CHAPTER XX
THE EMPTY POST-CHAISE
It was one of those positions which try a man to the uttermost; and itwas to Sir George's credit that, duped and defeated, astonishinglytricked in the moment of success, and physically shaken by his fall, heneither broke into execrations nor shod unmanly tears. He groaned, it istrue, and his arm pressed more heavily on the servant's shoulder, as helistened and listened in vain for sign or so and of the runaways. But hestill commanded himself, and in face of how great a misfortune! A morefutile, a more wretched end to an expedition it was impossible toconceive. The villains had out-paced, out-fought, and out-manoeuvredhim; and even now were rolling merrily on to Bath, while he, who a fewminutes before had held the game in his hands, lay belated here withouthorses and without hope, in a wretched plight, his every momentembittered by the thought of his mistress's fate.
In such crises--to give the devil his due--the lessons of thegaming-table, dearly bought as they are, stand a man in stead. SirGeorge's fancy pictured Julia a prisoner, trembling and dishevelled,perhaps gagged and bound by the coarse hands of the brutes who had herin their power; and the picture was one to drive a helpless man mad. Hadhe dwelt on it long and done nothing it must have crazed him. But in hislife he had lost and won great sums at a coup, and learned to do theone and the other with the same smile--it was the point of pride, theform of his time and class. While Mr. Fishwick, therefore, wrung hishands and lamented, and the servant swore, Sir George's heart bledindeed, but it was silently and inwardly; and meanwhile he thought,calculated the odds, and the distance to Bath and the distance toBristol, noted the time; and finally, and with sudden energy, called onthe men to be moving. 'We must get to Bath,' he said. 'We will beupsides with the villains yet. But we must get to Bath. What horseshave we?'
Mr. Fishwick, who up to this point had played his part like a man,wailed that his horse was dead lame and could not stir a step. Thelawyer was sore, stiff, and beyond belief weary; and this last mishap,this terrible buffet from the hand of Fortune, left him cowed andspiritless.
'Horses or no horses, we must get to Bath,' Sir George answeredfeverishly.
On this the servant made an attempt to drag Sir George's mount from theditch, but the poor beast would not budge, and in the darkness it wasimpossible to discover whether it was wounded or not. Mr. Fishwick's wasdead lame; the man's had wandered away. It proved that there was nothingfor it but to walk. Dejectedly, the three took the road and trudgedwearily through the darkness. They would reach Bathford village, the manbelieved, in a mile and a half.
That settled, not a word was said, for who could give any comfort? Nowand then, as they plodded up the hill beyond Kingsdown, the servantuttered a low curse and Sir George groaned, while Mr. Fishwick sighed insheer exhaustion. It was a strange and dreary position for men whoseordinary lives ran through the lighted places of the world. The windswept sadly over the dark fields. The mud clung to the squelching,dragging boots; now Mr. Fishwick was within an ace of the ditch on oneside, now on the other, and now he brought up heavily against one of hiscompanions. At length the servant gave him an arm, and thus linkedtogether they reached the crest of the hill, and after taking a momentto breathe, began the descent.
They were within two or three hundred paces of Bathford and the bridgeover the Avon when the servant cried out that some one was awake in thevillage, for he saw a light. A little nearer and all saw the light,which grew larger as they approached but was sometimes obscured.Finally, when they were within a hundred yards of it, they discoveredthat it proceeded not from a window but from a lanthorn set down in thevillage street, and surrounded by five or six persons whose movements toand fro caused the temporary eclipses they noticed. What the men weredoing was not at once clear; but in the background rose the dark mass ofa post-chaise, and seeing that--and one other thing--Sir George uttereda low exclamation and felt for his hilt.
The other thing was Mr. Dunborough, who, seated at his ease on the stepof the post-chaise, appeared to be telling a story, while he nursed hisinjured arm. His audience, who seemed to have been lately roused fromtheir beds--for they were half-dressed--were so deeply engrossed in whathe was narrating that the approach of our party was unnoticed; and SirGeorge was in the middle of the circle, his hand on the speaker'sshoulder, and his point at his breast, before a man could move inhis defence.
'You villain!' Soane cried, all the misery, all the labour, all thefears of the night turning his blood to fire, 'you shall pay me now! Leta man stir, and I will spit you like the dog you are! Where is she?Where is she? For, by Heaven, if you do not give her up, I will kill youwith my own hand!'
Mr. Dunborough, his eyes on the other's face, laughed.
That laugh startled Sir George more than the fiercest movement, thewildest oath. His point wavered and dropped. 'My God!' he cried, staringat Dunborough. 'What is it? What do you mean?'
'That is better,' Mr. Dunborough said, nodding complacently but notmoving a finger. 'Keep to that and we shall deal.'
'What is it, man? What does it mean?' Sir George repeated. He was all ofa tremble and could scarcely stand.
'Better and better,' said Mr. Dunborough, nodding his approval. 'Keep tothat, and your mouth shut, and you shall know all that I know. It isprecious little at best. I spurred and they spurred, I spurred and theyspurred--there you have it. When I got up and shouted to them to stop, Isuppose they took me for you and thought I should stick to them and takethem in Bath. So they put on the pace a bit, and drew ahead as they cameto the houses here, and then began to pull in, recognising me as Ithought. But when I came up, fit and ready to curse their heads off forgiving me so much trouble, the fools had cut the leaders' traces andwere off with them, and left me the old rattle-trap there.'
Sir George's face lightened; he took two steps forward and laid his handon the chaise door.
'Just so,' said Mr. Dunborough nodding coolly. 'That was my idea. I didthe same. But, Lord, what their game is I don't know! It was empty.'
'Empty!' Sir George cried.
'As empty as it is now,' Mr. Dunborough answered, shrugging hisshoulders. 'As empty as a bad nut! If you are not satisfied, look foryourself,' he continued, rising that Sir George might come at the door.
Soane with a sharp movement plucked the door of the chaise open, andcalled hoarsely for a light. A big dingy man in a wrap-rascal coat,which left his brawny neck exposed and betrayed that under the coat hewore only his shirt, held up a lanthorn. Its light was scarcely needed.Sir George's hand, not less than, his eyes, told him that the carriage,a big roomy post-chaise, well-cushioned and padded, was empty.
Aghast and incredulous, Soane turned on Mr. Dunborough. 'You knowbetter,' he said furiously. 'She was here, and you sent her onwith them!'
Mr. Dunborough pointed to the man in the wrap-rascal. 'That man was upas soon as I was,' he said. 'Ask him if you don't believe me. He openedthe chaise door.'
Sir George turned to the man, who, removing the shining leather cap thatmarked him for a smith, slowly scratched his head. The other men pressedup behind him to hear, the group growing larger every moment as one andanother, awakened by the light and hubbub, came out of his house andjoined it. Even women were beginning to appear on the outskirts of thecrowd, their heads muffled in hoods and mobs.
'The carriage was empty, sure enough, your honour,' the smith said;'there is no manner of doubt about that. I heard the wheels coming, andlooked out and saw it stop and the men go off. There was no womanwith them.'
'How many were they?' Soane asked sharply. The man seemed honest.
'Well, there were two went off with the horses,' the smith answered,'and two again slipped off on foot by the lane 'tween the houses there.I saw no more, your honour, and there were no more.'
'Are you sure,' Sir George asked eagerly, 'that no one of the four was awoman?'
The smith grinned. 'How am I to know?' he answered with a chuckle.'That's none of my business. All I can say is, they were all dressedman fashion. And they all went willi
ng, for they went one by one, asyou may say.'
'Two on foot?'
'By the lane there. I never said no otherwise. Seemingly they were thetwo on the carriage.'
'And you saw no lady?' Sir George persisted, still incredulous.
'There was no lady,' the man answered simply. 'I came out, and thegentleman there was swearing and trying the door. I forced it with mychisel, and you may see the mark on the break of the lock now.'
'Then we have been tricked,' Sir George cried furiously. 'We havefollowed the wrong carriage.'
'Not you, sir,' the smith answered. 'Twas fitted up for the job, or Ishould not have had to force the door. If 'twere not got ready for a jobof this kind, why a half-inch shutter inside the canvas blinds, and thebolt outside, 'swell as a lock? Mark that door! D'you ever see the likeof that on an honest carriage? Why, 'tis naught but a prison!'
He held up the light inside the carriage, and Sir George, the crowdpressing forward to look over his shoulder, saw that it was as the mansaid. Sir George saw something more--and pounced on it greedily. At thefoot of the doorway, between the floor of the carriage and the straw matthat covered it, the corner of a black silk kerchief showed. How it cameto be in that position, whether it had been kicked thither by accidentor thrust under the mat on purpose, it was impossible to say. But thereit was, and as Sir George held it up to the lanthorn--jealouslyinterposing himself between it and the curious eyes of the crowd--hefelt something hard inside the folds and saw that the corners wereknotted. He uttered an exclamation.
'More room, good people, more room!' he cried.
'Your honour ha' got something?' said the smith; and then to the crowd,'Here, you--keep back, will you?' he continued, 'and give the gentlemanroom to breathe. Or will you ha' the constable fetched?'
'I be here!' cried a weakly voice from the skirts of the crowd.
'Ay, so be Easter,' the smith retorted gruffly, as a puny atomy of a manwith a stick and lanthorn was pushed with difficulty to the front. 'Butso being you are here, supposing you put Joe Hincks a foot or two back,and let the gentleman have elbow-room.'
There was a laugh at this, for Joe Hincks was a giant a little tallerthan the smith. None the less, the hint had the desired effect. Thecrowd fell back a little. Meanwhile, Sir George, the general attentiondiverted from him, had untied the knot. When the smith turned to himagain, it was to find him staring with a blank face at a plain blacksnuff-box, which was all he had found in the kerchief.
'Sakes!' cried the smith, 'whose is that?'
'I don't know,' Sir George answered grimly, and shot a glance ofsuspicion at Mr. Dunborough, who was leaning against the fore-wheel.
But that gentleman shrugged his shoulders. 'You need not look at me,' hesaid. 'It is not my box; I have mine here.'
'Whose is it?'
Mr. Dunborough raised his eyebrows and did not answer.
'Do you know?' Sir George persisted fiercely.
'No, I don't. I know no more about it than you do.'
'Maybe the lady took snuff?' the smith said cautiously.
Many ladies did, but not this one; and Sir George sniffed his contempt.He turned the box over and over in his hand. It was a plain, black box,of smooth enamel, about two inches long.
'I believe I have seen one like it,' said Mr. Dunborough, yawning. 'ButI'm hanged if I can tell where.'
'Has your honour looked inside?' the smith asked. 'Maybe there is a notein it.'
Sir George cut him short with an exclamation, and held the box up to thelight. 'There is something scratched on it,' he said.
There was. When he held the box close to the lanthorn, words rudelyscratched on the enamel, as if with the point of a pin, became visible;visible, but not immediately legible, so scratchy were the letters andimperfectly formed the strokes. It was not until the fourth or fifthtime of reading that Sir George made out the following scrawl:
'Take to Fishwick, Castle, Marlboro'. Help! Julia.'
Sir George swore. The box, with its pitiful, scarce articulate cry,brought the girl's helpless position, her distress, her terror, moreclearly to his mind than all that had gone before. Nor to his mind only,but to his heart; he scarcely asked himself why the appeal was made toanother, or whence came this box--which was plainly a man's, and stillhad snuff in it--or even whither she had been so completely spiritedaway that there remained of her no more than this, and the blackkerchief, and about the carriage a fragrance of her--perceptible only bya lover's senses. A whirl of pity and rage--pity for her, rage againsther captors--swept such questions from his mind. He was shaken by gustyimpulses, now to strike Mr. Dunborough across his smirking face, now togive some frenzied order, now to do some foolish act that must exposehim to disgrace. He had much ado not to break into hysterical weeping,or into a torrent of frantic oaths. The exertions of the night,following on a day spent in the saddle, the tortures of fear andsuspense, this last disappointment, the shock of his fall--had all toldon him; and it was well that at this crisis Mr. Fishwick was athis elbow.
For the lawyer saw his face and read it aright, and interposingsuggested an adjournment to the inn; adding that while they talked thematter over and refreshed themselves, a messenger could go to Bath andbring back new horses; in that way they might still be in Bristol byeight in the morning.
'Bristol!' Sir George muttered, passing his hand across his brow.'Bristol! But--she is not with them. We don't know where she is.'
Mr. Fishwick was himself sick with fatigue, but he knew what to do anddid it. He passed his arm through Sir George's, and signed to the smithto lead the way to the inn. The man did so, the crowd made way for them,Mr. Dunborough and the servant followed; in less than a minute the threegentlemen stood together in the sanded tap-room at the tavern. Thelandlord hurried in and hung a lamp on a hook in the whitewashed wall;its glare fell strongly on their features, and for the first time thatnight showed the three to one another.
Even in that poor place, the light had seldom fallen on persons in amore pitiable plight. Of the three, Sir George alone stood erect, hisglittering eyes and twitching nostrils belying the deadly pallor of hisface. He was splashed with mud from head to foot, his coat was plasteredwhere he had fallen, his cravat was torn and open at the throat. Hestill held his naked sword in his hand; apparently he had forgotten thathe held it. Mr. Dunborough was in scarce better condition. White andshaken, his hand bound to his side, he had dropped at once into a chair,and sat, his free hand plunged into his breeches pocket, his head sunkon his breast. Mr. Fishwick, a pale image of himself, his kneestrembling with exhaustion, leaned against the wall. The adventures ofthe night had let none of the travellers escape.
The landlord and his wife could be heard in the kitchen drawing ale andclattering plates, while the voices of the constable and his gossips,drawling their wonder and surmises, filled the passage. Sir George wasthe first to speak.
'Bristol!' he said dully. 'Why Bristol?'
'Because the villains who have escaped us here,' the lawyer answered,'we shall find there. And they will know what has become of her.'
'But shall we find them?'
'Mr. Dunborough will find them.'
'Ha!' said Sir George, with a sombre glance. 'So he will.'
Mr. Dunborough spoke with sudden fury. 'I wish to Heaven,' he said,'that I had never heard the girl's name. How do I know where she is!'
'You will have to know,' Sir George muttered between his teeth.
'Fine talk!' Mr. Dunborough retorted, with a faint attempt at a sneer,'when you know as well as I do that I have no more idea where the girlis or what has become of her than that snuff-box. And d--n me!' hecontinued sharply, his eyes on the box, which Sir George still held inhis hand, 'whose is the snuff-box, and how did she get it? That is whatI want to know? And why did she leave it in the carriage? If we hadfound it dropped in the road now, and that kerchief round it, I couldunderstand that! But in the carriage. Pho! I believe I am not the onlyone in this!'
The Castle Inn Page 20