'Mr. Dunborough?' she exclaimed.
'Yes, yes.'
'Oh,' she said, in a helpless, foolish kind of way. 'It was Mr. Dunborough, was it?' And she begged his pardon. And did it too so humbly, in a voice so broken by feeling and gratitude, that, bad man as he was, his soul revolted from the work he was upon; and for an instant, he stood still, the lanthorn swinging in his hand.
She misinterpreted the movement. 'Are we right?' she said, anxiously. 'You don't think that we are out of the road?' Though the night was dark, and it was difficult to discern, anything beyond the circle of light thrown by the lanthorn, it struck her that the avenue they were traversing was not the one by which she had approached the house two nights before. The trees seemed to stand farther from one another and to be smaller. Or was it her fancy?
But it was not that had moved him to stand; for in a moment, with a curious sound between a groan and a curse he led the way on, without answering her. Fifty paces brought them to the gate and the road. Thomasson held up his lanthorn and looked over the gate.
'Where is the carriage?' she whispered, startled by the darkness and silence.
'It should be here,' he answered, his voice betraying his perplexity. 'It should be here at this gate. But I--I don't see it.'
'Would it have lights?' she asked anxiously. He had opened the gate by this time, and as she spoke they passed through, and stood together looking up and down the road. The moon was obscured, and the lanthorn's rays were of little use to find a carriage which was not there.
'It should be here, and it should have lights,' he said in evident dismay. 'I don't know what to think of it. I--ha! What is that? It is coming, I think. Yes, I hear it. The coachman must have drawn off a little for some reason, and now he has seen the lanthorn.'
He had only the sound of wheels to go upon, but he proved to be right; she uttered a sigh of relief as the twin lights of a carriage apparently approaching round a bend of the road broke upon them. The lights drew near and nearer, and the tutor waved his lamp. For a second the driver appeared to be going to pass them; then, as Mr. Thomasson again waved his lanthorn and shouted, he drew up.
'Halloa!' he said.
Mr. Thomasson did not answer, but with a trembling hand opened the door and thrust the girl in. 'God bless you!' she murmured; 'and--' He slammed the door, cutting short the sentence.
'Well?' the driver said, looking down at him, his face in shadow; 'I am--'
'Go on!' Mr. Thomasson cried peremptorily, and waving his lanthorn again, startled the horses; which plunged away wildly, the man tugging vainly at the reins. The tutor fancied that, as it started, he caught a faint scream from the inside of the chaise, but he set it down to fright caused by the sudden jerk; and, after he had stood long enough to assure himself that the carriage was keeping the road, he turned to retrace his steps to the house.
He was feeling for the latch of the gate--his thoughts no pleasant ones, for the devil pays scant measure--when his ear was surprised by a new sound of wheels approaching from the direction whence the chaise had come. He stood to listen, thinking he heard an echo; but in a second or two he saw lights approaching through the night precisely as the other lights had approached. Once seen they came on swiftly, and he was still standing gaping in wonder when a carriage and pair, a postboy riding and a servant sitting outside, swept by, dazzling him a moment; the next it was gone, whirled away into the darkness.
CHAPTER XXXI
THE INN AT CHIPPENHAM
The road which passed before the gates at Bastwick was not a highway, and Mr. Thomasson stood a full minute, staring after the carriage, and wondering what chance brought a traveller that way at that hour. Presently it occurred to him that one of Mr. Pomeroy's neighbours might have dined abroad, have sat late over the wine, and be now returning; and that so the incident might admit of the most innocent explanation. Yet it left him uneasy. Until the last hum of wheels died in the distance he stood listening and thinking. Then he turned from the gate, and with a shiver betook himself towards the house. He had done his part.
Or had he? The road was not ten paces behind him, when a cry rent the darkness, and he paused to listen. He caught the sound of hasty footsteps crossing the open ground on his right, and apparently approaching; and he raised his lanthorn in alarm. The next moment a dark form vaulted the railings that fenced the avenue on that side, sprang on the affrighted tutor, and, seizing him violently by the collar, shook him to and fro as a terrier shakes a rat.
It was Mr. Pomeroy, beside himself with rage. 'What have you done with her?' he cried. 'You treacherous hound! Answer, or by heaven I shall choke you!'
'Done--done with whom?' the tutor gasped, striving to free himself. 'Mr. Pomeroy, I am not--what does this--mean?'
'With her? With the girl?'
'She is--I have put her in the carriage! I swear I have! Oh!' he shrieked, as Mr. Pomeroy, in a fresh access of passion, gripped his throat and squeezed it. 'I have put her in the carriage, I tell you! I have done everything you told me!'
'In the carriage? What carriage? In what carriage?'
'The one that was there.'
'At the gate?'
'Yes, yes.'
'You fool! You imbecile!' Mr. Pomeroy roared, as he shook him with all his strength. 'The carriage is at the other gate.'
Mr. Thomasson gasped, partly with surprise, partly under the influence of Pomeroy's violence. 'At the other gate?' he faltered. 'But--there was a carriage here. I saw it. I put her in it. Not a minute ago!'
'Then, by heaven, it was your carriage, and you have betrayed me,' Pomeroy retorted; and shook his trembling victim until his teeth chattered and his eyes protruded. 'I thought I heard wheels and I came to see. If you don't tell me the truth this instant,' he continued furiously, 'I'll have the life out of you.'
'It is the truth,' Mr. Thomasson stammered, blubbering with fright. 'It was a carriage that came up--and stopped. I thought it was yours, and I put her in. And it went on.'
'A lie, man--a lie!'
'I swear it is true! I swear it is! If it were not should I be going back to the house? Should I be going to face you?' Mr. Thomasson protested.
The argument impressed Pomeroy; his grasp relaxed. 'The devil is in it, then!' he muttered. 'For no one else could have set a carriage at that gate at that minute! Anyway, I'll know. Come on!' he continued recklessly snatching up the lanthorn, which had fallen on its side and was not extinguished. 'We'll after her! By the Lord, we'll after her. They don't trick me so easily!'
The tutor ventured a terrified remonstrance, but Mr. Pomeroy, deaf to his entreaties and arguments, bundled him over the fence, and, gripping his arm, hurried him as fast as his feet would carry him across the sward to the other gate. A carriage, its lamps burning brightly, stood in the road. Mr. Pomeroy exchanged a few curt words with the driver, thrust in the tutor, and followed himself. On the instant the vehicle dashed away, the coachman cracking his whip and shouting oaths at his horses.
The hedges flew by, pale glimmering walls in the lamplight; the mud flew up and splashed Mr. Pomeroy's face; still he hung out of the window, his hand on the fastening of the door, and a brace of pistols on the ledge before him; while the tutor, shuddering at these preparations, hoping against hope that they would overtake no one, cowered in the farther corner. With every turn of the road or swerve of the horses Pomeroy expected to see the fugitives' lights. Unaware or oblivious that the carriage he was pursuing had the start of him by so much that at top speed he could scarcely look to overtake it under the hour, his rage increased with every disappointment. Although the pace at which they travelled over a rough road was such as to fill the tutor with instant terror and urgent thoughts of