OF THE LIGHT THAT SHONE IN THE FOG
IT must have been for the space of full five minutes that I lay
thus, with quivering nerves and labouring breath, upon the sodden
ground, with the raindrops beating down upon me, ere I roused myself
sufficiently to get to my feet and call to the sergeant. His voice
answered me from out of the night, somewhere at my side. I bade him
ascertain that none of the party had got separated in the darkness.
Accordingly, he called the troopers one by one, and at each name an
invisible speaker answered: “Here!”
“They are all present!” said the sergeant gruffly, who, though distant
from me but some three feet or so, showed only as a darker patch upon
the murk beyond. It was the very gloom of Egypt that encompassed us.
Therefore, I gave instructions that each trooper should lay hold of the
belt of the man in front of him, and setting our faces away from the
direction of the sea, we moved slowly through the inky blackness that
surrounded us. That there were trees around us I had ample proof, not
only by the sound of the wind whistling in their branches overhead,
but also by the fact that ere we had advanced a dozen yards I tripped
over a projecting root, my head coming into such violent contact with
an unseen tree, that I was glad to lean for a moment or two, sick
and dizzy, against its knotted trunk. Thereafter I was more careful,
feeling my way from tree to tree, and probing the darkness in front
with my sheathed sword.
We had been moving a long time thus, or so it seemed, when the trees on
either side abruptly ceased, and turn it which way I would, my sword
encountered only empty air. Across this open space we slowly moved till
at the thirty-seventh step as I counted my sword struck with a sharp
tinkle against what I took for the moment to be a stone wall. It was
not until I had passed my hand over its flat surface and down its base
that I discovered the nature of the object upon which we had stumbled.
It was the sun-dial, such as I had often seen in France, and I knew by
its shape that I was not mistaken. From this I argued we were somewhere
within the gardens belonging to the house, and here the man who was
behind me (it was the sergeant) loosened his hold, and I felt him
groping upon the ground at my feet. Presently he rose, as I could tell
by the sound of his voice.
“There is a path here,” he said; “I can feel its border. Aye, and a
broad one.”
“In that case,” I answered, “lead on! The house cannot be far away.”
I resigned my place to him, therefore, at the head, and with frequent
stoppages we made our way slowly along the path. A dozen times at least
we strayed from the track, and it was only with the greatest patience
that we were enabled to retrace our steps. We must have travelled thus
for some five or six hundred yards, when we almost ran into a stone
wall, that lay on the right-hand side of the path, and saw before us
a dark mass looming through the mist. We felt our way by the side of
this wall until, upon turning sharply round the corner, the sergeant’s
hand was laid upon my arm, and we came to a sudden halt. For there, not
twenty feet distant, from an open doorway, a bright light was streaming
out into the fog.
For the moment we were sheltered somewhat from the wind by the building
itself, and I thought that in between the gusts I could distinguish
the sound of voices. Though this was the very thing we had expected to
encounter, yet so long had our eyes been accustomed to the darkness,
that it came even now as somewhat of a surprise to us and we stood
staring stupidly before us. Moreover, the light from whatever source
it came did not burn steadily, but every now and then it was partially
obscured, as if some one or something came between it and the doorway,
to burst forth a moment later with renewed brilliance, flinging its
yellow aureole of light upon the fog, and serving but to increase the
impenetrable shadow that lay beyond. I came to myself with a start
and slowly unsheathed my sword; and I heard a faint tinkle of steel
go rippling into the darkness behind me as the troopers did the same.
Then, with the sergeant at my side, I stole quietly forward, and
halting at the edge of the circle of light, ourselves unseen in the
shadow, we peered into the room.
At first I could see nothing, but as my eyes grew accustomed to the
brightness within, I was enabled to make out the interior. It was a
stable, and by the light of a couple of lanterns hung upon the wall an
old man was whisping the mud stains from a magnificent chestnut mare,
pausing every now and again to rub her sleek, glossy sides. A younger
man muffled in a cloak was standing with his back to us, a lantern at
his feet.
My eyes were rivetted upon the mare, for I have ever been a lover of
horses, and indeed to a man who has spent the better part of twenty
years in the saddle and who has owed his life again and again to the
speed of the animal beneath him, the love of them becomes as it were
a second nature. I saw that this was an animal rarely met with in a
thousand and that it carried a lady’s saddle and bore the signs of
recent hard riding.
I started when the sergeant touched my arm and pointed to the younger
man’s belt. Following the direction of his outstretched hand, I saw
that this man’s cloak had fallen open and that he carried a bunch of
keys at his side. By this I judged him, and rightly so, as it proved,
to be the steward. This was a stroke of unexpected good fortune, for
the means of gaining access to the house now lay to our hands.
It was this latter who was speaking, every word coming plainly to our
ears through the open door.
“Hast nearly finished?” he said impatiently.
“Finished?” said the other, in a high-pitched, querulous voice, and
I saw he raised his head and disclosed a yellow face seamed with a
hundred wrinkles, that he was much older than I had first thought, and
with the unmistakable look of a man who has spent his life amongst
horses. “How should I be finished--and look at Carola! Been down on
her knees, she has! But what does my lady care? She can stop in the
light and warmth yonder. ’Tis old Reuben must clean her horse. Let old
Reuben go out in the wet and fog. Nobody minds what happens to him!” He
broke off in a fit of coughing.
“How now, old grumbler!” said the other sharply. “That is a lie, and
you know it! Aye, and if my lady heard you she would make you smart for
those words!”
The old man looked up with a grin that disclosed the few yellow stumps
remaining in his head. “She would that, lad!” he chuckled. The steward
nodded gravely.
“You will find that my lady does not forget a service,” he said slowly.
“God bless her!” said the old man softly, stooping once more to his
work.
“Amen to that,” the steward answered.
So that for the first time my curiosity was aroused as to what manner
of woman this could be of whom they spoke in such terms.
“Aye, it will be a bad day for us all if she should marry this
Frenchman,” he continued, shaking his head.
“The devil take all Frenchmen!” the old man burst out in his thin,
quavering voice, and with true insular prejudice. “She will wed a
man--a man, I tell thee--not a tricked-out, scented popinjay. Frenchman
indeed,” he continued with fine contempt. “Mark my words, lad! Eight
and sixty year I’ve lived here, boy and man, and I’ve never seen a
Frenchman yet that was a man! It’s not in ’em, lad! It’s not born in
’em!”
“I misdoubt you have seen one at all before, old Reuben!” answered the
other, but the old man only continued to nod and mutter to himself.
“But every one to their taste,” the steward added. “My lady will make a
good match, and a good wife.”
“Aye,” the man Reuben answered, “when she is tamed, lad; when she is
tamed--and Lord help the tamer!” he added with a chuckle that trailed
off into a fit of coughing. The steward waited until he had recovered
his breath, then:
“There be some at the house yonder who think ’tis Mistress Grace he
would be wedding,” he said slowly, but the old man only shook his head.
“It’s not my lady,” he answered doggedly. “I’ll take my oath of that!
No, nor Mistress Grace either.”
“Then why is he here?” cried the steward eagerly. “Tell me that!” The
other raised his head with a cunning look on his wrinkled face.
“I have heard it said that James Stuart is in Ireland,” he said slowly.
“Bah!” the man in the cloak answered. “Every one knows that!”
“Hark to that now!” the old man replied, apostrophising the mare, that
by way of answer whinnied softly and laid her head upon his shoulder.
“Every one knows that! Every one knows----” He broke off with a half
inaudible chuckle.
“Well, ’tis true, is it not, old dotard?” said the other sharply.
“How should I know?” answered the old man querulously. “Reuben the
dotard! Reuben the fool!” and again he laughed mirthlessly.
“Mark you,” said the steward quickly, “I love not Dutch William. I am
for the Stuarts, I! But this I say, that James is no fighter, and if
he should give battle to William--pho!” And he snapped his fingers
expressively.
“Aye, if he should!” the other replied significantly. “But--” and he
sank his voice slightly--“what if he were to slip away and leave this
Dutch hog in Ireland! What if he were to land here?”
“Here?” the steward cried in a startled tone.
“Here!” the old man went on triumphantly, “and the Earl with him! Why,
at the master’s call we’d have the whole countryside in arms!”
“Aye, but what has the Frenchman to do with it?” the other cried in a
tone of bewilderment.
“Nay, how should I know!” he replied, grinning. “Reuben the dotard!
Only, did ever a Stuart have money!” he added softly, with a glance of
contempt at the man before him.
A light seemed to break upon the steward. “Ha, I see!” he cried
excitedly. “Then you think----”
“I think that the mare is listening,” said the old man with a sour
smile, and he stooped to continue his task. Nor for all the steward’s
entreaties would he again open his mouth. He gave up the attempt at
length.
“Well,” he said reluctantly, “I may not bide here longer. Do you make
haste, and we will talk of this again.” He stooped and raised the
lantern from the floor, and with this swaying in his hand he came
toward the open doorway to walk into our arms.
When the sergeant had clapped a pistol to his head there was no more
surprised a man in all England. He could not be expected to know the
fact that the wet had long since rendered the weapon useless. As for
the old man, he stood rigid, as if petrified, with open mouth and
staring eyes, and I saw that we had nothing to fear from him. I turned
therefore to the younger man, who stood in the sergeant’s grip, the
very picture of astonishment. Behind us the troopers crowded into the
room.
“Now, my friend,” I said quietly, picking up the lantern from the
ground--it had fallen from his hand--“I desire a word with you!”
“Who are you, and what do you want?” he stammered, when at last he
found his tongue. That soldiers should rise up out of the night in the
very centre of his master’s lands was a thing apparently beyond his
power to grasp. He was a man of about forty, as near as I could judge,
and he bore the look of one to whom good living came habitual. I did
not anticipate having much trouble with him, but in this I proved to be
mistaken.
“As to who I am,” I answered sharply, “I am a king’s officer; let
that be sufficient for you! And for the rest, I have need of your
assistance, and also some information. You are, I take it, steward to
the Earl of Ingram, who, I understand, is at present with the man James
Stuart in Ireland, and high in his favour?”
He looked at me, scowling, but he did not speak.
“Answer, will you!” cried the sergeant, thrusting his scarred visage
within a foot of the other’s head.
“Yes,” he replied sullenly, shrinking from the sergeant’s fierce face.
“Good,” I answered. “I see that we shall get on, my friend. You were
speaking a while ago of a Frenchman. Nay, do not give yourself the
trouble of denying it. He is still here?”
“And if so, what then?” he said suspiciously, heedless of the
sergeant’s threatening look.
“Only that I desire speech of this same gentleman,” I answered, “and I
have ridden far to get it. In the first place, how many servants are
there in the house yonder?”
He hesitated for a moment, then:
“There are but a dozen,” he replied.
“Are you sure there are no more?” I said sharply. “The truth, man!”
“I have told you,” he answered sulkily; “and the half of these are
women.”
“Very good,” I answered; “that is sufficient. You will now lead us to
the house, and--for I see that you have the keys--you will show us how
best to gain an entrance.”
“I’ll not do it,” he burst out on a sudden, to my astonishment, for I
had not given the man credit for so much courage. “I tell you I will
take no part in it! I will do nothing that shall injure my ladies!”
“You are a fool!” I said tartly, for I was fast losing patience. Time
was passing, and I was anxious to get the business over in order to dry
my wet clothes, which clung to me with a chilly persistency. Moreover,
I thought it more than probable that Cornet Graham would have already
arrived ere this at the house, and, believing that some accident had
surely befallen us, would proceed to execute his commission in his own
way. In that case I had missed what credit there might be attached to
the actual capture. “I have told you that it is with this gentleman I
wish to speak. I have nothing to do with aught else.”
“Yet I will not do it,” he said doggedly. “You may find the key for
yourself.”
“Perhaps the flame of yon candle across his wrists would make him alter
his mind,” growled the sergeant.
I saw the man turn white at the words, but he uttered no sound. “Hark
you, fellow!” I said harshly. “I have no time to waste in trifling. I
will give you till I count ten to say if you will do as I desire, and I
should recommend you to reconsider your decision, otherwise----”
I caught the sergeant’s eye. He grinned and commenced to unwind his
sash. In the dead silence that followed, a silence broken only by the
whistling of the wind without, that set the lanterns flickering and the
shadows dancing on the walls, I began slowly to count. The troopers
stood around, leaning on their swords, in keen expectation of that
which was to come.
It was a strange scene upon which the lantern light fell. The mare
regarding the intruders with a mild surprise, the prisoner in the
centre, silent and sullen, and lastly, the ring of ruthless faces, upon
which were stamped all the baser passions of cruelty and lust.
“Eight, nine”--I made a longer pause--“ten!”
The man before me had neither moved nor spoken as yet, but now he broke
out again:
“I will not do it! You may flog me first! I will say no more!”
The sergeant’s eye had been busy searching the room.
“We shall not flog you,” he said grimly. “Make your mind easy as to
that. But,” he continued, “there is a hook above, I see, and a strong
one. Here, one of you, bring me that rope yonder. I will teach him how
we unloose tongues in Tangiers!”
The words seemed to arouse the steward to a sense of his danger, for he
made an unexpected dash for the door. But the troopers were too quick
for him. There was a short struggle, a volley of curses as the man was
borne down and his arms pinioned behind his back. A trooper climbed
upon the stall and flung the rope over the hook in the ceiling. A
couple more dragged their prisoner across, and making a running noose,
slipped it over his head, and three pairs of willing hands seized
the other end of the rope, and the thing was done with a celerity of
dispatch that bespoke long practice. They but awaited my signal. I was
loth to give this, for I would have spared the man if I could, but I
saw no other way to make him speak. I was about to give it, therefore,
when there came an unexpected interruption. Up till now the old man I
have before mentioned had stood a still and silent spectator of the
scene being enacted, but seeing his companion standing with the rope
round his neck, and reading for the first time the doom in store for
him, he suddenly moved forward, striving to push his way to his side.
“You devils!” he cried shrilly, “let the man go! Let him go, I say!”
“To your kennel, old Beelzebub!” cried a trooper roughly with a blow on
the mouth that sent him reeling backwards, to fall beneath the horse’s
feet, where he lay whimpering senilely among the straw.
I turned again to the prisoner.
“Once more,” I said shortly, “will you lead and gain us an entrance to
the house--yes or no?”
His white lips quivered for answer, but no sound escaped them. He
seemed like one dazed.
The sergeant looked inquiringly across at me. I nodded grimly and
stepped through the open door. I was desirous of ascertaining if the
fog had lifted, and there are some things it is better not to see. It
was intensely dark outside the circle of light thrown by the lanterns,
yet after standing for a short time probing the blackness with my eyes
I thought that the mist had certainly grown somewhat thinner, for I
could dimly make out the form of the bushes opposite me and the pathway
at my feet running into the gloom. I made my way a short distance along
this, keeping in touch with the wall upon my right. The rain was still
falling heavily, and the wind moaned in the treetops above with a sound
like the wailing of lost souls in pain. From the room behind me came
one cry that pierced the fog and reached my ears above the gale, and
then silence.
The sergeant was a persuasive man. It was in less than five minutes
that, looking back, I saw his figure appear in the doorway. Shading his
eyes with his hand, he stood peering out into the darkness. I slowly
retraced my steps.
It was not until I was at his side that he saw me. He gave a start at
my sudden appearance; and held out his hand. “Here is the key,” he said
with a grin; “and he has changed his mind.” I took the key and followed
him into the room.
The steward lay upon the ground with blackened face and distorted
features. They had taken the rope from round his neck and it now hung
dangling from the hook above. He had the appearance of a man in the
last extremity.
“You have gone too far,” I said, frowning. “The man is dying!”
“Not he,” the sergeant answered. “We did but give him an extra dance on
air in case the way should slip his memory.”
He stooped as he spoke, and lifting the man’s body, propped him with
his back against the stall; and picking up the bucket that lay beside
the mare, he flung the contents upon his head. It had the desired
effect. In less than five minutes the shadow faded from his face, his
breathing grew more regular. Presently they raised him to his feet
and--supported by a trooper on either side--he stood breathing heavily.
“Will you guide us now?” said the sergeant fiercely, “or must we string
you up again?”
The man before us gave a slight gesture of assent. He was too far gone
to speak.
“And play us no tricks,” the sergeant growled. “I have made better
men speak than you, though they were heathen--aye, and be silent too!”
And he passed his hand across his throat with a gesture there was no
mistaking.
I waited a few minutes longer for the knave to recover himself and
while they bound the old man to the head of the stall, where he stood
mumbling incoherent curses; and then, thrusting the lantern into the
steward’s shaking hand, guarded by the troopers on either side, we set
out on our way. I had thought that the house lay close at hand, but
this was not the case. Now that we were in the open air, the cold wind
and the rain beating upon his bare head had a reviving effect upon the
steward, and he led us unfalteringly through the darkness. He turned
sharply to the right; and by the flickering light cast by the lantern,
I could see that we were upon a broad gravel walk and that the trees
on either side had given place to well-kept lawns and beds of flowers,
over which the wind swept boisterously.
Suddenly the lantern swung to the left; and a moment or two later the
sergeant rapped out an oath.
“What is the matter?” I said sharply.
“We have left the path!” he cried.
I snatched the lantern from the steward’s hand and saw that the
sergeant had spoken the truth. There was turf beneath our feet. A
sudden suspicion of our guide crossed my brain. What if he should lead
us once more to the brink of the cliff, and, true in his loyalty to
the house he served, should cause us to perish, though the act should
involve his own destruction. Such things had been done, I knew, and
he had proved himself to be a stubborn man. I threw the light upon his
face.
“What is this?” I said harshly. “Are you playing us false, man?”
“No,” he answered sullenly. “There should be a fountain here.”
I bade the troopers keep behind me, and throwing the light upon the
ground, moved slowly forwards, half expecting at each step to see some
horrible abyss yawning at my feet. But nothing appeared until some
fifty feet further I came once more to a gravel path, in the centre
of which a white marble fountain loomed ghost-like through the fog.
At a short distance from this stood a stone seat, its surface strewn
with the petals of withered roses. I thrust the light back into the
steward’s hand, and he struck off into a broader walk than any we had
as yet traversed and which ascended, by means of three or four stone
steps, in a succession of terraces, until, when we had travelled fully
a quarter of a mile from where we started, we came at last to a little
stone bridge spanning a narrow moat. I held the lantern over this and
the light shone upon the dark surface below, covered, for the most
part, with a thick growth of water-weed. The bridge gave entrance to
a broader terrace beyond, across which loomed the dark outline of the
house. I bade them now put out the lantern; and we crossed the terrace
and stood beneath the walk of the building. To left and right of where
we were standing the house stretched into the fog, dark and silent.
There was something almost sinister in its gloomy aspect, matching
well with the black night without.
Stay; a little to our right I thought that I could see a shaft of
light, and it was towards this that the steward directed his steps.
It came from a heavily curtained window and lay a mere slit upon the
gravel surface of the terrace. At the top the curtains had fallen
somewhat apart, disclosing nothing to our view, however, beyond a
glimpse of the brightly illumined ceiling of the room. I halted and put
my lips to the steward’s ear. “What room is that?” I said softly.
“It is the dining hall,” he whispered in reply. “The man you seek is
there.”
I noticed that the window was such as I had seen in France. It reached
to the ground and opened upon the terrace. I left two troopers
therefore to guard it, impressing them with the necessity of using the
utmost vigilance. They took up their station one on either side, and we
continued our way until the steward stopped at length before an arched
doorway in the wall. I halted then, and waiting till a lull in the
gale, raised my voice and gave the signal I had agreed upon with Cornet
Graham. The melancholy cry went pealing into the night, and we stood in
the darkness, straining our ears for a reply. But no answering cry came
back to them, no sound from the silent house, save the patter of the
rain upon the ivy-covered wall and the sobbing of the wind in its eaves
and gables.
I waited no longer, therefore, but inserted the key in the lock before
me. It was a massive door, nail-studded, and it opened with a sullen
creak as we quickly entered, carrying with us a breath of the fog and a
shower of raindrops. We closed it quietly behind us, and so thick was
its massive timber that the noise of the wind without came to our ears
but faintly as from a distance. We stood in a narrow passage, giving
place to a square, dimly lit hall, from which five or six doors opened.
So far we had seen no one, but from a corridor on the right came the
sound of voices with now and again a snatch of song.
I looked inquiringly at the steward.
“The servants’ quarters,” he whispered in return.
I signed to two or three of the men to take their stand at the head of
this passage, and, with the others at my heels, crossed the hall to a
door upon the left, from beneath which the light was shining. Then,
sword in hand, I softly opened the door and we entered the room.