you a bed on the settle, maybe.”
She disappeared, and lulled by the warm air of the kitchen, soothed by the homely aspect of the pots and pans gleaming in the firelight, of the racks of flitches hung overhead among bunches of herbs, Rachel leant her head against the wooden back of the settle and closed her eyes. But only her body rested, her nerves were still ajar, her brain worked. In thought she lived again the horrid hour, the trying scene through which she had passed; or if her mind for a moment wrenched itself from it, it was only to busy itself with the position in which Girardot’s cruel trick had placed her — with what would be said and what would be thought. The Countess had been kind at parting, but beneath her kindness the girl felt a subtle, a latent antagonism; and in what other quarter could she look for support?
True, if her story were believed — but if it were not? She had not the strength to fight a battle, or face the suspicion that she foresaw. Only in one quarter, only in one house could she be sure of understanding, and passionately she longed for her home.
She was crying softly when the good wife returned and with rough motherliness bathed the sprained wrist and bound it up. She helped the girl to restore some order to her clothing, and to Rachel’s inquiry, “Why, you be at Whitsbury,” she said. “From Fording-bridge? Why, all of four miles for sure. And where be you from, miss? From Queen’s Folly? Well, I never!” she ejaculated in a tone of surprise. “Why, my husband’s brother, Jacob Mew, he’ve a farm under my lord. But good gracious, my lady, who’d ha’ thought of you running the roads at this time o’ night?” —
“Oh, but,” Rachel explained eagerly, “I’m not my lady. I’m only the governess, Mrs. Mew. And—”
She broke off and clutched the woman’s arm. Someone had knocked at the house-door! As Rachel had knocked half an hour before, someone was knocking now, but more loudly and more vigorously, with a heavy hand. Rachel stared at the inner door, still holding Mrs. Mew’s arm.— “Oh, don’t, don’t let them in!” she whispered.— “Promise me you won’t.”
Mrs. Mew looked her uneasiness. “’Twasn’t my old man?” she suggested doubtfully.
“No! No!” Rachel muttered. “It was there! At the door! If we are still, if we don’t answer, he may go away.”
“Drat him, I hope he will!”
“But you won’t let him in?” the girl insisted, her scared eyes roving the room in search of a hiding-place. “Promise me.”
The woman nodded, and the two held their breath. But the knocking was repeated, and the sick man, hearing it, thumped the floor and made further silence futile. “I must fend him off some ways,” Mrs. Mew said, “or my old man will have a fit. But don’t you fear, miss, I’ll speak to him from the window — he don’t come in here!” And in spite of Rachel’s efforts, who would still have detained her, she went into the outer room and closed the door behind her.
Notwithstanding the woman’s promise, the girl trembled. The man had shown himself so reckless, so desperate, so lost to all goodness, that she held him capable of anything. He might drag her out by force, and what could the woman do to prevent him? Or he might tell some story — say that she was mad, perhaps. Terror conquered her, and after listening awhile she crept across the floor to the door that closed the narrow boxed-in stairs, and holding it ajar she prepared to slip upstairs.
She could hear the woman’s voice, and the length of the parley added to her panic. Nor without cause, for presently she heard the key grate in the lock and heard a heavy step, a man’s step, enter. The woman had betrayed her!
Sick with fright, she crept up a couple of stairs and drew the door close behind her. In the darkness her heart beat as if it would suffocate her. Her senses seemed to be sharpened; she could hear, though the door was closed, the solemn tick of the tall clock and the chirp of a cricket on the hearth. Then the heavy step drew nearer, entered, crossed the floor of the room she had left. She heard the faithless woman cry, “Well, to be sure, and what’s become —— —” and then as, too late, she turned to escape up the stairs, the door that masked her was plucked open and a hand grasped her skirt.
“Softly, softly, ma’am!” said a well-known voice — but not, thank God! the one she had feared to hear. “Let’s have a look at you! I’ve crowded tops’les and royals to come up with you, and now I’m here — hallo!” The speaker’s voice rose, suddenly and ludicrously charged with alarm, “I’m d — d if she’s not fainting! Here, missus, here. Help! This is your business!”
But, “No! No!” Rachel gasped in the immensity of her relief, and she stepped down. “I’m not going to faint, indeed, indeed I’m not. I shall be well — in a minute.”
It was Captain Dunstan. He supported her to the settle, but Mrs. Mew, who was still a little in the dark, judged by the sternness of his face that the young lady would catch it by and by. But the Captain’s face was in shadow, and Mrs. Mew may have misread it. Still his next words confirmed her impression.
“In another scrape?” he said, standing over poor Rachel, his hands, one of them holding a whip, in his pockets. “D’you know, young lady, you are more trouble than the worst pickle of a youngster I ever sent to the cabin gun! There’s seventeen miles — and about-ship twice — that I’ve followed you, and if I’ve not lamed Medea I’m precious lucky. Damme, what have you to say for yourself, eh?”
Rachel looked up through her tears. “I am very, very grate
ful to you,” she murmured — and her eyes said more than her words. She felt safe at last — safe now. She knew, heaven knows why, that she could trust this man.
“And, by gad,”he continued, surveying her, “you’ve been in the wars and no mistake!”
“I never see a young lady so mauled!” said Mrs. Mew. “It’s a wonder she did not lie down in the road and die. I took her for a gipsy when she come in. She was like nothing else!”
“A gipsy? Too much of a gipsy! For ever in one trouble or another!” Yet his voice was more gentle than his words. “But now, enough of yarning, young lady. There’ll be time enough for that by and by. D’you understand, ma’am, that we are not out of the wood yet, and we’ve got to act now if we act at all.” He looked at the tall clock. “I’ve thrown my coat over the mare, but if she’s not to catch cold and make matters worse we must be moving. D’you think you can travel?”
“Travel?” Mrs. Mew exclaimed, and decided that, Dunstan or no Dunstan — and she had been brought up to revere the name — the Captain was hard as a stone. “Why, in her state,” and indeed Rachel’s drawn face and weary eyes told the same tale, “she is no more fit to travel than I am to read print!”
“She’s got to travel if she can,” the Captain replied doggedly. “She’s got to sleep at the Folly early or late, and there’s no more to it!”
“Then it will be dead,” said Mrs. Mew, bristling up in her indignation.
“Alive or dead!” said the Captain.
“Well I never!”
But he turned to Rachel as if Mrs. Mew had not spoken. “Now, young woman, we shall see if you are made of sugar-stick or no,” he said. “I suppose you understand? I suppose you understand why it’s necessary if the missus don’t? Can you go?”
Rachel flushed faintly. “I have only one shoe,” she said.
Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman Page 732