The Castle Inn by Stanley John Weyman

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'But she--they cannot be here?' the lawyer ejaculated, his teeth
chattering.

Sir George, busy stooping and peering about the yard, which was
grass-grown and surrounded by walls, made no answer; and the other two,
as well as Mr. Fishwick, wondered what he would be at. But in a moment
they knew. He stooped and took up a small object, smelt it, and held it
out to them. 'What is that?' he asked curtly.

The stable-man who was holding his horse stared at it. 'Negro-head, your
honour,' he said. 'It is sailors' tobacco.'

'Who uses it about here?'

'Nobody to my knowing.'

'They are from Bristol, then,' Soane answered. And then 'Make way!' he
continued, addressing the other two who blocked the gateway; and
springing into his saddle he pressed his horse between them, his
stirrups dangling. He turned sharp to the left, and leaving the
stable-man to stare after them, the lanthorn swaying in his hand, he led
the way westward at the same steady trot.

The chase had begun. More than that, Mr. Fishwick was beginning to feel
the excitement of it; the ring of the horses' shoes on the hard road,
the rush of the night air past his ears exhilarated him. He began to
feel confidence in his leader, and confidence breeds courage. Bristol?
Then Bristol let it be. And then on top of this, his spirits being more
composed, came a rush of rage and indignation at thought of the girl.
The lawyer clutched his whip, and, reckless of consequences, dug his
heels into his horse, and for the moment, in the heat of his wrath,
longed to be up with the villains, to strike a blow at them. If his
courage lasted, Mr. Fishwick might show them a man yet--when the
time came!

Trot-trot, trot-trot through the darkness under the stars, the trees
black masses that shot up beside the road and vanished as soon as seen,
the downs grey misty outlines that continually fenced them in and went
with them; and always in the van Sir George, a grim silent shape with
face set immovably forward. They worked up Fyfield hill, and thence,
looking back, bade farewell to the faint light that hung above
Marlborough. Dropping into the bottom they cluntered over the wooden
bridge and by Overton steeple--a dim outline on the left--and cantering
up Avebury hill eased their horses through Little Kennet. Gathering
speed again they swept through Beckhampton village, where the Bath road
falls off to the left, and breasting the high downs towards Yatesbury,
they trotted on to Cheril.

Here on the hills the sky hung low overhead, and the wind sweeping chill
and drear across the upland was full of a melancholy soughing. The
world, it seemed to one of them, was uncreate, gone, and non-existent;
only this remained--the shadowy downs stretching on every side to
infinity, and three shadowy riders plodding across them; all shadowy,
all unreal until a bell-wether got up under the horses' heads, and with
a confused rush and scurry of feet a hundred Southdowns scampered into
the grey unknown.

Mr. Fishwick found it terrible, rugged, wild, a night foray. His heart
began to sink again. He was sore too, sweating, and fit to drop from his
saddle with the unwonted exertion.

And what of Sir George, hurled suddenly out of his age and world--the
age _des philosophes_, and the smooth world of White's and Lord
March--into this quagmire of feeling, this night of struggle upon the
Wiltshire downs? A few hours earlier he had ridden the same road, and
the prize he now stood in danger of losing had seemed--God forgive
him!--of doubtful value. Now, as he thought of her, his heart melted in
a fire of love and pity: of love that conjured up a thousand pictures of
her eyes, her lips, her smile, her shape--all presently dashed by night
and reality; of pity that swelled his breast to bursting, set his eyes
burning and his brain throbbing--a pity near akin to rage.

Even so, he would not allow himself to dwell on the worst. He had formed
his opinion of the abduction; if it proved correct he believed that he
should be in time to save her from that. But from the misery of
suspense, of fear, of humiliation, from the touch of rough hands and the
shame of coarse eyes, from these things--and alone they kindled his
blood into flame--he was powerless to save her!

Lady Dunborough could no longer have accused him of airs and graces.
Breeding, habit, the custom of the gaming-table, the pride of caste
availed to mask his passions under a veil of reserve, but were powerless
to quell them. What was more remarkable, so set was he on the one object
of recovering his mistress and putting an end to the state of terror in
which he pictured her--ignorant what her fate would be, and dreading the
worst--he gave hardly a thought to the astounding discovery which the
lawyer had made to him. He asked him no questions, turned to him for no
explanations. Those might come later; for the moment he thought not of
his cousin, but of his mistress. The smiles that had brightened the dull
passages of the inn, the figure that had glorified the quiet streets,
the eyes that had now invited and now repelled him, these were become so
many sharp thorns in his heart, so many goads urging him onward.

It was nine when they saw the lights of Calne below them, and trotting
and stumbling down the hill, clattered eagerly into the town. A moment's
delay in front of the inn, where their questions speedily gathered a
crowd, and they had news of the chaise: it had passed through the town
two hours before without changing horses. The canvas blinds were down or
there were shutters; which, the ostler who gave them the information,
could not say. But the fact that the carriage was closed had struck him,
and together with the omission to take fresh horses, had awakened his
suspicions.

By the time this was told a dozen were round them, listening
open-mouthed; and cheered by the lights and company Mr. Fishwick grew
brave again. But Sir George allowed no respite: in five minutes they
were clear of the houses and riding hard for Chippenham, the next stage
on the Bristol road; Sir George's horse cantering free, the lawyer's
groaning as it bumped across Studley bridge and its rider caught the
pale gleam of the water below. On through the village they swept, past
Brumhill Lane-end, thence over the crest where the road branches south
to Devizes, and down the last slope. The moon rose as they passed the
fourth milestone out of Calne; another five minutes and they drew up,
the horses panting and hanging their heads, in the main street of
Chippenham.

A coach--one of the night coaches out of Bristol--was standing before
the inn, the horses smoking, the lamps flaring cheerfully, a crowd round
it; the driver had just unbuckled his reins and flung them either way.
Sir George pushed his horse up to the splinter-bar and hailed him,
asking whether he had met a closed chaise and four travelling Bristol
way at speed.

'A closed chaise and four?' the man answered, looking down at the
party; and then recognising Sir George, 'I beg your honour's pardon,' he
said. 'Here, Jeremy,' to the guard--while the stable-man and helpers
paused to listen or stared at the heaving flanks of the riders'
horses--'did we meet a closed chaise and four to-night?'

'We met a chaise and four at Cold Aston,' the guard answered,
ruminating. 'But 'twas Squire Norris's of Sheldon, and there was no one
but the Squire in it. And a chaise and four at Marshfield, but that was
a burying party from Batheaston, going home very merry. No other, closed
or open, that I can mind, sir, this side of Dungeon Cross, and that is
but two miles out of Bristol.'

'They are an hour and a half in front of us!' Sir George cried eagerly.
'Will a guinea improve your memory?'

Ay, sir, but 'twon't make it,' the coachman answered, grinning. 'Jeremy
is right. I mind no others. What will your honour want with them?'

'They have carried off a young lady!' Mr. Fishwick cried shrilly. 'Sir
George's kinswoman!'

'To be sure?' ejaculated the driver, amid a murmur of astonishment; and
the crowd which had grown since their arrival pressed nearer to listen.
'Where from, sir, if I may make so bold?'

'From the Castle at Marlborough.'

Dear me, dear me, there is audaciousness, if you like! And you ha'
followed them so far, sir?'

Sir George nodded and turned to the crowd. 'A guinea for news!' he
cried. 'Who saw them go through Chippenham!'

He had not long to wait for the answer. 'They never went through
Chipnam!' a thick voice hiccoughed from the rear of the press.

'They came this way out of Calne,' Sir George retorted, singling the
speaker out, and signing to the people to make way that he might get
at him.

'Ay, but they never--came to Chipnam,' the fellow answered, leering at
him with drunken wisdom. 'D'you see that, master?'

'Which way, then?' Soane cried impatiently. 'Which way did they go?'

But the man only lurched a step nearer. 'That's telling!' he said with a
beery smile. 'You want to be--as wise as I be!'

Jeremy, the guard, seized him by the collar and shook him. 'You drunken
fool!' he said. 'D'ye know that this is Sir George Soane of Estcombe?
Answer him, you swine, or you'll be in the cage in a one, two!'

'You let me be,' the man whined, straggling to release himself. 'It's no
business of yours,' Let me be, master!'

Sir George raised his whip in his wrath, but lowered it again with a
groan. 'Can no one make him speak?' he said, looking round. The man was
staggering and lurching in the guard's grasp.

'His wife, but she is to Marshfield, nursing her sister,' answered one.
'But give him his guinea, Sir George. 'Twill save time maybe.'

Soane flung it to him. 'There!' he said. 'Now speak!'

'That'sh better,' the man muttered. 'That's talking! Now I'll tell you.
You go back to Devizes Corner--corner of the road to De-vizes--you
understand? There was a car--car--carriage there without lights an hour
back. It was waiting under the hedge. I saw it, and I--I know
what's what!'

Sir George flung a guinea to the guard, and wheeled his horse about. In
the act of turning his eye fell on the lawyer's steed, which, chosen for
sobriety rather than staying powers, was on the point of foundering.
'Get another,' he cried, 'and follow!'

Mr. Fishwick uttered a wail of despair. To be left to follow--to follow
alone, in the dark, through unknown roads, with scarce a clue and on a
strange horse--the prospect might have appalled a hardier soul. He was
saved from it by Sir George's servant, a stolid silent man, who might be
warranted to ride twenty miles without speaking. 'Here, take mine, sir,'
he said. 'I must stop to get a lanthorn; we shall need one now. Do you
go with his honour.'

Mr. Fishwick slid down and was hoisted into the other's saddle. By the
time this was done Sir George was almost lost in the gloom eat the
farther end of the street. But anything rather than be left behind. The
lawyer laid on his whip in a way that would have astonished him a few
hours before, and overtook his leader as he emerged from the town. They
rode without speaking until they had retraced their steps to the foot of
the hill, and could discern a little higher on the ascent the turn
for Devizes.

It is possible that Sir George hoped to find the chaise still lurking in
the shelter of the hedge; for as he rode up to the corner he drew a
pistol from his holster, and took his horse by the head. If so, he was
disappointed. The moon had risen high and its cold light disclosed the
whole width of the roadway, leaving no place in which even a dog could
lie hidden. Nor as far as the eye could travel along the pale strip of
road that ran southward was any movement or sign of life.

Sir George dropped from his saddle, and stooping, sought for proof of
the toper's story. He had no difficulty in finding it. There were the
deep narrow ruts which the wheels of a chaise, long stationary, had made
in the turf at the side of the road; and south of them was a plat of
poached ground where the horses had stood and shifted their feet
uneasily. He walked forward, and by the moonlight traced the dusty
indents of the wheels until they exchanged the sward for the hard road.
There they were lost in other tracks, but the inference was plain. The
chaise had gone south to Devizes.

For the first time Sir George felt the full horror of uncertainty. He
climbed into his saddle and sat looking across the waste with eyes of
misery, asking himself whither and for what? Whither had they taken her,
and why? The Bristol road once left, his theory was at fault; he had no
clue, and felt, where time was life and more than life, the slough of
horrible conjecture rise to his very lips.

Only one thing, one certain thing remained--the road; the pale ribbon
running southward under the stars. He must cling to that. The chaise had
gone that way, and though the double might be no more than a trick to
throw pursuers off the trail, though the first dark lane, the first
roadside tavern, the first farmhouse among the woods might have
swallowed the unhappy girl and the wretches who held her in their power,
what other clue had he? What other chance but to track the chaise that
way, though every check, every minute of uncertainty, of thought, of
hesitation--and a hundred such there must be in a tithe of the
miles--racked him with fears and dreadful surmises?

There was no other. The wind sweeping across the hill on the western
extremity of which he stood, looking over the lower ground about the
Avon, brought the distant howl of a dog to his ears, and chilled his
blood heated with riding. An owl beating the coverts for mice sailed
overhead; a hare rustled through the fence. The stars above were awake;
in the intense silence of the upland he could almost hear the great
spheres throb as they swept through space! But the human world slept,
and while it slept what work of darkness might not be doing? That
scream, shrill and ear-piercing, that suddenly rent the night--thank
God, it was only a rabbit's death-cry, but it left the sweat on his
brow! After that he could, he would, wait for nothing and no man.
Lanthorn or no lanthorn, he must be moving. He raised his whip, then let
it fall again as his ear caught far away the first faint hoof-beats of a
horse travelling the road at headlong speed.

The sound was very distant at first, but it grew rapidly, and presently
filled the night. It came from the direction of Chippenham. Mr.
Fishwick, who had not dared to interrupt his companion's calculations,
heard the sound with relief; and looking for the first gleam of the
lanthorn, wondered how the servant, riding at that pace, kept it alight,
and whether the man had news that he galloped so furiously. But Sir
George sat arrested in his saddle, listening, listening intently; until
the rider was within a hundred yards or less. Then, as his ear told him
that the horse was slackening, he seized Mr. Fishwick's rein, and
backing their horses nearer the hedge, once more drew a pistol from
his holster.

The startled lawyer discerned what he did, looked in his face, and saw
that his eyes were glittering with excitement. But having no ear for
hoof-beats Mr. Fishwick did not understand what was afoot, until the
rider appeared at the road-end, and coming plump upon them, drew rein.

Then Sir George's voice rang out, stern and ominous. 'Good evening, Mr.
Dunborough,' he said, and raised his hat. 'Well met! We are travelling
the same road, and, if you please, will do the rest of our journey
together.'

CHAPTER XIX

AN UNWILLING ALLY

Under the smoothness of Sir George's words, under the subtle mockery of
his manner, throbbed a volcano of passion and vengeance. But this was
for the lawyer only, even as he alone saw the moonlight gleam faintly on
the pistol barrel that lurked behind his companion's thigh. For Mr.
Dunborough, it would be hard to imagine a man more completely taken by
surprise. He swore one great oath, for he saw, at least, that the
meeting boded him 110 good; then he sat motionless in his saddle, his
left hand on the pommel, his right held stiffly by his side. The moon,
which of the two hung a little at Sir George's back, shone only on the
lower part of Dunborough's face, and by leaving his eyes in the shadow
of his hat, gave the others to conjecture what he would do next. It is
probable that Sir George, whose hand and pistol were ready, was
indifferent; perhaps would have hailed with satisfaction an excuse for
vengeance. But Mr. Fishwick, the pacific witness of this strange
meeting, awaited the issue with staring eyes, his heart in his mouth;
and was mightily relieved when the silence, which the heavy breathing of
Mr. Dunborough's horse did but intensify, was broken on the last comer's
side, by nothing worse than a constrained laugh.

'Travel together?' he said, with an awkward assumption of jauntiness,
'that depends on the road we are going.'

'Oh, we are going the same road,' Sir George answered, in the mocking
tone he had used before.

'You are very clever,' Mr. Dunborough retorted, striving to hide his
uneasiness; 'but if you know that, sir, you have the advantage of me.'

'I have,' said Sir George, and laughed rudely.

Dunborough stared, finding in the other's manner fresh cause for
misgiving. At last, 'As you please,' he said contemptuously. 'I am for
Calne. The road is public. You may travel by it.'

'We are not going to Calne,' said Sir George.

Mr. Dunborough swore. 'You are d----d impertinent!' he said, reining
back his horse, 'and may go to the devil your own way. For me, I am
going to Calne.'

'No,' said Sir George, 'you are not going to Calne. She has not gone
Calne way.'

Mr. Dunborough drew in his breath quickly. Hitherto he had been
uncertain what the other knew, and how far the meeting was accidental;
now, forgetful what his words implied and anxious only to say something
that might cover his embarrassment, 'Oh,' he said, 'you are--you are in
search of her?'

'Yes,' said Sir George mockingly. 'We are in search of her. And we want
to know where she is.'

'Where she is?'

'Yes, where she is. That is it; where she is. You were to meet her here,
you know. You are late and she has gone. But you will know whither.'

Mr. Dunborough stared; then in a tempest of wrath and chagrin, 'D----n
you!' he cried furiously. 'As you know so much, you can find out
the rest!'

'I could,' said Sir George slowly. 'But I prefer that you should help
me. And you will.'

'Will what?'

'Will help me, sir,' Sir George answered quickly, 'to find the lady we
are seeking.'

'I'll be hanged if I will,' Dunborough cried, raging and furious.

'You'll be hanged if you won't,' Sir George said in a changed tone; and
he laughed contemptuously. 'Hanged by the neck until you are dead, Mr.
Dunborough--if money can bring it about. You fool,' he continued, with a
sudden flash of the ferocity that had from the first underlain his
sarcasm, 'we have got enough from your own lips to hang you, and if more
be wanted, your people will peach on you. You have put your neck into
the halter, and there is only one way, if one, in which you can take it
out. Think, man; think before you speak again,' he continued savagely,
'for my patience is nearly at an end, and I would sooner see you hang
than not. And look you, leave your reins alone, for if you try to turn,
by G--d, I'll shoot you like the dog you are!'

Whether he thought the advice good or bad, Mr. Dunborough took it; and
there was a long silence. In the distance the hoof-beats of the
servant's horse, approaching from the direction of Chippenham, broke the
stillness of the moonlit country; but round the three men who sat
motionless in their saddles, glaring at one another and awaiting the
word for action, was a kind of barrier, a breathlessness born of
expectation. At length Dunborough spoke.

'What do you want?' he said in a low tone, his voice confessing his
defeat. 'If she is not here, I do not know where she is.'

'That is for you,' Sir George answered with a grim coolness that
astonished Mr. Fishwick. 'It is not I who will hang if aught happen
to her.'

Again there was silence. Then in a voice choked with rage Mr. Dunborough
cried, 'But if I do not know?'

'The worse for you,' said Sir George. He was sorely tempted to put the
muzzle of a pistol to the other's head and risk all. But he fancied that
he knew his man, and that in this way only could he be effectually
cowed; and he restrained himself.

'She should be here--that is all I know. She should have been here,' Mr.
Dunborough continued sulkily, 'at eight.'

'Why here?'

'The fools would not take her through Chippenham without me. Now you
know.'

'It is ten, now.'

'Well, curse you,' the younger man answered, flaring up again, 'could I
help it if my horse fell? Do you think I should be sitting here to be
rough-ridden by you if it were not for this?' He raised his right arm,
or rather his shoulder, with a stiff movement; they saw that the arm was
bound to his side. 'But for that she would be in Bristol by now,' he
continued disdainfully, 'and you might whistle for her. But, Lord, here
is a pother about a college-wench!'

'College-wench, sir?' the lawyer cried scarcely controlling his
indignation. 'She is Sir George Soane's cousin. I'd have you know that!'

'And my promised wife,' Sir George said, with grim-ness.

Dunborough cried out in his astonishment. 'It is a lie!' he said.

'As you please,' Sir George answered.

At that, a chill such as he had never known gripped Mr. Dunborough's
heart. He had thought himself in an unpleasant fix before; and that to
escape scot free he must eat humble pie with a bad grace. But on this a
secret terror, such as sometimes takes possession of a bold man who
finds himself helpless and in peril seized on him. Given arms and the
chance to use them, he would have led the forlornest of hopes, charged a
battery, or fired a magazine. But the species of danger in which he now
found himself--with a gallows and a silk rope in prospect, his fate to
be determined by the very scoundrels he had hired--shook even his
obstinacy. He looked about him; Sir George's servant had come up and was
waiting a little apart.

Mr. Dunborough found his lips dry, his throat husky. 'What do you want?'
he muttered, his voice changed. 'I have told you all I know. Likely
enough they have taken her back to get themselves out of the scrape.'

'They have not,' said the lawyer. 'We have come that way, and must have
met them.'

'They may be in Chippenham?'

'They are not. We have inquired.'

'Then they must have taken this road. Curse you, don't you see that I
cannot get out of my saddle to look?' he continued ferociously.

'They have gone this way. Have you any devil's shop--any house of call
down the road?' Sir George asked, signing to the servant to draw nearer.

'Not I.'

'Then we must track them. If they dared not face Chippenham, they will
not venture through Devizes. It is possible that they are making for
Bristol by cross-roads. There is a bridge over the Avon near Laycock
Abbey, somewhere on our right, and a road that way through
Pewsey Forest.'

'That will be it,' cried Mr. Dunborough, slapping his thigh. 'That is
their game, depend upon it.'

Sir George did not answer him, but nodded to the servant. 'Go on with
the light,' he said. 'Try every turning for wheels, but lose no time.
This gentleman will accompany us, but I will wait on him.'

The man obeyed quickly, the lawyer going with him. The other two
brought up the rear, and in that order they started, riding in silence.
For a mile or more the servant held the road at a steady trot; then
signing to those behind him to halt, he pulled up at the mouth of a
by-road leading westwards from the highway. He moved the light once or
twice across the ground, and cried that the wheels had gone that way;
then got briskly to his saddle and swung along the lane at a trot, the
others following in single file, Sir George last.

So far they had maintained a fair pace. But the party had not proceeded
a quarter of a mile along the lane before the trot became a walk. Clouds
had come over the face of the moon; the night had grown dark. The riders
were no longer on the open downs, but in a narrow by-road, running
across wastes and through thick coppices, the ground sloping sharply to
the Avon. In one place the track was so closely shadowed by trees as to
be as dark as a pit. In another it ran, unfenced, across a heath studded
with water-pools, whence the startled moor-fowl squattered up unseen.
Everywhere they stumbled: once a horse fell. Over such ground,
founderous and scored knee-deep with ruts, it was plain that no wheeled
carriage could move at speed; and the pursuers had this to cheer them.
But the darkness of the night, the dreary glimpses of wood and water,
which met the eye when the moon for a moment emerged, the solitude of
this forest tract, the muffled tread of the horses' feet, the very
moaning of the wind among the trees, suggested ideas and misgivings
which Sir George strove in vain to suppress. Why had the scoundrels gone
this way? Were they really bound for Bristol? Or for some den of
villainy, some thieves' house in the old forest?

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