I was indeed overwrought with want of sleep, and the last few stages I had ridden with dulled senses in a lethargy of fatigue. At what point exactly I wandered from the road I could not tell. But the darkness had closed in before I began to notice a welcome ease and restfulness in the motion of the gallop. I was wondering idly at the change, when of a sudden my horse pops his foot into a hole. The reins were hanging loose on his neck; I myself was rocking in the saddle, so that I shot clean over his shoulder, turned a somersault in mid-air, and came down flat on my back in the centre of the Heath. For a while I lay there without an effort or desire to move. I felt as if Mother Earth had taken pity on my weariness, and had thus unceremoniously put me to bed. The trample of hoofs, however, somewhat too close to my legs roused me to wakefulness, and I started up and prepared to remount. To my dismay I found that my horse was badly lamed; he could barely set his foreleg to the ground.
The accident was the climax of my misfortunes. I looked eagerly about me. The night was moonless, but very clear and soft with the light of the stars. I could see the common stretching away on every side empty and desolate; here a cluster of trees, there a patch of bushes, but never a house, never the kindly twinkle of a lamp, never a sign of a living thing. What it behoved me to do. I could not come at, think as hard as I might. But whatever that might have been, what I did, alas I was far different. For I plumped myself down on the grass and cried like a child. It seemed to me that God’s hand was indeed turned against my friend and his deliverance.
But somehow into the midst of my lament there slipped a remembrance of Jack Larke. On the instant his face took shape and life before me, shining out as it were from a frame of darkness. I saw an honest scorn kindle in his eyes, and his lips shot “woman” at me. The visionary picture of him braced me like the cut of a whip. At all events, I thought I would make a pretence of manhood, and I ceased from my blubbering, and laying hold of the horse by the bridle, led him forward over the Heath.
I kept a sharp watch about me as I walked, but it must have been a full two hours afterwards when I caught a glimpse of a light far away on my left hand, glimmering in a little thicket upon a swell of the turf. At first I was minded to reckon it a star, for the Heath at that point was ridged up against the sky. But it shone with a beam too warm and homely to match the silver radiance of the planets. I turned joyfully in its direction, and quickening my pace, came at length to the back of a house. The light shone from a window on the ground floor facing me. I looked into it over a little paling, and saw that it was furnished as a kitchen. Plates and pewter-puts gleamed orderly upon the shelves, and a row of noble hams hung from the rafters.
I hurried round the side of the house and found myself, to my great satisfaction, on a bank which overlooked the road. I scrambled down the side of it and knocked loudly at the door. It was opened by an elderly man, who stared at me in some surprise.
“You travel late, young sir,” said he, holding the door ajar.
“I have need to,” I replied. “I should have been in Bristol long ere this.”
“’Tis strange,” he went on, eyeing me a thought suspiciously. “I caught no sound of your horse’s hoofs upon the road.”
“’Twould have been stranger if you had,” said I. “For I missed my way soon after sundown, and have been wandering since on the Heath. I saw the light of your house some half an hour agone over yonder,” and I pointed in the direction whence I had come.
“Then you are main lucky, sir,” he returned, but in a more civil tone. “This is the “Half-way House,” and it has no neighbours. In another hour we should have gone to bed—for we have no guests to-night—and you might have wandered until dawn.”
With that he set the door back against the wall, and stood aside for me to pass.
“You must pardon my surliness,” he said. “But few honest travellers cross Wickham Heath by dark, and at first I mistook you. I have never held truck with the gentry of the road, though, indeed, my pockets suffer for the ease of my conscience. However, if you will step within, my wife will get you supper while I lead your horse to the stables.”
“The beast is lame,” said I, “and I would fain continue my way to-night. Have you a horse for hire?”
“Nay, sir,” said he, shaking his head. “I have but one horse here besides your own, and that is not mine.”
“I need it only for a day,” I urged eagerly; “for less than a day. I could reach Bristol in the morning, and would send it you back forthwith.”
I plunged my hand into my fob, and pulled out a hand ful of money as I spoke.
“It is no use” he declared. “The horse is not mine. ’Twas left here for a purpose, and I may not part with it.”
“It would be with you again to-morrow,” I repeated.
“It may be needed in the meanwhile,” said he. “It may be needed in an hour. I know not.”
I let the coins run from my right hand into the palm of my left, so that they fell clinking one on the top of the other. For a second he stood undecided; then he spoke in a low voice like a man arguing with himself.
“I will not do it. The horse was left with me in trust—in trust. Moreover, I was well paid for the trust.” And he turned to me.
“Put up your money, sir,” said he stubbornly. “You should think shame to tempt poor folk. You will get no horse ’twixt here and Hungerford.”
I slipped the money back into my pocket while he moved away with the horse. It limped worse than ever, and he stopped and felt up his foreleg.
“It is no more than a strain, I think,” he called out. “The wife shall make a poultice for it to-night, and you can start betimes in the morning.”
It was a poor consolation, but the only one. So I made the best of it, and, taking my supper in the kitchen, went forthwith to bed. I was indeed so spent and tired that I fell asleep in the corner by the fire while my ham was being fried, and after it, was almost carried upstairs in the arms of my landlord. I had not lain in a bed since I left Leyden, and few sights, I think, have ever affected me with so pleasant a sense of rest and comfort as that of the little inn-chamber, with its white dimity curtains and lavender-scented sheets. I have, in truth, always loved the scent of lavender since.
The next morning I was early afoot, and, despatching a hasty breakfast, made my way to the stables. The innkeeper had preceded me in order to have all ready for my start; but he stood in the yard with the horse unsaddled.
“‘Tis no use, sir,” he said. “You must e’en walk to Hungerford.”
I had but to see the horse take one step to realise the truth of his words, for it limped yet worse than the evening before. The foot, moreover, was exceeding hot and inflamed.
“Take it back,” said I. “The poor beast must bide here till I return.”
I followed him into the stable and inquired of the road.
“You go straight,” he said, “till you come to Barton Court, opposite the village of Kintbury—” when of a sudden I stopped him. There were but two stalls in the building, and I had just caught a glimpse of the horse which was tied up in the second. It was of a light chest nut in colour, with white stockings, and a fleck of white in its coat at the joint of the hip. The patch was like a star in shape, and very unusual.
“Why, this is Sir Julian Harnwood’s horse,” I cried, leaping towards it—“his favourite horse!”
“Yes,” he said, looking at me with some surprise, “that was the name—Sir Julian Harnwood. ’Tis the horse I told you of last night.”
And in a flash the truth came upon me.
“It waits for me,” I said. “Quick, man, saddle it! Sir Julian’s life hangs upon your speed.”
But he planted himself sturdily before me.
“Not so fast, young master,” he said. “That trick will not serve your turn. ’Tis Sir Julian’s horse, sure enough, and it waits its rider, sure enough; but that you are he, I must have some better warrant than your word.”
“My name may prove it,” I replied. “It is Buckler—Morrice Buckler, Sir Julian’s servant came to me in Holland.”
“Buckler!” the man repeated, as though he heard it for the first time. “Morrice Buckler! Yes, sir, that may be your name. I have nothing against it beyond that it is unfamiliar in these parts. But a strange name is a poor thing to persuade a man to forgo his trust.”
I looked at the man. Though elderly and somewhat bent, he was of a large frame, and the sinews stood out in knots upon his bared arms. Plainly I was no match for him if it came to a struggle; and a sickening feeling of impotence and futility surged up within me. At every turn of the road destiny had built up its barrier. I understood that the clue to the matter lay hidden in that untold message which had been vainly conveyed to Leyden that Swasfield had some pass-word, some token to impart, whereby I might make myself known along the road.
“The horse waits for me,” I cried, my voice rising as I beseeched him. “In very truth it waits for me. Doubtless I should have some proof of that. But the man that bid me come fell in a swoon or ever he could hand it me.”
The innkeeper smiled, and sat him down on a corn-bin. Indeed, the explanation sounded weak enough to me, who was witness of its truth. I should hardly have credited it from another’s lips.
“Oh, can’t you see,” I entreated, in an extremity of despair, “can’t you feel that I am telling you God’s truth?”
“No, master,” be answered slowly, shaking his head, “I feel naught of that sort.”
His words and stolid bumpkin air threw me into a frenzy of rage.
“Then,” cried I, “may the devil’s curse light on you and yours! That horse was left with you in trust. You have dinned the word into my ears; there’s no gainsaying it. And I claim the fulfilment of your trust. Understand, fellow!” I went on, shaking my hand at him, for I saw his mouth open and his whole lace broaden out into a laugh. “it’s not a horse you are stealing; it is a life—a man’s innocent life!”
Thereupon he broke in upon my passion with a great gust of mirth that shook him from head to foot.
“Lord, master!” said he, “that be mighty fine play-acting. I don’t know that I ever saw better in Newberry Market,” and he slapped a great fist upon his thigh. “No, I’ll be hanged if I did. Go on! Go on! Lord, I could sit here and laugh till dinner.” And he thrust his feet forward, plunged his hands in his breeches pockets, and rolled back against the wall. I watched him in an utter vacancy of mind. For his stupid laughter had quenched me like a pailful of cold water. I searched for some device by which I might outwit his stubbornness. Not the smallest seed of a plan could I discover. I sent my thoughts back to the morning of the fourteenth, and cudgelled my memory in the hope that Swasfield might have dropped some hint which had passed unnoticed. But he had said so little, and I remembered his every word. Then in a twinkling I recollected the charms which I had found upon his person. Perchance one of them was the needed token. No idea was too extravagant for me to grasp at it. What had I done with them? I thought. I tipped my hand into the pocket of my coat, and my fingers closed, not on the charms, but on the barrel of the pistol which Lathe had handed to me at the moment of my setting out. In an instant my mind was made up. I must have that horse, cost what it might. ’Twas useless to argue with my landlord. Money I had made trial of the night before. And here were the minutes running by, and each one of them, it might be, a drop of Julian’s blood!
I walked quickly to the door, at once to disengage the pistol secretly and to hide any change in my countenance. But the cock must needs catch in the flap of my pocket as I drew the weapon out. I heard a startled cry behind me, a rattle of the corn-bin, and a clatter of heavy shoes on the ground. I took one spring out of the stable, turned, and levelled the barrel through the doorway. For a moment we stood watching one another, he crouched for a leap, I covering his eyes with the pistol.
“Saddle that horse,” I commanded, “and bring it out into the road!”
It was his turn now to argue and entreat, but I had no taste at the moment for “play-acting.”
“Be quick, man!” I said. “You have wasted time enough. Be quick, else I’ll splatter your head against the wall!”
The fellow rose erect and did as I bid, while I stood in the doorway and tailed at him. For, alas! I was never over-generous by nature.
“Hurry, you potato!” I exclaimed. Why that word above all other and more definite terms of abuse should have pained him I know not. But so it was; “Potato” grieved him immeasurably, and noting that, I repeated it more often, I fear me, than fitted my dignity. At length the horse was saddled.
“Lead it out!” I said; and walked backwards to the road with my pistol still levelled.
He followed me with the horse, and I bade him go back into the stable and close the door. Then I put up my pistol, sprang into the saddle, and started at a gallop past the inn. I had ridden little more than a hundred yards when I chanced to look back. My host was standing in the centre of the way, his legs firmly apart, and a huge blunderbuss at his shoulder. I flung my body forward on the neck of the horse, and a shower of slugs whistled through the air above my head. I felt for my pistol to return the compliment, but ’twould have been mere waste of the shot; I should never have hit him. So I just curved my hand about my mouth and bawled “Potato” at the top of my voice. It could have done no less hurt than his slugs.
The horse, fresh from its long confinement, answered gladly to my call upon its speed, and settled into a steady gallop. But for all that, though I pressed on quickly through Marlborough and Chippenham, the nearer I came to Bristol the more lively did my anxieties become. I began to ponder with an increasing apprehension on the business which Julian might have in store for me. The urgency of his need had been proved yet more clearly that morning. The horse which I bestrode was a fresh and convincing evidence; and I could not but believe that similar relays were waiting behind me the whole length of the road from London.
At the same time, as Elmscott had urged, I could bring him no solace of help in the matter of his trial. It would need greater authority than mine to rescue him from Jeffries’ clutches. I realised that there must be some secret trouble at the back, and the more earnestly I groped after a hint of its nature, the more dark and awe some the riddle grew. For, to my lasting shame I own it, Elmscott’s forebodings recurred to me with the mystical force of a prophecy
“There is God’s hand in all this. He doth not mean you should go.”
The warning seemed traced in black letters on the air before me. Fear whispered it at my heart, and the very hoofs of the horse beat it out in a tinging menace from the ground.
At last, when I was well in the grips of a panic, over the brow of a bill I saw a cluster of church-spires traced like needles against the sun, and in a sudden impulse to outstrip my cowardice I drove my heels into my horse’s flanks, and an hour later rode through Lawford’s Gate into Bristol town. I inquired of the first person I met where the Court was sitting. At the Guildhall, he told me, and pointed out the way. A clock struck four as he spoke, and I hurriedly thanked him and hastened on.
About the Guildhall a great rabble of people swung and pressed, and I reined up on the farther side of the street, but as nearly opposite to the entrance as I could force my way. In front of the building stood a carriage very magnificently equipped, with four horses, and foot men in powdered wigs and glistening liveries.
From such converse as went on about me, I sought to learn what prisoners had been tried that day. But so great was the confusion of voices, curses, lamentations, and rejoicings being mixed and blended in a common uproar, that I could gather no knowledge that was particular to my purpose. Then from the shadow of the vestibule shot a gleam of scarlet and white, and at once a deep hush fell upon the crowd. Preceded by his officers, my lord Jeffries stepped out to his carriage, a man of a royal mien, with wonderfully dark and piercing eyes, though the beauty of his face was much marred by spots and blotches, and an evil smile that played incessantly about his lips. He seemed in truth in high good humour, and laughed boisterously with those that attended him; and bethinking me of his savage cruelty, and the unholy lustfulness wherewith he was wont to indulge it, my heart sank in fear for Julian.
The departure of his carriage seemed to lift a weight from every tongue, and the clamour recommenced. I cast about for some one to approach, when I beheld a little man with a face as wrinkled and withered as a dry pippin, pressing through the throng in my direction. I thought at first that he intended speech with me, for be looked me over with some care. But he came straight on to the horse’s bead, and without pausing walked briskly along its side to my right hand and disappeared behind me. A minute after I heard the noise of a dispute on my left. There was my little friend again. He had turned on his steps, and moving in the contrary direction had come up with me once more. In the hurry of his movements he had knocked up against a passer-by, and the pair straightway fell loudly to argument, each one accusing the other of clumsiness. I turned in my saddle to watch the quarrel, and immediately the little man, with profuse apologies, took the blame upon himself and continued his way. I followed him with my eyes. He had proceeded but ten yards when his pace began to slacken, then he dropped into a saunter, and finally stood still in a musing attitude with his eyes on the ground, as though he was debating some newly question. Of a sudden he raised his head, shot one quick glance towards me, and resumed his walk. The street was thinning rapidly, and I was able to pursue him without difficulty. For half a mile we went on, keeping the same distance between us, when he sharply turned a corner and dived into a narrow side-street. I checked my horse, thinking that I had mistaken his look; for he had never so much as turned round since. But the next minute he reappeared, and stood loitering in his former attitude of reflection. There could be no doubt of the man’s intention, and I gathered up the reins again and followed him. The side-street was narrow and exceeding dark, for the stories of the houses on each side projected one above the other until the gables nearly met at the top. The little man was waiting for me about twenty yards from the entrance, in an angle of the wall.
“It is Mr Buckler?” he asked shortly.
“Yes,” I answered. “What news of Julian?”
“You have but just arrived?”
“The clock struck four as I rode through Lawford’s Gate. What news of Julian?”
He gave a sharp, sneering laugh. “Ay, ay,” he said. “No one so fustered as your loiterer.” And he stepped out from the shadow of the house. “Sir Julian?” he cried hastily. “Sir Julian will be hanged at noon to-morrow.”
I swayed in the saddle; the houses spun round me. I felt the man’s arm catch at and steady me.
“It is my fault?” I whispered.
“No, lad!” he returned, with a new touch of kindliness in his tone. “Nothing could have saved him. I should know; I am his attorney. Maybe I spoke too harshly, but this last week he has been eating his heart out for the sight of you, and your tardiness plagued me. There, there! Lay hold of your pluck! It is a man your friend needs, not a weak girl.”
There was pitying contempt in the tone of these last words which stung me inexpressibly. I sat up erect, and said, with such firmness as I could force into my voice,—“Where does Sir Julian lie?”
“In the Bridewell to-night. But you must not go there in this plight,” he added quickly, for I was already turning the horse. “You would ruin all.” He glanced sharply up and down the lane, and went on,—“We have been together over-long as it is.” Then he tapped with his foot for a moment on the pavement. “I have it,” said he. “Go to the Thatched House Tavern, in Lime Kiln Lane. I will seek you there. Wait for me; and, mind this, let no one else have talk with you. Tell the people of the house I sent you.—Mr Joseph Vincott. It will commend you to their care.”
With that he turned on his heel, ran up to the opening of the street, and after a cautious look this side and that, strolled carelessly away. I gave him a few moments’ grace, and then hurried with all despatch to the tavern, asking my direction as I went. There I ordered a private room, and planting myself at the window, waited impatiently for Vincott’s coming.
It must have been an hour afterwards that I saw him turn into the lane from a passage almost opposite to where I stood. I expected him to cross the road, but he cast not so much as a glance towards the inn, and walked slowly past on the farther side. I flung up the window, thinking that he had forgotten his errand, and leaned out to call him. But or ever I could speak he banged his stick angrily on the ground, raised it with a quick jerk and pointed twice over his shoulder behind him. The movement was full of significance, and I drew back into the shadow of the curtain. Mr Vincott mounted the steps of a house, knocked at the door, and was admitted. No sooner had he entered than a man stepped out from the passage. He was of a large, heavy build, and yet, as I surmised from the litheness of his walk, very close-knit. His face was swarthy and bronzed, and he wore ear-rings in his ears. I should have taken him for an English sailor but that there was a singular compactness in his bearing, and his gait was that of a man perfectly balanced. For a while be stood loitering at the entrance to the passage, and then noticing the inn, crossed quickly over and passed through the door beneath me.
My senses were now strained into activity, and I watched with a quivering eagerness for the end of this strange game of hide-and-seek. I had not long to wait. The little lawyer came down the steps, stopped at the bottom, took a pinch of snuff with great deliberation, and blowing his nose with unnecessary noise and vehemence, walked down the street. He had nearly reached the end of it before his pursuer lounged out of the inn and strolled in the same direction. The moment Vincott turned the corner, however, he lengthened his stride; I saw him pause at the last house and peep round the angle, draw back for a few seconds, and then follow stealthily on the trail.
The incident reawakened all my perplexed conjectures as to the business on which I was engaged. Why should the fact of my arrival in the town be so studiously concealed? Or again, what reason could there be for any one to suspect or fear it? The questions circled through my mind in an endless repetition. There was but one man who could answer them, and he lay helpless in his cell, adding to the torture of his last hours the belief that his friend had played him false. The thought stung me like Ino’s gadfly. I paced up and down the room with my eyes ever on the street for Vincott’s return. My heart rose on each sound of a nearing step, only to sink giddily with its dying reverberation. The daylight fell, a fog rolled up from the river in billows of white smoke, and still Vincott did not come. The very clock by the chimney seemed to tick off the seconds faster and faster until I began to fancy that the sounds would catch one another and run by in one continuous note. At last I heard a quick pattering noise of feet on the pavement below, and Vincott dashed up the stairs and burst into the room.
“I have shaken the rascal off,” he gasped, falling into a chair; “but curse me if it’s lawyer’s work. We live too sedentary a life to go dragging herrings across a scent with any profit to our bodies.”
“Then we can go,” said I, taking my hat. But he struck it from my hands with his cane.
“And you!” he blazed out at me. “You must poke your stupid yellow head out of the window as if you wanted all Bristol to notice it. Sit down!”
“Mr Vincott!” I exclaimed angrily.
“Mr Buckler!” he returned, mimicking my tone, and pulling a grimace. There was indeed no dignity about the man. “It may not have escaped your perceptions that I have some desire to conceal your visit to this town. Would it be too much to ask you to believe that there are reasons for that desire?”
He spoke with a mocking politeness, and waited for me to answer him.
“I suppose there are,” I replied; “but I am in the dark as to their nature.”
“The chief of them,” said he, “is your own security.”
“I will risk that,” said I, stooping for my hat. “’Tis not worth the suffering which it costs Julian.”
“Dear, dear!” he gibed. “’Tis strange that so much heart should tarry so long. Let me see! It must be full eight days since Swasfield came to you at Leyden.” And he struck my hat once more out of my grasp.
“Mr Vincott,” said I—and my voice trembled as I spoke—“if you have a mind to quarrel with me, I will endeavour to gratify you at a more seasonable time. But I cannot wrangle over the body of my friend. I caine hither with all the speed that God vouchsafed me.” And I informed him of my journey, and the hindrances which had beset my path.
“Well, well,” he said, “when I had done, “I perceive that my thoughts have done you some injustice. And, after all, I am not sure but what your late coming is for the best. It has caused your friend no small anxiety, I admit. But against that we may set a gain of greater secrecy.”
He picked up my hat from the floor, and placed it on the table.
“So,” he continued, “you will pardon my roughness, but I have formed some affection for Sir Julian. ’Tis an unbusinesslike quality, and I trust to be well ashamed of it in a week’s time. At the present, however, it angered me against you.” He held out his hand with a genuine cordiality, and we made our peace.
“Now,” said he, “the gist of the matter is this. It is all-essential that you be not observed and marked as a visitor to Sir Julian. Therefore ’twere best to wait until it is quite dark and meanwhile we must think of some disguise.”
“A disguise?” I exclaimed.
“Yes,” said he. “You must have noticed from that window that there are others awake beside ourselves.”
I stood silent for a moment, reluctantly considering a plan which had just flashed into my head. Vincott drew a flint and steel from his pocket, and lighted the candles—for the dusk was filling the room—and drew the curtains close. All at once the dizzy faintness which had come over me in the side-street near the Guildhall returned, and set the room spinning about me. I clutched at a chair to save myself from falling. Vincott snatched up a candle, and looked shrewdly into my face.
“When did you dine?” he asked.
“At breakfast time,” said I.
He opened the door, and rang a bell which stood on a side-table. “Lucy!” he bawled over the banisters.
A great buxom wench with a cheery face answered the summons, and he bade her cook what meats they had with all celerity.
“Meantime,” said he, “we will while away the interval over a posset of Bristol milk. You have never tasted that, Mr Buckler? I would that I could say the same. I envy you the pleasure of your first acquaintance with its merit.”
The “milk,” as he termed it, was a strong brewage of Spanish wine, singularly luxurious and palatable. Mr Vincott held up his glass to the light, and the liquid sparkled like a clear ruby.
“’Tis a generous drink,” he said. “It gives nimbleness to the body, wealth to the blood, and lightness to the heart. The true Promethean fire!” And he drained the glass and smacked his lips.
“That is a fine strapping wench,” said I. “She must be of my height, or thereabouts.”
The lawyer cocked his head at me. “Ah!” said he dryly, “a wonderful thing is Bristol milk.”
But I was thinking of something totally different.
The girl fetched in a stew of beef, steaming hot, and we sat down to it, though indeed I had but little inclination for the meal.
“Now, Mr Vincott,” said I, “I will pray you, while we are eating, to help me to the history of Julian’s calamities.” I think that my voice broke somewhat on the word, for he laid his hand gently upon my arm. “I know nothing of it myself beyond what you have told me, and a rumour that came to me in London.”
The lawyer sat silent for a time, drumming with his fingers on the table.
“Your story,” I urged, “will save much valuable time when I visit Julian.”
“I was thinking,” he replied, “how much I should tell you. You see, merely the facts are known to me. Of what lies underneath them—I mean the motives and passions which have ordered their sequence—I may have surmised something” (here his eyes twinkled cunningly), “but I have no certitude. That part of the business concerns you, not me. ’Twere best, then, that I show you no more than the plain face of the matter.”
He pushed away his plate, leaned both arms upon the table, and, with a certain wariness in his manner, told me the following tale.
“In the spring of the year, Miss Enid Marston fell sick at Court. The air of St James’s is hardly the best tonic for invalids, and she came with her uncle and guardian to the family house at Bristol to recruit. Sir Julian Harnwood must, of course, follow her; and, in order that he may enjoy her company without encroaching upon her hospitality, he hires him a house in the suburbs, upon Brandon Hill. One night, during the second week of August, came two fugitives from Sedgemoor to his door. Sir Julian had some knowledge of the men, and the story of their sufferings so worked upon his pity that he promised to shelter them until such time as he could discover means of conveying them out of the country. To that end he hid them in one of his cellars, brought their food with his own hands, and generally used such precautions as he thought must avert suspicion. But on the morning of the 10th September he was arrested, his house searched, and the rebels discovered. The rest you know. Sir Julian was tried this afternoon with the two fugitives, and pays the penalty to-morrow. ’Tis the only result that could have been looked for. His best friends despaired from the outset—even Miss Marston.”
“I had not thought of her,” I broke in. “Poor girl!”
“Poor girl!” he repeated, gazing intently at the ceiling. “She was indeed so put back in her health, that her physician advised her instant removal to a less afflicting neighbourhood.”
As he ended, he glanced sideways at me from under half-closed lids; but I chanced to be watching him, and our eyes crossed. It seemed to me that he coloured slightly, and sent his gaze travelling idly about the room, anywhere, in short, but in my direction, the while he hummed the refrain of a song.
“You mean she has deserted Julian?” I exclaimed.
“I have no recollection that I suggested that, or indeed anything whatsoever,” he returned blandly. “As I mentioned to you before, I merely relate the facts.”
“There is one fact,” said I, after a moment’s thought, “on which you have not touched.”
“There are two,” he replied; “but specify if you please. I will satisfy you to the limit of my powers.”
“The part which I shall play in this business.”
He wagged his head sorrowfully at me.
“I perceive,” says he, “with great regret that they teach you no logic at the University of Leyden. You are speaking, not of a fact, but of an hypothesis. The part which you will play, indeed! You ask me to read the future, and I am not qualified for the task.”
It became plain to me that I should win no profit out of my questioning; there could be but one result to a quibbling match with an attorney; so I bade him roughly tell me what he would.
“There are two facts,” he resumed, “which are perhaps of interest. But I would premise that they are in no way connected. I would have you bear that in mind, Mr Buckler. The first is this it has never been disclosed whence the information came which led to the discovery of the fugitives. Sir Julian, as I told you, used great precautions. His loyalty, moreover, had never been suspected up till then.”
“From his servants, most like,” I interposed.
“Most like,” he sneered. “The remark does scanty credit to your perspicacity, and hardly flatters me. I examined them with some care, and satisfied myself on the score of their devotion to their master. ’Tis doubtful even whether they were aware of Sir Julian’s folly. ’Tis most certain that they never betrayed him. Besides, my lord Jeffries rated them all most unmercifully this afternoon. He would not have done that had they helped the prosecution. No, the secret must have leaked out if the information had come from them.”
“And you could gather no clue?”
“Say, rather, that I did gather no clue. For my client forbade me to pursue my inquiries. ’Tis strange that, eh? ’Tis passing strange. It points, I think, beyond the servants.”
“Then Julian himself must know,” I cried.
‘Tis a simple thought,” said he. “If you will pardon the hint, you discover what is obvious with a singular freshness.”
I understood that I had brought the rejoinder upon myself by my interruption, and so digested it in silence.
“The second point,” he continued, “is interesting as a—” he made the slightest possible pause “—a coincidence. Sir Julian Harnwood was arrested at six o’clock in the morning, not in his house, but something like a mile away, on the King’s down. ’Tis a quaint fancy for a gentleman to take it into his head to stroll about the King’s down in the rain at six o’clock of the morning; almost as quaint as for an officer to go thither at that hour to search for him.”
An idea sprang through my mind, and was up to the tip of my tongue. But I remembered the fate of my previous suggestions, and checked it on the verge of utterance.
“You were about to proffer a remark,” said Mr Vincott very politely.
“No!” said I in a tone of indifference, and he smiled. Then his manner changed and he began to speak quickly, rapping with his fist upon the table as though to drive home his words.
“The truth of the matter is, Mr Buckler, Sir Julian went out that morning to fight a duel, and his antagonist was Count Lukstein, who came over to England six months ago in the train of the Emperor Leopold’s ambassador. Ah! you know him!”
“No!” I replied. “I know of him from Julian.”
“They were friends, it appears.”
“Julian made the Count’s acquaintance some time ago in Paris, and has, I believe, visited his home in the Tyrol.”
“However that may be, they quarrelled in Bristol. Count Lukstein came down from London to take the waters at the Hotwell, by St Vincent’s rock, and has resided there for the last three months. ’Twas a trumpery dispute, but naught would content Sir Julian but that they must settle it with swords. He was on the way to the trysting-place when he was taken.”
And with a final rap on the table, Mr Vincott leaned back in his chair, and froze again to a cold deliberation.
“That,” said he, “is the second fact I have to bring to your notice.”
“And the first,” I cried, pressing the point on him, “the first is that no one knows who gave the information!”
“I observed, I believe,” he replied, returning my gaze with a mild rebuke, “that between those two facts there is no connection.”
At the time it seemed to me that he was bent on fobbing me off. But I have since thought that he was answering after his fashion the innuendo which my words wrapped up. He took out his snuff-box as he spoke, and inhaled a great pinch. The action suddenly recalled to me the man which I had watched from the window.
“It was a foreigner.” I said, starting up in my excitement, “it was a foreigner who dogged your steps this afternoon?”
“I like the ornaments of the ceiling,” says he (for thither had his eyes returned); and, as though he were continuing the sentence: “I may tell you, Mr Buckler, that Count Lukstein left Bristol eleven days ago.”
“Did he take his servants with him?” I asked; and then, a new thought striking me: “Eleven days ago! That is, Mr Vincott, the day after Julian’s arrest.”
“Mr Buckler,” says he, “you appear to me to lack discretion.”
“I only re-state your facts.” I answered, with some heat.
“The facts themselves are perhaps a trifle indiscreet,” he admitted, “I shall certainly have that ceiling copied in my own house.” And with that he rose from his chair. “’Tis close on eight by the clock, and we must hit upon some disguise. But, Lord! how it is to be contrived with that canary poll of yours I know not, unless you shave your head and wear my peruke.”
“I have a better device than that,” said I.
“Well, man, out with it!” For I spoke with hesitation, fearing his irony.
“You can trust the people of the inn?”
He nodded his head.
“Else I should not have sent you hither. They are bound to me in gratitude. I saved them last year from some pother with the Excise.”
“And Lucy—what of her?”
“She is the landlord’s daughter.”
Thus assured, I delivered to him my plan—that I would mask my person beneath one of Lucy’s gowns.
Vincott leapt at the notion. “Od rabbit me!” he cried, “I misliked your face at first, but I begin to love it dearly now. For I see ’twas given you for some purpose.”
Once more he summoned Lucy, invented some story of a jest to be played, and bound her to the straitest secrecy. She gained no inkling from him, you may be sure, of the business which we had in hand. I stripped off my coat, and with much lacing and compressing, much exercise of vigour on Vincott’s part, much panting on mine, and more roguish giggling upon Lucy’s, I was at last squeezed into the girl’s Sunday frock. It had a yellow bodice bedecked with red ribbons, and a red canvas skirt.
“But, la!” she exclaimed, “your feet! Sure you must have a long cloak to hide them.” And she whipped out of the room and fetched one. My feet did indeed but poorly match the dress, which descended no lower than my ankles.
By good fortune the cloak had a hood attached, which could be drawn well forward, and blurred my features in its shadow.
“So!” said I. “I am ready.” And I strode quickly to the door. For Lucy’s glee and my masquerading weighed with equal heaviness upon me. I was full-charged with sorrow for the coming interview. The old days in Cumberland lived and beat within my heart; the old dreams of a linked future voiced themselves again with a very bitter Irony. ’Twas the last time my eyes were to be gladdened with the sight of my loved friend and playmate. I looked upon this visit as the sacred visit to a death-bed; nay, as something yet more sad than that, for Julian lay a-dying in the very bloom of health and youth, and the grotesque guise in which I went forth to him seemed to mock and flout the solemnity of the occasion.
“Stop, lad!” said Vincott. “You must never walk like that. Your first step would betray you. Watch me!”
With a peacock air, which at another time would have appeared to me inimitably ludicrous, the little attorney minced across the room on the tips of his toes. Lucy leaned against the wall holding her sides, and fairly screamed with delight.
“What ails you, lass?” said he very sternly.
“La, Mr Vincott,” she gulped out between bubbles of laughter, “I think you have but few honest women among your clients.”
Mr Vincott rebuked her at some length for her sauciness, and would have prolonged his lecture yet further, but that my impatience mastered me and hastened him from the room. The girl let us out by a small door which gave on to an alley at the back of the house. The night was pitch-dark, and the streets deserted; not even a lamp swung from a porch.
“Stay here for a moment,” whispered Vincott. “I will move ahead and reconnoitre.”
His feet echoed on the cobbles with a strange lonely sound. In a minute or so a low whistle reached my ears, and I followed him.
“All’s clear,” he said. “I little thought the time would ever come when I should bless his late Majesty King Charles for forbidding the citizens of Bristol to light their streets.”
We stepped quickly forward, threading the quiet roads as noiselessly as we could, until Vincott stopped before a large building. Light streamed from the windows, piercing the mirk of the night with brownish rays, and a dull muffled clamour rang through the gateway. “The Bridewell” whispered Vincott. “Keep your face well shrouded, and for God’s sake hide your feet!” He drew a long breath, I did the same, and we crossed the road and passed beneath the arch.