Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman

by Stanley J Weyman

  “Only one shoe? Good God!” For a moment he seemed to be upset. “Good Lord!” he repeated, an odd note in his voice. The next moment, however, he recovered himself. “Shoes be hanged!” he said. “One shoe or no shoe, ma’am, will you go? Full-rigged or jury — will you try?”

  Rachel’s eyes met his. “I will try,” she said meekly.

  “Good!” He was evidently pleased. “Black Dick, who only smiles when the bulkheads are knocked out, could say no more, ma’am, nor Mad Dick better. Come, we’ll round the point yet! I’ll double the stirrup over the saddle and you’ll ride the mare to Fordingbridge — she’s as quiet as a lamb now. And I’ll get horses at the Greyhound, if I have to burn the house down! There, missus, you get her ready, while I rig the saddle.”

  But Mrs. Mew could not contain herself. “It’s my belief the young lady will die,” she said. “I say it, and I should know. I declare I think you are a very cruel man!”

  “Oh, she’ll not die!” the Captain said carelessly, and he turned to the door. “She’s not of the dying sort!”

  “Her foot’s cut to ribands!”

  He hung a moment at the door. He seemed to hesitate. Then, “Well, plait ‘em up!” he said heartlessly, and tramped out.

  “I declare,” Mrs. Mew said viciously, “the one man’s as big a brute as the other!” Which was an enormous thing for her to say of a Dunstan. “Are you going to trust yourself with him, my dear?”

  “Yes,” Rachel said.

  CHAPTER XXVII

  THE RETURN

  BUT more than once during the endless dark hour that followed she repented. Of course they made but slow progress, Rachel perched, trembling and as helpless as a sack, on her uneasy saddle, the Captain trudging beside her and leading the mare. Now and then he threw her a curt word of encouragement, but for the most part he plodded on in silence, or at rare intervals broke into a line of doggerel and as abruptly broke off again. The girl, shaken with every step, could have wept with pure fatigue. The saddle galled her, her wrist burned, she ached in every limb, she knew that a start or a stumble would unseat her; and though he had forced his riding-cloak upon her, she was chilled to the bone.

  She could have wept and would have found it a relief to weep. But she did not, for the man who walked beside her, and, if his drooping head and slouching step went for anything, was as weary as she was, had taken possession of her. He had set up a standard and she felt herself bound to act up to it. He had not spared himself, and he had made it clear that he expected her not to spare herself. He had forced her to understand that there were times when to suffer in body was the least costly way of escape.

  So she ached and shivered, and a score of times thought that she would fall, but she endured in silence, because the man would have it so. For her heart was full to bursting with gratitude to him. As she looked down on his bent head as he toiled beside her, as she measured what he had done and what she owed to him, she was infinitely moved. She was nothing to him, her peril or her safety alike indifferent, her fate a trifle. Yet on the mere suspicion that she was in danger he had stooped from his place, he had thought of her and for her; for her, the dependant who was no care or charge of his. He had faced, barely risen from a sickbed, the perils of the road, perils that loomed large in her eyes, and had ridden the interminable miles that they were now retracing — to save her! He had done this to save her and her good name. For she did not forget that; on the contrary, she thought much of it, not knowing for which to be more grateful, the delicacy with which he had laid his finger on the difficulty, or the firmness with which he had forced her to meet it.

  And it had been nothing to him. What did it matter to the Honourable George Dunstan if his brother’s governess, poor silly child, was ruined by a villain’s deceit and her own folly? Nothing, less than nothing. She longed with a full heart to thank him, longed for fitting words, yet knew that she would never dare to thank him.

  At long last a dog barked in the night, buildings loomed up on either hand, they plodded wearily into the main road at Fordingbridge. But the village slept, not a light shone in cottage or house, and it was not until the Captain had shouted again and again, hammered the door and thrown gravel at the windows, that the inn by the river awoke. At last a lattice opened, a sulky voice asked what the devil was the matter. What did they want at that time of night?

  “Horses!” the Captain answered stormily. “A chaise to Queen’s Folly, man! And hurry, hurry! Double mileage if you are quick!”

  The authority that rang in his voice, his mastery, his persistence, seemed god-like to Rachel, cowering and shaking at his side — he had lifted her down without ceremony. Jove-like, too, was the effect of his name. Lights flickered everywhere, and within a minute or two she was inside, warmed at a fire, obsequiously tended by a dishevelled hostess. “An accident!” the Captain explained shortly. “The young lady has been thrown out of a carriage on her way to Salisbury. I came up and — now quick’s the word, man. We want to get on!”

  But the landlord had a word to say, and by and by drew him aside. “No accident, I am afraid, Captain,” he muttered. “A rum business. The boy turned in as I was closing. And from what he let out — he was fair frightened — the young lady threw herself out. A mercy she was not killed ‘cording to him, for they was going eight miles an hour.”

  “What became of the man?” the Captain asked, seeing all was known, and gripping his crop with an ugly look.

  “Paid ‘im off at Burgate Corner — they come down into the main road there, or you’d ha’ met ‘em. He went off afoot, mad, and swearing to raise your hair! I asked the lad what they was doing on the Whitsbury road, but he shut up quick at that. He wasn’t here ten minutes. Mortal afeared he’d hear more of it, I fancy.”

  “D — d sneak! If I had been here—”

  “But the young lady wasn’t hurt?”

  “No thanks to them! But do you keep a still tongue, my man. Least said soonest mended. Are the horses ready?”

  A minute later the team jingled out, and Rachel, so weary that she could hardly stand, was handed into the chaise, the Captain plunged in after her, and they rumbled over the bridge, and took the road at a canter, the horses, stung by the cold wind that blew across the marshes, a little out of hand. The way was flat; the postboys, intent on earning their fees, pushed on. It was not the first time that Rachel had travelled that road with the Captain, but little had she expected on that former occasion that she would ever retrace it with a heart bursting with gratitude to her companion.

  Wisely he let her be, and not a word was said until they had rattled through sleeping Ringwood and were breasting the rise to the Forest, where the hill and the sandy road brought the horses to their collars. It was the girl who, harassed by fears of the reception before her, and quivering with nervousness, broke the silence.

  “They will be all in bed,” she said, her voice betraying her alarm at the prospect.

  “Not they!”

  “But they’ll not be expecting—”

  “They will be expecting Medea,” he answered grimly. “I’ll wager Tom will be up.”

  “Oh!” she cried. “Was it Medea?” She was horror-stricken. For Medea and her chances were the talk of the house, and had reached even the schoolroom. “Suppose — suppose something had happened to her.”

  “Suppose something had happened to you!” he retorted. “Don’t be silly, ma’am. She’ll be sent over in the morning. She’ll be none the worse. It is to be hoped you’ll be none the worse either.”

  “Oh, dear, dear,” she quavered, not at all reassured. “I hope I can get in without rousing anyone.”

  “Rousing anyone?” he replied bluntly. “We’re going to rouse all hands. That’s the course we are laying. It is no use whimpering, ma’am,” he continued, as Rachel murmured a dismayed remonstrance. “Come aboard with a clean sheet! That’s your line. Better a jobation to-night than everlasting talk tomorrow. I suppose you have the sense, young lady, to see that. Why, damme, if y
ou are to sneak aboard through the hawse-hole, what have we come all this way for, when you are not fit to stand on your feet? No, ma’am, no, we’ll pipe all hands, man the side-ropes and go aboard Captain’s fashion and no sneaking.

  Confound it,” he added, with an irritation that was not so real as it sounded, “what are you afraid of?”

  “Lady Ellingham.”

  “Lady Ellingham? And you throw yourself out of a carriage going at eight miles an hour! Yes, you did, girl. I’ve heard all about it. Threw yourself out head first to escape that d — d trickster. I wish I had been there, the villain! And you are afraid of my lady! Pooh! Spare your breath to cool your porridge.”

  Somehow the words were not harsh, and before Rachel could explain the Captain broke into one of his queer ditties:

  “‘To Rodney, brave but low in cash, Your golden gifts bespoke!’

  Ay, by gad, he got all he deserved, did Rodney!

  ‘To Keppel, rich but not so rash, You gave a box of oak!’

  But that’s a confounded slander! However, here we are, and there’s a light in the stables.” He thrust out his head and “Rattle ‘em up, my lads!” he cried. “And give ‘em a hail! Shout like blazes!”

  A moment later and he was out of the chaise and thundering at the great doors, while the postboys shouted and Tom, who had appeared on the instant, jabbered anxious questions at his elbow. Rachel, quailing at the uproar, crept out and hid herself behind him. She would fain have implored him to desist, but with her hand on his sleeve her courage failed. A light flashed in the hall windows, the heavy bolts were withdrawn, and a startled Charles, whose tousled head suggested that he had been sleeping at his post, looked out.

  The Captain strode in. “Her ladyship in bed?”

  “Yes, sir. It’s two o’clock.”

  “Call her woman then. Do you hear? Bid her rouse my lady. And be quick, sleepy-head!”

  “Oh, no, no!” Rachel prayed. “Please, please don’t!”

  “Call her ladyship!” repeated the Captain, raising his voice. “Ask her to he good enough to come down. Say I’ve broken my leg if you like. And stir your stumps, do you hear?”

  “Oh, please, please don’t!” Rachel pleaded. “It’s quite wrong! It is out of the question!”

  But the Captain only stormed. “Off, quick, man! And bid ‘em bring lights and get some of the women — Mrs. Jemmett, anyone! And you,” he turned sharply on the panic-stricken girl, and thrust forward a chair, “sit there! You are not fit to stand, ma’am! And now you may look as sick as you like! The sorrier the better!

  ‘To Keppel, rich but not so rash,

  You gave a heart of oak!’

  Hearts of oak — there, leave it to me, I’ll spin the yarn. Hallo, Bowles!” He turned on the astonished Bowles as the butler entered, half dressed and gaping. “Get some brandy, and don’t goggle your sleepy eyes at me, man! The young lady is ill, devilish ill, d’you hear — been pitched out of a chaise and the devil knows what! Had the deuce of a time! Brandy, man, and I want Mrs. Jemmett!”

  A mild voice from the doorway asked, “What about Medea, Captain?”

  “Oh, d — n Medea!” he returned, but with a distinct fall in his voice. “She’s at the Greyhound at Fording-bridge. Go back in the chaise, Tom, and get her. Bring her up in the morning.”

  But poor Rachel? While Captain George strode hither and thither, and stormed, and seemed intent on making as much noise as he could, she would have given the world to sink into the floor, or to be a hundred miles away, no matter what happened to her. She wrung her hands. The house to be roused for her! The Countess to be dragged from her bed for her! Oh, it was too much! She could have wept in pure vexation, and for a moment came near, very near to hating the man who was bringing all this trouble upon her.

  But he was obdurate. He would manage the thing after his own fashion. She, all must give way to him. And when innumerable servants had peeped in on various pretences, with lights or no matter what, the moment she so much dreaded came. Lady Ellingham, in a wrapper and with her maid behind her, appeared on the stairs and came gliding down, a stately figure with a face of very dubious meaning. Surprise, wonder and displeasure were all painted on it, and seeing it Rachel did indeed wish that she could sink into the floor. - “George!” My lady’s voice was pitched high, as from the last step she surveyed the scene — the girl cowering in her chair, the Captain striding to and fro, the gaping servants. “What has happened? What is it?” She held up her candle.

  But the Captain was unabashed. “The matter?” he retorted. “Why, I’ve brought back Miss South devilish ill! She’s been pitched out of the chaise — threw herself out, to speak by the log. ’Twas a trick of that d — d villain — it was as I thought. I found her on the road, lamed and by herself, and lord knows what would have happened to her if I had not found her. And she’s half dead. Some of the women must put her to bed. She’s not fit to do anything for herself.” But my lady still looked displeased. “I am sorry that Miss South is hurt,” she said coldly. “But was it necessary to call me down?”

  “I thought so,” with a sort of thrust — almost a challenge in his tone. “Captain responsible, Kitty.”

  “I think if you had sent for Mrs. Jemmett,” my lady began, and then her eyes met Rachel’s, she read the timid appeal in them, marked the exhaustion stamped on the white, weary face. She saw the bandaged arm and the torn, disordered dress, and her sympathies awoke. She deplored the event, she had the strongest reasons for disliking the Captain’s part in it, but she was not hard-hearted, and she moved to Rachel’s side. “I hope that you are not seriously hurt?” she asked in a gentler tone. “But you’ll tell us the tale to-morrow. You should be in bed now. Mrs. Jemmett will see that you have all you require and—”

  “And let someone stay with her,” said the Captain bluntly. “She’ll not sleep in a hurry. She’s had the deuce of a time.”

  “Very good,” my lady agreed — but thought again what a pity it was that George would mix himself up in it. She had had her suspicions before, but they were more than suspicions now. “Mrs. Jemmett, will you—” and turning from the girl, who had not found courage to say a word, she gave her orders.

  But when Rachel, venturing at last on a faltering word of apology, had been borne away in the housekeeper’s care, and the servants had dispersed, my lady turned on the offender. “Oh, you ridiculous man!” she said, with a gesture of despair. “Why did you do it?”

  “What? Go after the girl?”

  “Yes.” And then, deftly shifting her ground as she saw his face darken, “And get me out of bed in this absurd fashion?”

  “To stop people’s tongues! And the women’s tongues in particular. Oh, I know them. Still, thank ye, Kitty, you’re a good sort, and I’ll remember it. And now, my dear, you may go back to your beauty sleep. It’s pretty near the dog-watch, ain’t it? By gad I am tired!”

  “Foolish, foolish man!” she said. But her eyes were soft, she could never resist him. “And you’ll pay for it. You’ll be a perfect wreck to-morrow. And I wish that were the worst of it! Was it—”

  “Girardot? Yes, it was, the villain! The letter was a forgery. He got in and was making off with her — had bribed the postboy no doubt. He had got as far as Whitsbury on the by-road — Heaven knows where he was going to take her! Then she threw herself out, and it is Heaven’s mercy that she didn’t kill herself!”

  “But are you quite sure—” she began, and then, “Now, don’t be angry, George — but are you quite sure that she wasn’t — that she didn’t know—”

  But George bristled up so fiercely that she stopped. “I’m sure of this,” he said, “that she is as good a woman as you are, and I know no better. And she has the pluck of ten men. Does it look like collusion when she threw herself out of that chaise at —— —”

  “Look here, my lad!” An unexpected voice broke in on their conference. My lord in a fluttering dressing-gown, and with a candle in his hand, looked down from the landing. “Su
ppose you stop quarrelling about the filly, and tell me if you’ve brought the mare back! If you’ve lamed her, George—”

  “She’s as sound as I am,” the Captain said meekly. “I haven’t stirred a hair on her.”

  “Well,” with a mischievous chuckle, “I hope that you can say the same of the young one! Oh, George, George, it runs in the family after all! And my lady thought you a Joseph!”

  “Go to blazes!” said the Captain.

  “No, I’ll go to bed, as you permit it,” my lord rejoined, and as he retreated down the corridor he sang:

  “Oh, they loved and they rode in a hackney chaise,

  And ‘My own’ says he, and ‘Oh don’t’ she prays.

  But the night was dark and the spark aflame,

  And the chaise was close and his lips the same,

  And what does a tender ‘Oh don’t’ avail,

  When pins are fickle and laces are frail?”

  “D — n it!” cried the Captain savagely. “Fred, I’ll break your bones!”

  My lord’s laughter died away above. But there was a very odd look on my lady’s face as her eyes followed his retreat. She breathed quickly.

  CHAPTER XXVIII

  THE CAPTAIN AT BAY

  CAPTAIN DUNSTAN flattered himself, in his seaman’s simplicity, that he had stayed the flood of talk. Of course he had merely guided it into another channel, and vainly did Mrs. Jemmett, staunch in her defence of the family, set herself against it. “I’ll never believe it till I see it!” she declared, her cap-ribbons quivering with indignation as she stirred her tea. “A little whey-faced thing as came sneaking into the house without so much as be! to throw at a goose! And took her tea in this very room and sat in that very chair and was thankful! Yes, I say it, Bowles, thankful for a word of notice!”

  Bowles reflected. His back to the hearth, he was taking his “morning,” a silver measure of small beer. He looked into it and apparently he found inspiration in it. “At any rate, she didn’t put on no airs,” he said.