The Castle Inn by Stanley John Weyman

S >> Stanley John Weyman >> The Castle Inn

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24

At times these fears stung him out of all patience, and he cried to the
man with the light to go faster, faster! Again, the whole seemed
unreal, and the shadowy woods and gleaming water-pools, the stumbling
horses, the fear, the danger, grew to be the creatures of a disordered
fancy. It was an immense joy to him when, at the end of an hour, the
lawyer cried, 'The road! the road!' and one by one the riders emerged
with grunts of relief on a sound causeway. To make sure that the pursued
had nowhere evaded them, the tracks of the chaise-wheels were sought and
found, and forward the four went again. Presently they plunged through a
brook, and this passed, were on Laycock bridge before they knew it, and
across the Avon, and mounting the slope on the other side by
Laycock Abbey.

There were houses abutting on the road here, black overhanging masses
against a grey sky, and the riders looked, wavered, and drew rein.
Before any spoke, however, an unseen shutter creaked open, and a voice
from the darkness cried, 'Hallo!'

Sir George found speech to answer. 'Yes,' he said, 'what is it?' The
lawyer was out of breath, and clinging to the mane in sheer weariness.

'Be you after a chaise driving to the devil?'

'Yes, yes,' Sir George answered eagerly. 'Has it passed, my man?'

'Ay, sure, Corsham way, for Bath most like, I knew 'twould be followed.
Is't a murder, gentlemen?'

'Yes,' Sir George cried hurriedly, 'and worse! How far ahead are they?'

'About half an hour, no more, and whipping and spurring as if the old
one was after them. My old woman's sick, and the apothecary from--'

'Is it straight on?'

'Ay, to be sure, straight on--and the apothecary from Corsham, as I was
saying, he said, said he, as soon as he saw her--'

But his listeners were away again; the old man's words were lost in the
scramble and clatter of the horses' shoes as they sprang forward. In a
moment the stillness and the dark shapes of the houses were exchanged
for the open country, the rush of wind in the riders' faces, and the
pounding of hoofs on the hard road. For a brief while the sky cleared
and the moon shone out, and they rode as easily as in the day. At the
pace at which they were moving Sir George calculated that they must come
up with the fugitives in an hour or less; but the reckoning was no
sooner made than the horses, jaded by the heavy ground through which
they had struggled, began to flag and droop their heads; the pace grew
less and less; and though Sir George whipped and spurred, Corsham Corner
was reached, and Pickwick Village on the Bath road, and still they saw
no chaise ahead.

It was past midnight, and it seemed to some that they had been riding an
eternity; yet even these roused at sight of the great western highway.
The night coaches had long gone eastwards, and the road, so busy by day,
stretched before them dim, shadowy, and empty, as solitary in the
darkness as the remotest lane. But the knowledge that Bath lay at the
end of it--and no more than nine miles away--and that there they could
procure aid, fresh horses and willing helpers, put new life even into
the most weary. Even Mr. Fishwick, now groaning with fatigue and now
crying 'Oh dear! oh dear!' as he bumped, in a way that at another time
must have drawn laughter from a stone, took heart of grace; while Sir
George settled down to a dogged jog that had something ferocious in its
determination. If he could not trot, he would amble; if he could not
amble, he would walk; if his horse could not walk, he would go on his
feet. He still kept eye and ear bent forward, but in effect he had given
up hope of overtaking the quarry before it reached Bath; and he was
taken by surprise when the servant, who rode first and had eased his
horse to a walk at the foot of Haslebury Hill, drew rein and cried to
the others to listen.

For a moment the heavy breathing of the four horses covered all other
sounds. Then in the darkness and the distance, on the summit of the rise
before them, a wheel creaked as it grated over a stone. A few seconds
and the sound was repeated; then all was silent. The chaise had passed
over the crest and was descending the other side.

Oblivious of everything except that Julia was within his reach,
forgetful even of Dunborough by whose side he had ridden all night--in
silence but with many a look askance--Sir George drove his horse
forward, scrambled and trotted desperately up the hill, and, gaining the
summit a score of yards in front of his companions, crossed the brow and
drew rein to listen. He had not been mistaken. He could hear the wheels
creaking, and the wheelers stumbling and slipping in the darkness below
him; and with a cry he launched his horse down the descent.

Whether the people with the chaise heard the cry or not, they appeared
to take the alarm at that moment. He heard a whip crack, the carriage
bound forward, the horses break into a reckless canter. But if they
recked little he recked less; already he was plunging down the hill
after them, his beast almost pitching on its head with every stride. The
huntsman knows, however, that many stumbles go to a fall. The bottom was
gained in safety by both, and across the flat they went, the chaise
bounding and rattling behind the scared horses. Now Sir George had a
glimpse of the black mass through the gloom, now it seemed to be gaining
on him, now it was gone, and now again he drew up to it and the dim
outline bulked bigger and plainer, and bigger and plainer, until he was
close upon it, and the cracking whips and the shouts of the postboys
rose above the din of hoofs and wheels. The carriage was swaying
perilously, but Sir George saw that the ground was rising, and that up
the hill he must win; and, taking his horse by the head, he lifted it on
by sheer strength until his stirrup was abreast of the hind wheels. A
moment, and he made out the bobbing figure of the leading postboy, and,
drawing his pistol, cried to him to stop.

The answer was a blinding flash of light and a shot. Sir George's horse
swerved to the right, and plunging headlong into the ditch, flung its
rider six paces over its head.

The servant and Mr. Dunborough were no more than forty yards behind him
when he fell; in five seconds the man had sprung from his saddle, let
his horse go, and was at his master's side. There were trees there, and
the darkness in the shadow, where Sir George lay across the roots of one
of them, was intense. The man could not see his face, nor how he lay,
nor if he was injured; and calling and getting no answer, he took fright
and cried to Mr. Dunborough to get help.

But Mr. Dunborough had ridden straight on without pausing or drawing
rein, and the man, finding himself deserted, wrung his hands in terror.
He had only Mr. Fishwick to look to for help, and he was some way
behind. Trembling, the servant knelt and groped for his master's face;
to his joy, before he had found it, Sir George gasped, moved, and sat
up; and, muttering an incoherent word or two, in a minute had recovered
himself sufficiently to rise with help. He had fallen clear of the horse
on the edge of the ditch, and the shock had taken his breath; otherwise
he was rather shaken than hurt.

As soon as his wits and wind came back to him, 'Why--why have you not
followed?' he gasped.

''Twill be all right, sir. All right, sir,' the servant answered,
thinking only of him.

'But after them, man, after them. Where is Fishwick?'

'Coming, sir, he is coming,' the man answered, to soothe him; and
remained where he was. Sir George was so shaken that he could not yet
stand alone, and the servant did not know what to think. 'Are you sure
you are not hurt, sir?' he continued anxiously.

'No, no! And Mr. Dunborough? Is he behind?'

'He rode on after them, sir.'

'Rode on after them?'

'Yes, sir, he did not stop.'

'He has gone on--after them?' Sir George cried.

'But--' and with that it flashed on him, and on the servant, and on Mr.
Fishwick, who had just jogged up and dismounted, what had happened. The
carriage and Julia--Julia still in the hands of her captors--were gone.
And with them was gone Mr. Dunborough! Gone far out of hearing; for as
the three stood together in the blackness of the trees, unable to see
one another's faces, the night was silent round them. The rattle of
wheels, the hoof-beats of horses had died away in the distance.

CHAPTER XX

THE EMPTY POST-CHAISE

It was one of those positions which try a man to the uttermost; and it
was to Sir George's credit that, duped and defeated, astonishingly
tricked in the moment of success, and physically shaken by his fall, he
neither broke into execrations nor shod unmanly tears. He groaned, it is
true, and his arm pressed more heavily on the servant's shoulder, as he
listened and listened in vain for sign or so and of the runaways. But he
still commanded himself, and in face of how great a misfortune! A more
futile, a more wretched end to an expedition it was impossible to
conceive. The villains had out-paced, out-fought, and out-manoeuvred
him; and even now were rolling merrily on to Bath, while he, who a few
minutes before had held the game in his hands, lay belated here without
horses and without hope, in a wretched plight, his every moment
embittered by the thought of his mistress's fate.

In such crises--to give the devil his due--the lessons of the
gaming-table, dearly bought as they are, stand a man in stead. Sir
George's fancy pictured Julia a prisoner, trembling and dishevelled,
perhaps gagged and bound by the coarse hands of the brutes who had her
in their power; and the picture was one to drive a helpless man mad. Had
he dwelt on it long and done nothing it must have crazed him. But in his
life he had lost and won great sums at a coup, and learned to do the
one and the other with the same smile--it was the point of pride, the
form of his time and class. While Mr. Fishwick, therefore, wrung his
hands and lamented, and the servant swore, Sir George's heart bled
indeed, but it was silently and inwardly; and meanwhile he thought,
calculated the odds, and the distance to Bath and the distance to
Bristol, noted the time; and finally, and with sudden energy, called on
the men to be moving. 'We must get to Bath,' he said. 'We will be
upsides with the villains yet. But we must get to Bath. What horses
have 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. The
lawyer was sore, stiff, and beyond belief weary; and this last mishap,
this terrible buffet from the hand of Fortune, left him cowed and
spiritless.

'Horses or no horses, we must get to Bath,' Sir George answered
feverishly.

On this the servant made an attempt to drag Sir George's mount from the
ditch, but the poor beast would not budge, and in the darkness it was
impossible to discover whether it was wounded or not. Mr. Fishwick's was
dead lame; the man's had wandered away. It proved that there was nothing
for it but to walk. Dejectedly, the three took the road and trudged
wearily through the darkness. They would reach Bathford village, the man
believed, in a mile and a half.

That settled, not a word was said, for who could give any comfort? Now
and then, as they plodded up the hill beyond Kingsdown, the servant
uttered a low curse and Sir George groaned, while Mr. Fishwick sighed in
sheer exhaustion. It was a strange and dreary position for men whose
ordinary lives ran through the lighted places of the world. The wind
swept sadly over the dark fields. The mud clung to the squelching,
dragging boots; now Mr. Fishwick was within an ace of the ditch on one
side, now on the other, and now he brought up heavily against one of his
companions. At length the servant gave him an arm, and thus linked
together they reached the crest of the hill, and after taking a moment
to breathe, began the descent.

They were within two or three hundred paces of Bathford and the bridge
over the Avon when the servant cried out that some one was awake in the
village, 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 discovered
that it proceeded not from a window but from a lanthorn set down in the
village street, and surrounded by five or six persons whose movements to
and fro caused the temporary eclipses they noticed. What the men were
doing was not at once clear; but in the background rose the dark mass of
a post-chaise, and seeing that--and one other thing--Sir George uttered
a low exclamation and felt for his hilt.

The other thing was Mr. Dunborough, who, seated at his ease on the step
of the post-chaise, appeared to be telling a story, while he nursed his
injured arm. His audience, who seemed to have been lately roused from
their beds--for they were half-dressed--were so deeply engrossed in what
he was narrating that the approach of our party was unnoticed; and Sir
George was in the middle of the circle, his hand on the speaker's
shoulder, and his point at his breast, before a man could move in
his defence.

'You villain!' Soane cried, all the misery, all the labour, all the
fears of the night turning his blood to fire, 'you shall pay me now! Let
a 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 you
with my own hand!'

Mr. Dunborough, his eyes on the other's face, laughed.

That laugh startled Sir George more than the fiercest movement, the
wildest oath. His point wavered and dropped. 'My God!' he cried, staring
at Dunborough. 'What is it? What do you mean?'

'That is better,' Mr. Dunborough said, nodding complacently but not
moving a finger. 'Keep to that and we shall deal.'

'What is it, man? What does it mean?' Sir George repeated. He was all of
a tremble and could scarcely stand.

'Better and better,' said Mr. Dunborough, nodding his approval. 'Keep to
that, and your mouth shut, and you shall know all that I know. It is
precious little at best. I spurred and they spurred, I spurred and they
spurred--there you have it. When I got up and shouted to them to stop, I
suppose they took me for you and thought I should stick to them and take
them in Bath. So they put on the pace a bit, and drew ahead as they came
to the houses here, and then began to pull in, recognising me as I
thought. But when I came up, fit and ready to curse their heads off for
giving me so much trouble, the fools had cut the leaders' traces and
were off with them, and left me the old rattle-trap there.'

Sir George's face lightened; he took two steps forward and laid his hand
on the chaise door.

'Just so,' said Mr. Dunborough nodding coolly. 'That was my idea. I did
the 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 his
shoulders. 'As empty as a bad nut! If you are not satisfied, look for
yourself,' he continued, rising that Sir George might come at the door.

Soane with a sharp movement plucked the door of the chaise open, and
called 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 he
wore 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 know
better,' he said furiously. 'She was here, and you sent her on
with them!'

Mr. Dunborough pointed to the man in the wrap-rascal. 'That man was up
as soon as I was,' he said. 'Ask him if you don't believe me. He opened
the chaise door.'

Sir George turned to the man, who, removing the shining leather cap that
marked him for a smith, slowly scratched his head. The other men pressed
up behind him to hear, the group growing larger every moment as one and
another, awakened by the light and hubbub, came out of his house and
joined it. Even women were beginning to appear on the outskirts of the
crowd, 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, and
looked out and saw it stop and the men go off. There was no woman
with 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 a
woman?'

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 dressed
man fashion. And they all went willing, for they went one by one, as
you may say.'

'Two on foot?'

'By the lane there. I never said no otherwise. Seemingly they were the
two 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 the
gentleman there was swearing and trying the door. I forced it with my
chisel, and you may see the mark on the break of the lock now.'

'Then we have been tricked,' Sir George cried furiously. 'We have
followed the wrong carriage.'

'Not you, sir,' the smith answered. 'Twas fitted up for the job, or I
should not have had to force the door. If 'twere not got ready for a job
of this kind, why a half-inch shutter inside the canvas blinds, and the
bolt outside, 'swell as a lock? Mark that door! D'you ever see the like
of that on an honest carriage? Why, 'tis naught but a prison!'

He held up the light inside the carriage, and Sir George, the crowd
pressing forward to look over his shoulder, saw that it was as the man
said. Sir George saw something more--and pounced on it greedily. At the
foot of the doorway, between the floor of the carriage and the straw mat
that covered it, the corner of a black silk kerchief showed. How it came
to be in that position, whether it had been kicked thither by accident
or thrust under the mat on purpose, it was impossible to say. But there
it was, and as Sir George held it up to the lanthorn--jealously
interposing himself between it and the curious eyes of the crowd--he
felt something hard inside the folds and saw that the corners were
knotted. 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 gentleman
room 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 man
with a stick and lanthorn was pushed with difficulty to the front. 'But
so 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 taller
than the smith. None the less, the hint had the desired effect. The
crowd fell back a little. Meanwhile, Sir George, the general attention
diverted from him, had untied the knot. When the smith turned to him
again, it was to find him staring with a blank face at a plain black
snuff-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 of
suspicion at Mr. Dunborough, who was leaning against the fore-wheel.

But that gentleman shrugged his shoulders. 'You need not look at me,' he
said. '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. 'But
I'm hanged if I can tell where.'

'Has your honour looked inside?' the smith asked. 'Maybe there is a note
in it.'

Sir George cut him short with an exclamation, and held the box up to the
light. 'There is something scratched on it,' he said.

There was. When he held the box close to the lanthorn, words rudely
scratched on the enamel, as if with the point of a pin, became visible;
visible, but not immediately legible, so scratchy were the letters and
imperfectly formed the strokes. It was not until the fourth or fifth
time 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, more
clearly 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 to
another, or whence came this box--which was plainly a man's, and still
had snuff in it--or even whither she had been so completely spirited
away that there remained of her no more than this, and the black
kerchief, and about the carriage a fragrance of her--perceptible only by
a lover's senses. A whirl of pity and rage--pity for her, rage against
her captors--swept such questions from his mind. He was shaken by gusty
impulses, now to strike Mr. Dunborough across his smirking face, now to
give some frenzied order, now to do some foolish act that must expose
him 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 and
suspense, this last disappointment, the shock of his fall--had all told
on him; and it was well that at this crisis Mr. Fishwick was at
his elbow.

For the lawyer saw his face and read it aright, and interposing
suggested an adjournment to the inn; adding that while they talked the
matter over and refreshed themselves, a messenger could go to Bath and
bring back new horses; in that way they might still be in Bristol by
eight 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 and
did it. He passed his arm through Sir George's, and signed to the smith
to 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 three
gentlemen stood together in the sanded tap-room at the tavern. The
landlord 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 that
night showed the three to one another.

Even in that poor place, the light had seldom fallen on persons in a
more pitiable plight. Of the three, Sir George alone stood erect, his
glittering eyes and twitching nostrils belying the deadly pallor of his
face. He was splashed with mud from head to foot, his coat was plastered
where he had fallen, his cravat was torn and open at the throat. He
still held his naked sword in his hand; apparently he had forgotten that
he held it. Mr. Dunborough was in scarce better condition. White and
shaken, 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 sunk
on his breast. Mr. Fishwick, a pale image of himself, his knees
trembling with exhaustion, leaned against the wall. The adventures of
the night had let none of the travellers escape.

The landlord and his wife could be heard in the kitchen drawing ale and
clattering plates, while the voices of the constable and his gossips,
drawling their wonder and surmises, filled the passage. Sir George was
the 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 girl
is or what has become of her than that snuff-box. And d--n me!' he
continued sharply, his eyes on the box, which Sir George still held in
his hand, 'whose is the snuff-box, and how did she get it? That is what
I want to know? And why did she leave it in the carriage? If we had
found it dropped in the road now, and that kerchief round it, I could
understand that! But in the carriage. Pho! I believe I am not the only
one in this!'

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24