Mr. Fishwick found it terrible, rugged, wild, a night foray. His heart began to sink again. He was sore too, sweating, and fit to drop from his saddle with the unwonted exertion.
And what of Sir George, hurled suddenly out of his age and world--the age _des philosophes_, and the smooth world of White's and Lord March--into this quagmire of feeling, this night of struggle upon the Wiltshire downs? A few hours earlier he had ridden the same road, and the prize he now stood in danger of losing had seemed--God forgive him!--of doubtful value. Now, as he thought of her, his heart melted in a fire of love and pity: of love that conjured up a thousand pictures of her eyes, her lips, her smile, her shape--all presently dashed by night and reality; of pity that swelled his breast to bursting, set his eyes burning and his brain throbbing--a pity near akin to rage.
Even so, he would not allow himself to dwell on the worst. He had formed his opinion of the abduction; if it proved correct he believed that he should be in time to save her from that. But from the misery of suspense, of fear, of humiliation, from the touch of rough hands and the shame of coarse eyes, from these things--and alone they kindled his blood into flame--he was powerless to save her!
Lady Dunborough could no longer have accused him of airs and graces. Breeding, habit, the custom of the gaming-table, the pride of caste availed to mask his passions under a veil of reserve, but were powerless to quell them. What was more remarkable, so set was he on the one object of recovering his mistress and putting an end to the state of terror in which he pictured her--ignorant what her fate would be, and dreading the worst--he gave hardly a thought to the astounding discovery which the lawyer had made to him. He asked him no questions, turned to him for no explanations. Those might come later; for the moment he thought not of his cousin, but of his mistress. The smiles that had brightened the dull passages of the inn, the figure that had glorified the quiet streets, the eyes that had now invited and now repelled him, these were become so many sharp thorns in his heart, so many goads urging him onward.
It was nine when they saw the lights of Calne below them, and trotting and stumbling down the hill, clattered eagerly into the town. A moment's delay in front of the inn, where their questions speedily gathered a crowd, and they had news of the chaise: it had passed through the town two hours before without changing horses. The canvas blinds were down or there were shutters; which, the ostler who gave them the information, could not say. But the fact that the carriage was closed had struck him, and together with the omission to take fresh horses, had awakened his suspicions.
By the time this was told a dozen were round them, listening open-mouthed; and cheered by the lights and company Mr. Fishwick grew brave again. But Sir George allowed no respite: in five minutes they were clear of the houses and riding hard for Chippenham, the next stage on the Bristol road; Sir George's horse cantering free, the lawyer's groaning as it bumped across Studley bridge and its rider caught the pale gleam of the water below. On through the village they swept, past Brumhill Lane-end, thence over the crest where the road branches south to Devizes, and down the last slope. The moon rose as they passed the fourth milestone out of Calne; another five minutes and they drew up, the horses panting and hanging their heads, in the main street of Chippenham.
A coach--one of the night coaches out of Bristol--was standing before the inn, the horses smoking, the lamps flaring cheerfully, a crowd round it; the driver had just unbuckled his reins and flung them either way. Sir George pushed his horse up to the splinter-bar and hailed him, asking whether he had met a closed chaise and four travelling Bristol way at speed.
'A closed chaise and four?' the man answered, looking down at the party; and then recognising Sir George, 'I beg your honour's pardon,' he said. 'Here, Jeremy,' to the guard--while the stable-man and helpers paused to listen or stared at the heaving flanks of the riders' horses--'did we meet a closed chaise and four to-night?'
'We met a chaise and four at Cold Aston,' the guard answered, ruminating. 'But 'twas Squire Norris's of Sheldon, and there was no one but the Squire in it. And a chaise and four at Marshfield, but that was a burying party from Batheaston, going home very merry. No other, closed or open, that I can mind, sir, this side of Dungeon Cross, and that is but two miles out of Bristol.'
'They are an hour and a half in front of us!' Sir George cried eagerly. 'Will a guinea improve your memory?'
Ay, sir, but 'twon't make it,' the coachman answered, grinning. 'Jeremy is right. I mind no others. What will your honour want with them?'
'They have carried off a young lady!' Mr. Fishwick cried shrilly. 'Sir George's kinswoman!'
'To be sure?' ejaculated the driver, amid a murmur of astonishment; and the crowd which had grown since their arrival pressed nearer to listen. 'Where from, sir, if I may make so bold?'
'From the Castle at Marlborough.'
Dear me, dear me, there is audaciousness, if you like! And you ha' followed them so far, sir?'
Sir George nodded and turned to the crowd. 'A guinea for news!' he cried. 'Who saw them go through Chippenham!'
He had not long to wait for the answer. 'They never went through Chipnam!' a thick voice hiccoughed from the rear of the press.
'They came this way out of Calne,' Sir George retorted, singling the speaker out, and signing to the people to make way that he might get at him.
'Ay, but they never--came to Chipnam,' the fellow answered, leering at him with drunken wisdom. 'D'you see that, master?'
'Which way, then?' Soane cried impatiently. 'Which way did they go?'
But the man only lurched a step nearer. 'That's telling!' he said with a beery smile. 'You want to be--as wise as I be!'
Jeremy, the guard, seized him by the collar and shook him. 'You drunken fool!' he said. 'D'ye know that this is Sir George Soane of Estcombe? Answer him, you swine, or you'll be in the cage in a one, two!'
'You let me be,' the man whined, straggling to release himself. 'It's no business of yours,' Let me be, master!'
Sir George raised his whip in his wrath, but lowered it again with a groan. 'Can no one make him speak?' he said, looking round. The man was staggering and lurching in the guard's grasp.
'His wife, but she is to Marshfield, nursing her sister,' answered one. 'But give him his guinea, Sir George. 'Twill save time maybe.'
Soane flung it to him. 'There!' he said. 'Now speak!'
'That'sh better,' the man muttered. 'That's talking! Now I'll tell you. You go back to Devizes Corner--corner of the road to De-vizes--you understand? There was a car--car--carriage there without lights an hour back. It was waiting under the hedge. I saw it, and I--I know what's what!'
Sir George flung a guinea to the guard, and wheeled his horse about. In the act of turning his eye fell on the lawyer's steed, which, chosen for sobriety rather than staying powers, was on the point of foundering. 'Get another,' he cried, 'and follow!'
Mr. Fishwick uttered a wail of despair. To be left to follow--to follow alone, in the dark, through unknown roads, with scarce a clue and on a strange horse--the prospect might have appalled a hardier soul. He was saved from it by Sir George's servant, a stolid silent man, who might be warranted to ride twenty miles without speaking. 'Here, take mine, sir,' he said. 'I must stop to get a lanthorn; we shall need one now. Do you go with his honour.'
Mr. Fishwick slid down and was hoisted into the other's saddle. By the time this was done Sir George was almost lost in the gloom eat the farther end of the street. But anything rather than be left behind. The lawyer laid on his whip in a way that would have astonished him a few hours before, and overtook his leader as he emerged from the town. They rode without speaking