They were passing a great barn where a host of yokels were thrashing a stack that had lain too long, and a rare sight these were, knee-deep in the amber corn whence the rats fled ceaselessly.
"Shall we catch them, Tony?" asked Charles.
"I think we shall."
"But in time?" Charles dug his spurs in deep to cover the blush that was flaming over his cheeks.
"And will she turn back? Oh! Tony, Tony, she must, she shall, turn back."
In Great Cobblebury they stopped to give their horses a feed, and heard of the accident of the yellow chaise.
"Z----ds, these clumsy vehicles travel fast enough," muttered Charles.
When they started again, the darkness clung round them like a pall. The blown branch of a tree brushed against Lovely's elbow in a narrow part of the road and he shuddered, as though an unseen hand were warning him to pause.
"'Tis a plaguey rough night," he shouted over the wind, clapping his hat tighter and leaning close to his grey's warm slim neck.
They were crossing Dry Tree Common where Blue Jenkins was swinging in a shameful cradle, and Clare shouted he could see the lights of a chaise in front.
"That's Ripple for a hundred," cried Charles spurring on his horse, "gadslife, what a speed they are making. Hurry, Tony, hurry."
A dazzling flash of lightning seared the sky long enough to illuminate the ghastly figure on the gallows. Clare's chestnut mare shied violently and threw her rider head foremost into a large clump of gorse. It was a matter of some difficulty to catch the frightened animal, but Charles by mere determination succeeded in doing so, for all the night was now black before the rising of the moon. By this mishap, Clare was in much the same state of prickles as the Widow, without the help of deft-fingered Susan.
"What the plague made you do that?" said Charles fretfully. They had lost five valuable minutes through the behaviour of the mare. Tony laughed with great good humour.
When they reached the foot of Long Hill, they could see the lights of the chaise once again. It was finding the heavy pull very difficult. The rain was pouring down the ditches on either side with a gurgling sound, heard all the more clearly, because in the shelter of the slope the wind was quiet. Just before the summit, the carriage stopped and a bullet sang between Clare and Lovely who were now a bare twenty yards behind. Mr. Ripple believed in the advantage of an offensive campaign.
"Stop! stop!" shouted Charles, "we are not highwaymen."
The Beau recognized the voice, and in accents wherein could be detected the faintest note of relief said:
"Charles--Mr. Lovely! and why, may I inquire, are you abroad on such an unpleasant night?"
"Why, sir," called out Charles, "what have you been about? There's a dead man lying in the road."
"Good G----!" said Mr. Ripple, "a dead man?"
"Bring a lamp," called Clare.
Pridgeon descended from the box and, having tied the horses to a withered fir-tree, snatched one of the lamps from its socket.
As he came along, Charles observed by the wavering light primroses in flower.
"Surely, surely," said the Beau, "I cannot have killed this man."
"N! No!" cried Clare who was kneeling beside the body. "He has been dead some time. Z----ds! 'Tis the little Major."
"The little Major?" echoed Ripple sharply. "So 'tis! So 'tis!"
"All alone in the storm," said Charles in a low voice.
"It may have been highwaymen," said Ripple.
"So it may, so it may," Clare agreed.
"And it may have been Vernon," said Charles, "d--n him."
"Charles," said the Beau, "I owe you an apology. I have been obstinate. This should never have been allowed to happen."
Charles grasped his hand in the darkness.
After all, Mr. Ripple was not in his kingdom and they were all levelled by the presence of Death.
"We cannot leave the body here," said Tony.
"It must travel in the chaise," said Charles.
"What about Mrs. Courteen?" questioned Mr. Ripple.
"She is in a swoon."
"You are sure he is quite dead?" asked Charles and wondered at the futility of the remark.
Nobody troubled to reply.
"Perhaps it would be better to send a waggon," said Clare. "We are not many miles from Roseland-in-the-Vale."
"Somebody has cut off his epaulettes," said Charles.
"Then it may have been footpads," said the Beau. "No wayfarer would rob the dead."
"It is a very dark night," said Clare simply.
"He fought at Fontenoy. Let us lift him out of the mud," said Mr. Ripple, vaguely recalling long stories which the dead soldier had poured into his ears.
"He gave his life for her. We must certainly lift him out of the mud," said Charles.
"A dead body is dangerous to horses," said Clare, "I will take his head."
Just then the widow screamed again.
"Say nothing of this to Mrs. Courteen," said Mr. Ripple to the diminutive coachman.
"I knew something 'd 'appen," replied the latter. "I knew something 'd 'appen when I see'd as how somebody had stuck a bunch of primmerroses in Blue Jenkins's toes."
_Chapter the Thirty-fourth_
OLD ACQUAINTANCE
Charles said he would ride on to the _Basket of Roses_ and bid the landlord prepare a supper against the arrival of the rest. Clare stayed behind to protect the Beau from the hysterical excitement of Mrs. Courteen, who would not be pacified by anything less formidable than an armed escort. She had made up her mind that highwaymen were abroad, refused to allow the chaise to drive fast lest they might gallop unaware into a thieves' ambush, and alarmed herself with so many imaginary bogies that she almost succeeded in making Mr. Ripple fire point blank at Mr. Anthony Clare's shadow looming huge in the hedgerow.
Charles reached the _Basket of Roses_ not long after the departure of the lovers, and on hearing the news immediately spurred his grey horse to pursuit. For a couple of miles he plunged along a road that was almost a swamp, fired to greater exertions each minute by the sight of the ruts made by the chariot in front. Suddenly his horse began to go lame; the road grew worse; the ruts proved to be those of a country waggon. He was riding in the wrong direction, so he turned his grey round and walked her back to the inn. While he was inquiring into the possibility of securing a fresh mount, a voice from the parlour called out to know if any person was inquiring into the whereabouts of a young woman.
"She supped alone with the old gentleman," whispered Mrs. Tabrum.
Charles was not proof against a natural curiosity, and decided to wait at the inn till the arrival of the others. He ascertained that Vernon had changed horses so it was evident that he intended to post as fast as possible Eastward. His own horse must be tended if they were to proceed that night. There was no other in the stables, and as he was sure of catching the chariot before morning, he felt there would be no harm in learning why Phyllida had supped at a wayside inn, alone with an elderly gentleman. What was Vernon about meanwhile? Why had he not accompanied her? Charles ordered supper and stepped into the Travellers' Room.
"You were asking about a certain young woman," said Sir George, fixing him with deep set eyes of cold steel.
"I was indeed, sir," answered Mr. Lovely pulling forward an armchair into the blaze and stretching his damp legs towards the genial warmth.
"My name is Repington," said the old gentleman.
"Eh! What?"
"Sir George Repington."
Charles stared at him.
"And mine, sir, is Lovely, Charles Lovely."
"My nephew--humph--'tis your existence which has attracted me so many miles West."
"I did not think you knew of my existence," said Charles half sneering.
"You never condescended to inform your uncle of your movements."
"Sir," said the nephew, a smile of bitter recollection twisting the corners of his mouth. "I did not flatter myself that any attention on my side was welcome."
"What! you remember our only interview?"
"I was eight years old, sir."
"Is that a date in youth's short calendar that breeds a specially sensitive disposition of mind?"
"You turned me out of your house."
"On the contrary, nephew, you chose to go back to your father."
"Why wasn't he admitted, too?"
"Because," replied the uncle, "on a former occasion I was unfortunately compelled to invite your father to leave my house."
"By what right?"
Sir George raised his eyebrows.
"Truly, nephew, I think you are indiscreet for a young man of such fashion."
"I have the right to know," Charles burst out. "In all that I can remember of my childhood, you stood like a shadow in the corner of the room, you were the nightmare that haunted my pillow. You used to write sometimes--oh! I can remember your letters in their fat pursy envelopes. I can smell the sealing wax, black sealing wax, now. My father would go out with an oath and my mother would sit by a window with your letter in her lap, weeping, weeping."
"Did she weep, boy?"
"Ah! that pleases you, eh?"
"No, no, I was thinking what a laugh she had once--what a laugh. I expect I was hard--I was--Charles, nephew, give me your hand--I----"
The old man faltered in his speech and, as if the room were dark, groped for our hero's hand; the latter drew back.
"No! thank 'ee, Uncle, once is enough."