The Castle Inn by Stanley John Weyman

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Then, that no look of shy happiness, no downward quiver of the maiden
eyelids might be lost--for the morsel, now it was within his grasp, was
one to linger over and dwell on--Sir George, his own eyes shining with
eagerness, walked his horse forward, his gaze greedily seeking the
flutter of her kerchief or the welcome of her hand. Would she be at the
meeting of the roads--shrinking aside behind the bend, her eyes laughing
to greet him? No, he saw as he drew nearer that she was not there. Then
he knew where she would be; she would be waiting for him on the
foot-bridge in the lane, fifty yards from the high-road, yet within
sight of it. She would have her lover come so far--to win her. The
subtlety was like her, and pleased him.

But she was not there, nor was she to be seen elsewhere in the lane; for
this descended a gentle slope until it plunged, still under his eyes,
among the thatched roofs and quaint cottages of the village, whence the
smoke of the evening meal rose blue among the trees. Soane's eyes
returned to the main road; he expected to hear her laugh, and see her
emerge at his elbow. But the length of the highway lay empty before, and
empty behind; and all was silent. He began to look blank. A solitary
house, which had been an inn, but was now unoccupied, stood in the angle
formed by Manton Lane and the road; he scrutinised it. The big doors
leading to the stable-yard were ajar; but he looked in and she was not
there, though he noted that horses had stood there lately. For the rest,
the house was closed and shuttered, as he had seen it that morning, and
every day for days past.

Was it possible that she had changed her mind? That she had played or
was playing him false? His heart said no. Nevertheless he felt a chill
and a degree of disillusion as he rode down the lane to the foot-bridge;
and over it, and on as far as the first house of the village. Still he
saw nothing of her; and he turned. Riding back his search was rewarded
with a discovery. Beside the ditch, at the corner where the road and
lane met, and lying in such a position that it was not visible from the
highway, but only from the lower ground of the lane, lay a plain
black fan.

Sir George sprang down, picked it up, and saw that it was Julia's; and
still possessed by the idea that she was playing him a trick he kissed
it, and looked sharply round, hoping to detect her laughing face.
Without result; then at last he began to feel misgiving. The road under
the downs was growing dim and shadowy; the ten minutes he had lingered
had stolen away the warmth and colour of the day. The camps and
tree-clumps stood black on the hills, the blacker for the creeping mist
that stole beside the river where he stood. In another ten minutes night
would fall in the valley. Sir George, his heart sinking under those
vague and apparently foolish alarms which are among the penalties of
affection, mounted his horse, stood in his stirrups, and called her
name--'Julia! Julia!'--not loudly, but so that if she were within fifty
yards of him she must hear.

He listened. His ear caught a confused babel of voices in the direction
of Marlborough; but only the empty house, echoing 'Julia!' answered him.
Not that he waited long for an answer; something in the dreary aspect of
the evening struck cold to his heart, and touching his horse with the
spur, he dashed off at a hand-gallop. Meeting the Bristol night-wagon
beyond the bend of the road he was by it in a second. Nevertheless, the
bells ringing at the horses' necks, the cracking whips, the tilt
lurching white through the dusk somewhat reassured him. Reducing his
pace, and a little ashamed of his fears, he entered the inn grounds by
the stable entrance, threw his reins to a man--who seemed to have
something to say, but did not say it--and walked off to the porch. He
had been a fool to entertain such fears; in a minute he would see Julia.

Even as he thought these thoughts, he might have seen--had he looked
that way--half a dozen men on foot and horseback, bustling out with
lanterns through the great gates. Their voices reached him mellowed by
distance; but immersed in thinking where he should find Julia, and what
he should say to her, he crossed the roadway without heeding a commotion
which in such a place was not unusual. On the contrary, the long lighted
front of the house, the hum of life that rose from it, the sharp voices
of a knot of men who stood a little on one side, arguing eagerly and all
at once, went far to dissipate such of his fears as the pace of his
horse had left. Beyond doubt Julia, finding herself in solitude, had
grown alarmed and had returned, fancying him late; perhaps pouting
because he had not forestalled the time!

But the moment he passed through the doorway his ear caught that buzz
of excited voices, raised in all parts and in every key, that betokens
disaster. And with a sudden chill at his heart, as of a cold hand
gripping it, he stood, and looked down the hall. It was well perhaps
that he had that moment of preparation, those few seconds in which to
steady himself, before the full sense of what had happened struck him.

The lighted hall was thronged and in an uproar. A busy place, of much
coming and going it ever was. Now the floor was crowded in every part
with two or three score persons, all speaking, gesticulating, advising
at once. Here a dozen men were proving something; there another group
were controverting it; while twice as many listened, wide-eyed and
open-mouthed, or in their turn dashed into the babel. That something
very serious had happened Sir George could not doubt. Once he caught the
name of Lord Chatham, and the statement that he was worse, and he
fancied that that was it. But the next moment the speaker added loudly,
'Oh, he cannot be told! He is not to be told! The doctor has gone to
him! I tell you, he is worse to-day!' And this, giving the lie to that
idea, revived his fears. His eyes passing quickly over the crowd, looked
everywhere for Julia; he found her nowhere. He touched the nearest man
on the arm, and asked him what had happened.

The person he addressed was about to reply when an agitated figure, wig
awry, cravat loosened, eyes staring, forced itself through the crowd,
and, flinging itself on Sir George, clutched him by the open breast of
his green riding-coat. It was Mr. Fishwick, but Mr. Fishwick
transfigured by a great fright, his face grey, his cheeks trembling. For
a moment such was his excitement he could not speak. Then 'Where is
she?' he stuttered, almost shaking Sir George on his feet. 'What have
you done with her, you--you villain?' Soane, with misgivings gnawing at
his heart, was in no patient mood. In a blaze of passion he flung the
attorney from him. 'You madman!' he said; 'what idiocy is this?'

Mr. Fishwick fell heavily against a stout gentleman in splashed boots
and an old-fashioned Ramillies, who fortunately for the attorney,
blocked the way to the wall. Even so the shock was no light one. But,
breathless and giddy as he was the lawyer returned instantly to the
charge. 'I denounce you!' he cried furiously. 'I denounce this man! You,
and you,' he continued, appealing with frantic gestures to those next
him, 'mark what I say! She is the claimant to his estates--estates he
holds on sufferance! To-morrow justice would have been done, and
to-night he has kidnapped her. All he has is hers, I tell you, and he
has kidnapped her. I denounce him! I--'

'What Bedlam stuff is this?' Sir George cried hoarsely; and he looked
round the ring of curious starers, the sweat standing on his brow. Every
eye in the hall was upon him, and there was a great silence; for the
accusation to which the lawyer gave tongue had been buzzed and bruited
since the first cry of alarm roused the house. 'What stuff is this?' he
repeated, his head giddy with the sense of that which Mr. Fishwick had
said. 'Who--who is it has been kidnapped? Speak! D--n you! Will no
one speak?'

'Your cousin,' the lawyer answered. 'Your cousin, who claims--'

'Softly, man--softly,' said the landlord, coming forward and laying his
hand on the lawyer's shoulder. 'And we shall the sooner know what to do.
Briefly, Sir George,' he continued, 'the young lady who has been in your
company the last day or two was seized and carried off in a post-chaise
half an hour ago, as I am told--maybe a little more--from Manton
Corner. For the rest, which this gentleman says, about who she is and
her claim--which it does not seem to me can be true and your honour not
know it--it is news to me. But, as I understand it, Sir George, he
alleges that the young lady who has disappeared lays claim to your
honour's estates at Estcombe.'

'At Estcombe?'

'Yes, sir.'

Sir George did not reply, but stood staring at the man, his mind divided
between two thoughts. The first that this was the solution of the many
things that had puzzled him in Julia; at once the explanation of her
sudden amiability, her new-born forwardness, the mysterious fortune into
which she had come, and of her education and her strange past. She was
his cousin, the unknown claimant! She was his cousin, and--

He awoke with a start, dragged away by the second thought--hard
following on the first. 'From Manton Corner?' he cried, his voice keen,
his eye terrible. 'Who saw it?'

'One of the servants,' the landlord answered, 'who had gone to the top
of the Mound to clean the mirrors in the summer-house. Here, you,' he
continued, beckoning to a man who limped forward reluctantly from one of
the side passages in which he had been standing, 'show yourself, and
tell this gentleman the story you told me.'

'If it please your honour,' the fellow whimpered, 'it was no fault of
mine. I ran down to give the alarm as soon as I saw what was doing--they
were forcing her into the carriage then--but I was in such a hurry I
fell and rolled to the bottom of the Mound, and was that dazed and
shaken it was five minutes before I could find any one.'

'How many were there?' Sir George asked. There was an ugly light in his
eyes and his cheeks burned. But he spoke with calmness.

'Two I saw, and there may have been more. The chaise had been waiting in
the yard of the empty house at the corner, the old Nag's Head. I saw it
come out. That was the first thing I did see. And then the lady.'

'Did she seem to be unwilling?' the man in the Ramillies asked. 'Did she
scream?'

'Ay, she screamed right enough,' the fellow answered lumpishly. 'I heard
her, though the noise came faint-like. It is a good distance, your
honour'll mind, and some would not have seen what I saw.'

'And she struggled?'

'Ay, sir, she did. They were having a business with her when I left, I
can tell you.'

The picture was too much for Sir George. Gripping the landlord's
shoulder so fiercely that Smith winced and cried out, 'And you have
heard this man,' he said, 'and you chatter here? Fools! This is no
matter for words, but for horses and pistols! Get me a horse and
pistols--and tell my servant. Are you so many dolls? D--n you,
sir'--this to Mr. Fishwick--'stand out of my way!'

CHAPTER XVII

MR. FISHWICK, THE ARBITER

Mr. Fishwick, who had stepped forward with a vague notion of detaining
him, fell back. Sir George's stern aspect, which bore witness to the
passions that raged in a heart at that moment cruelly divided, did not
encourage interference; and though one or two muttered, no one moved.
There is little doubt that he would have passed out without delay,
mounted, and gone in pursuit--with what result in the direction of
altering the issue, it is impossible to state--if an obstacle had not
been cast in his way by an unexpected hand.

In every crowd, the old proverb has it, there are a knave and a fool.
Between Sir George bursting with passion, and the door by which he had
entered and to which he turned, stood Lady Dunborough. Her ladyship had
been one of the first to hear the news and to take the alarm; it is safe
to say, also, that for obvious reasons--and setting aside the lawyer and
Sir George--she was of all present the person most powerfully affected
by the news of the outrage. But she had succeeded in concealing alike
her fears and her interest; she had exclaimed with others--neither more
nor less; and had hinted, in common with three-fourths of the ladies
present, that the minx's cries were forced, and her _bonne fortune_
sufficiently to her mind. In a word she had comported herself so fitly
that if there was one person in the hall whose opinion was likely to
carry weight, as being coolly and impartially formed, it was
her ladyship.

When she stepped forward therefore, and threw herself between Sir George
and the door--still more when, with an intrepid gesture, she cried
'Stay, sir; we have not done with you yet,' there was a sensation. As
the crowd pressed up to see and hear what passed, her accusing finger
pointed steadily to Sir George's breast. 'What is that you have there?'
she continued. 'That which peeps from your breast pocket, sir?'

Sir George, who, furious as he was, could go no farther without coming
in contact with her ladyship, smothered an oath. 'Madam,' he said,
'let me pass.'

'Not until you explain how you came by that fan,' she answered sturdily;
and held her ground.

'Fan?' he cried savagely. 'What fan?'

Unfortunately the passions that had swept through his mind during the
last few minutes, the discovery he had made, and the flood of pity that
would let him think of nothing but the girl--the girl carried away
screaming and helpless, a prey to he knew not whom--left in his mind
scant room for trifles. He had clean forgotten the fan. But the crowd
gave him no credit for this; and some murmured, and some exchanged
glances, when he asked 'What fan?' Still more when my lady rejoined,
'The fan in your breast,' and drew it out and all saw it, was there a
plain and general feeling against him.

Unheeding, he stared at the fan with grief-stricken eyes. 'I picked it
up in the road,' he muttered, as much to himself as to them.

'It is hers?'

'Yes,' he said, holding it reverently. 'She must have dropped it--in the
struggle!' And then 'My God!' he continued fiercely, the sight of the
fan bringing the truth more vividly before him, 'Let me pass! Or I
shall be doing some one a mischief! Madam, let me pass, I say!'

His tone was such that an ordinary woman must have given way to him; but
the viscountess had her reasons for being staunch. 'No,' she said
stoutly, 'not until these gentlemen have heard more. You have her fan,
which she took out an hour ago. She went to meet you--that we know from
this person'--she indicated Mr. Fishwick; 'and to meet you at your
request. The time, at sunset, the place, the corner of Manton Lane. And
what is the upshot? At that corner, at sunset, persons and a carriage
were waiting to carry her off. Who besides you knew that she would be
there?' Lady Dunborough continued, driving home the point with her
finger. 'Who besides you knew the time? And that being so, as soon as
they are safely away with her, you walk in here with an innocent face
and her fan in your pocket, and know naught about it! For shame! for
shame! Sir George! You will have us think we see the Cock Lane Ghost
next. For my part,' her ladyship continued ironically, 'I would as soon
believe in the rabbit-woman.'

'Let me pass, madam,' Sir George cried between his teeth. 'If you were
not a woman--'

'You would do something dreadful,' Lady Dunborough answered mockingly.
'Nevertheless, I shall be much mistaken, sir, if some of these gentlemen
have not a word to say in the matter.'

Her ladyship's glance fell, as she spoke, on the stout red-faced
gentleman in the splashed boots and Ramillies, who had asked two
questions of the servant; and who, to judge by the attention with which
he followed my lady's words, was not proof against the charm which
invests a viscountess. If she looked at him with intention, she reckoned
well; for, as neatly as if the matter had been concerted between them,
he stepped forward and took up the ball.

'Sir George,' he said, puffing out his cheeks, 'her ladyship is quite
right. I--I am sorry to interfere, but you know me, and what my position
is on the Rota. And I do not think I can stand by any longer--which
might be _adaerere culpae_. This is a serious case, and I doubt I shall
not be justified in allowing you to depart without some more definite
explanation. Abduction, you know, is not bailable. You are a Justice
yourself, Sir George, and must know that. If this person therefore--who
I understand is an attorney--desires to lay a sworn information, I
must take it.'

'In heaven's name, sir,' Soane cried desperately, 'take it! Take what
you please, but let me take the road.'

'Ah, but that is what I doubt, sir, I cannot do,' the Justice answered.
'Mark you, there is motive, Sir George, and _praesentia in loco_,' he
continued, swelling with his own learning. 'And you have a _partem
delicti_ on you. And, moreover, abduction is a special kind of case,
seeing that if the _participes criminis_ are free the _femme sole_,
sometimes called the _femina capta_, is in greater danger. In fact, it
is a continuing crime. An information being sworn therefore--'

'It has not been sworn yet!' Sir George retorted fiercely. 'And I warn
you that any one who lays a hand on me shall rue it. God, man!' he
continued, horror in his voice, 'cannot you understand that while you
prate here they are carrying her off, and that time is everything?'

'Some persons have gone in pursuit,' the landlord answered with intent
to soothe.

'Just so; some persons have gone in pursuit,' the Justice echoed with
dull satisfaction. 'And you, if you went, could do no more than they can
do. Besides, Sir George, the law must be obeyed. The sole point is'--he
turned to Mr. Fishwick, who through all had stood by, his face distorted
by grief and perplexity--'do you wish, sir, to swear the information?'

Mrs. Masterson had fainted at the first alarm and been carried to her
room. Apart from her, it is probable that only Sir George and Mr.
Fishwick really entered into the horror of the girl's position, realised
the possible value of minutes, or felt genuine and poignant grief at
what had occurred. On the decision of one of these two the freedom of
the other now depended, and the conclusion seemed foregone. Ten minutes
earlier Mr. Fishwick, carried away by the first sight of Sir George, and
by the rage of an honest man who saw a helpless woman ruined, had been
violent enough; Soane's possession of the fan--not then known to
him--was calculated to corroborate his suspicions. The Justice in
appealing to him felt sure of support; and was much astonished when Mr.
Fishwick, in place of assenting, passed his hand across his brow, and
stared at the speaker as if he had suddenly lost the power of speech.

In truth, the lawyer, harried by the expectant gaze of the room, and the
Justice's impatience, was divided between a natural generosity, which
was one of his oddities, and a suspicion born of his profession. He
liked Sir George; his smaller manhood went out in admiration to the
other's splendid personality. On the other hand, he had viewed Soane's
approaches to his client with misgiving. He had scented a trap here and
a bait there, and a dozen times, while dwelling on Dr. Addington's
postponements and delays, he had accused the two of collusion and of
some deep-laid chicanery. Between these feelings he had now to decide,
and to decide in such a tumult of anxiety and dismay as almost deprived
him of the power to think.

On the one hand, the evidence and inferences against Sir George pressed
him strongly. On the other, he had seen enough of the futile haste of
the ostlers and stable-helps, who had gone in pursuit, to hope little
from them; while from Sir George, were he honest, everything was to be
expected. In his final decision we may believe what he said afterwards,
that he was determined by neither of these considerations, but by his
old dislike of Lady Dunborough! For after a long silence, during which
he seemed to be a dozen times on the point of speaking and as often
disappointed his audience, he announced his determination in that sense.
'No, sir; I--I will not!' he stammered, 'or rather I will not--on a
condition.'

'Condition!' the Justice growled, in disgust.

'Yes,' the lawyer answered staunchly; 'that Sir George, if he be going
in pursuit of them, permit me to go with him. I--I can ride, or at least
I can sit on a horse,' Mr. Fishwick continued bravely; 'and I am
ready to go.'

'Oh, la!' said Lady Dunborough, spitting on the floor--for there were
ladies who did such things in those days--'I think they are all in it
together. And the fair cousin too! Cousin be hanged!' she added with a
shrill ill-natured laugh; 'I have heard that before.'

But Sir George took no notice of her words. 'Come, if you choose,' he
cried, addressing the lawyer. 'But I do not wait for you. And now,
madam, if your interference is at an end--'

'And what if it is not?' she cried, insolently grimacing in his face.
She had gained half an hour, and it might save her son. To persist
farther might betray him, yet she was loth to give way. 'What if it is
not?' she repeated.

'I go out by the other door,' Sir George answered promptly, and, suiting
the action to the word, he turned on his heel, strode through the crowd,
which subserviently made way for him, and in a twinkling he had passed
through the garden door, with Mr. Fishwick, hat in hand, hurrying at
his heels.

The moment they were gone, the babel, suppressed while the altercation
lasted, rose again, loud as before. It is not every day that the busiest
inn or the most experienced traveller has to do with an elopement, to
say nothing of an abduction. While a large section of the ladies, seated
together in a corner, tee-hee'd and tossed their heads, sneered at Miss
and her screams, and warranted she knew all about it, and had her jacket
and night-rail in her pocket, another party laid all to Sir George,
swore by the viscountess, and quoted the masked uncle who made away with
his nephew to get his estate. One or two indeed--and, if the chronicler
is to be candid, one or two only, out of as many scores--proved that
they possessed both imagination and charity. These sat apart, scared and
affrighted by their thoughts; or stared with set eyes and flushed faces
on the picture they would fain have avoided. But they were young and had
seen little of the world.

On their part the men talked fast and loud, at one time laughed, and at
another dropped a curse--their form of pity; quoted the route and the
inns, and weighed the chances of Devizes or Bath, Bristol or Salisbury;
vaguely suggested highwaymen, an old lover, Mrs. Cornelys' ballet; and
finally trooped out to stand in the road and listen, question the
passers-by, and hear what the parish constable had to say of it. All
except one very old man, who kept his seat and from time to time
muttered, 'Lord, what a shape she had! What a shape she had!' until he
dissolved in maudlin tears.

Meanwhile a woman lay upstairs, tossing in passionate grief and tended
by servants; who, more pitiful than their mistresses, stole to her to
comfort her. And three men rode steadily along the western road.

CHAPTER XVIII

THE PURSUIT

The attorney was brave with a coward's great bravery; he was afraid, but
he went on. As he climbed into his saddle in the stable-yard, the
muttering ostlers standing round, and the yellow-flaring light of the
lanthorns stretching fingers into the darkness, he could have wept for
himself. Beyond the gates and the immediate bustle of the yard lay
night, the road, and dimly-guessed violences; the meeting of man with
man, the rush to grips under some dark wood, or where the moonlight fell
cold on the heath. The prospect terrified; at the mere thought the
lawyer dropped the reins and nervously gathered them. And he had another
fear, and one more immediate. He was no horseman, and he trembled lest
Sir George, the moment the gates were passed, should go off in a
reckless gallop. Already he felt his horse heave and sidle under him, in
a fashion that brought his heart into his mouth; and he was ready to cry
for quarter. But the absurdity of the request where time was everything,
the journey black earnest, and its issue life and death, struck him, and
heroically he closed his mouth. Yet, at the remembrance that these
things were, he fell into a fresh panic.

However, for a time there was to be no galloping. Sir George when all
were up took a lanthorn from the nearest man, and bidding one of the
others run at his stirrup, led the way into the road, where he fell into
a sharp trot, his servant and Mr. Fishwick following. The attorney
bumped in his saddle, but kept his stirrups and gradually found his
hands and eyesight. The trot brought them to Manton Corner and the empty
house; where Sir George pulled up and dismounted. Giving his reins to
the stable-boy, he thrust open the doors of the yard and entered,
holding up his lanthorn, his spurs clinking on the stones and his
skirts swaying.

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