Dan and old Isaac had been lying hid all day like a couple of leopards
in one of the sloping shrubberies that closed in the garden on the west.
Their patience had been rewarded, for they had seen Bess appear for that
fatal moment upon the terrace when she had taken leave of Jeffray when
he rode to Rookhurst. They had watched her return into the house, pass
the windows of the dining-room and seat herself at the window of the
blue parlor. Her own dreamy and passionate sense of security had
delivered her into her husband’s hands. Dan and Isaac had crept round to
the eastern end of the terrace, entered with masterly boldness at the
porch door, and caught Bess alone in the blue parlor. The girl had
fought like a wild thing, only to be stunned by Dan in savage impatience
with a blow from the hilt of his hanger. In the hall he had come face to
face with Dick Wilson rushing, pistols in fists, from the library. The
painter, nothing of a marksman, had fired at Isaac and missed, and taken
a cut across the pate from Dan’s hanger for his pains. Peter Gladden,
discreetly deaf to all this pother, had only run to Mr. Wilson’s help
when he was assured that such dangerous ruffians as the Grimshaws had
departed. Officious to the point of fanaticism when the peril was past,
he had scuttled away to rouse the grooms in the stable, and had stormed
and hectored when the fellows displayed no overmastering desire to give
chase to the Grimshaws over Rodenham heath.
During Peter Gladden’s explanations and Mr. Wilson’s condemnation of his
own carelessness, the thunder-storm had burst over the old house. Great
lightning cracks streamed across the sky; the wind labored and gathered
itself into spasmodic and mournful gusts; the tall trees battled one
with another; rain rattled on the broad-leaved laurels and hollies. The
very deeps of the old house seemed to quiver beneath the mighty
reverberations of the heavens. Gray sheets of rain dimmed the landscape,
and shrouded the struggling and wind-tossed trees.
Gladden, querulous and uneasy, moved to the library window and closed it
against the rain. Jeffray was standing motionless in the centre of the
room, looking at the bands of blood-blotched linen about Dick Wilson’s
head. He turned to the table abruptly, picked up the pistols the painter
had used so clumsily, and glanced at the flints and the priming-pans.
Going to an old armoire that stood in the far corner, he opened it and
took out a leather belt that carried a powder-flask, a bag of bullets,
and a hunting-knife. He loaded and primed the empty pistol, buckled the
belt about his body, and then spoke to Gladden in a quiet and determined
voice.
“Order the mare to be saddled,” he said; “she will stand the thunder
better than Brown Will.”
Gladden stared at his master incredulously.
“Do you hear me, Gladden?”
“I do, sir.”
“Then obey my orders. Quick with you, and see that the brandy flask is
filled and strapped to the saddle with the holsters.”
The butler slouched away, unbuttoning and buttoning his coat in
agitation. Wilson, who was weak from loss of blood, and had been
listening to Jeffray’s orders, staggered up from his chair, and faced
his friend.
“Where are you going, sir?” he asked, almost roughly.
“To Pevensel, Dick.”
“To Pevensel?”
“Where else—after what has happened?”
The painter stretched out his hands as though to plant them appealingly
on Jeffray’s shoulders. Richard drew two steps back from him with a
slight frown.
“Are you mad, sir?—are you mad?”
“No, I am not mad, Dick.”
“They will murder you, sir. I tell you they are desperate men.”
“So am I, Dick,” said the other, simply.
Wilson beat his left fist into his right palm.
“You can’t ride out in such weather. Wait and get help; take your
servants with you if you must meddle in this mad business.”
Jeffray appeared unmoved by the suggestion.
“I am taking my own life in my hands, Dick,” he said. “There is nothing
else for me to do. They are desperate men, you say; I grant it you. They
will murder this woman, Dick, and I, too—am desperate. The law will not
help me. I tell you I am going to Pevensel to try and save her, though
she be another man’s wife.”
Wilson, with a helpless gesture, sank back into his chair.
“I see that I waste my words,” he said.
“Good-bye, Dick; give me your hand.”
“God keep you, sir, from getting your brains scattered for the sake of a
green petticoat.”
The sky was breaking in the west when Jeffray mounted his black mare,
rode down through the park, and passed the gibbet on Rodenham heath. A
splendor of rain-drenched gold streamed from under the lifting edge of
the clouds. The whole landscape grew bathed in a flood of slanting
light. The moorland and the green woods flashed and glittered; masses of
wild tawny vapor crowned the heights of Pevensel. Rain was still falling
lightly from the black clouds above, but the mutterings of the thunder
and the streaks of fire were passing southward towards the sea.
Jeffray left the road below Beacon Rock and crossed the heath towards
the forest. His eyes, dark and alert in his sallow face, searched the
waste for signs of life. A solitary plover flapped and wailed against
the sun, but for all else the wilderness and the welkin seemed deserted.
Soon Jeffray was riding down the long slope that fell away towards the
purlieus of the forest. He found the path that Bess had shown him of
old, and passed in under the trees.
Pevensel was a magic wilderness that evening, with the sunlight flooding
through from the wet west, and every bough glistening with dew. Under
the pines the damp mast shone a deep rich bronze. The scent of the
rain-drenched bracken and the pines steamed up into the slanting
sunlight. Jeffray had no eye for the mere beauty of it at that moment.
All tangible things were without significance save when they prompted
the vigilance of the senses. The trees were a dumb and unmeaning
multitude, the sunlight a curse when it blurred and obscured the
distance. Jeffray had no vision before him save the vision of Bess lying
senseless and broken in Dan’s great arms.
A confused sound of voices came suddenly to Jeffray through the forest,
as he neared the broad ride known as White Hind walk. He reined in to
listen, heard the gruff and angry growling of men’s voices rising from
the deeps below him. Pushing on cautiously he came to where the ride
clove a great pathway through the forest, and, putting spurs to his
mare, dashed across it at a canter. As he flashed across the open he
caught a glimpse of a line of pack-horses being driven at a trot along
the ride some two hundred paces towards the south. Men were cursing and
belaboring the beasts with sticks, the fierce and strenuous figures
looming dim and blurred under the light through the trees. The
significance of the thing flashed through Jeffray’s mind, as he held the
mare well in hand and swung along the winding path, dodging the swooping
boughs as they trailed above his head. He had seen a smuggling cavalcade
threading through the forest, in some peril of capture, to judge by the
way the men were beating the pack-horses. Jeffray remembered, at the
same moment, the cornet and the light-horse at Rodenham village. There
might be fighting afoot, and what if the Grimshaws were entangled in the
scrimmage?
It was not long before the trees began to thin before him, the open west
shining a wall of amber pilastered by the dark boles of the pines.
Jeffray, growing cautious, dismounted and led his mare aside from the
path, and tethered her in a slight hollow of the ground where she was
hidden from the path by undergrowth and bracken. He took the pistols out
of the holsters, reprimed them, and pushed on towards the hamlet.
Looking down from the converging aisles of the forest, he saw the green
break in the woods lying calm and quiet under the western sun. The place
appeared deserted and silent, save for a few cows with swelling udders
that were waiting at a byre-gate to be milked.
Jeffray’s eyes fixed themselves upon the cottage farthest from him. The
gray walls were half hidden by the apple-trees of old Isaac’s orchard.
The cottage was Dan Grimshaw’s cottage; Bess had spoken of it to
Jeffray, and he recognized it from her words. But what was more
significant to him for the moment was that a man stood leaning against
the rough fencing of the garden with a musket lying in the crook of his
left arm. The sunlight flashed on the long barrel, and the faint sound
of the man’s whistling came up to Jeffray in the woods. He felt
convinced, as he scanned the hamlet, that the Grimshaws were entangled
in the smuggling enterprise, that Bess was in the cottage, and that they
had left one of their men on guard.
There was no time to be wasted, and Jeffray, casting a half circle round
the clearing, came to the thickets to the north of the cottage. The
trees grew close to the garden on the north and west. Crouching behind
the bracken, Jeffray won a clear view of the man leaning against the
fence. He was Enoch, Solomon Grimshaw’s eldest son, a raw-boned lout,
with a red beard fringing his chin. He was whistling a country song,
dandling his musket lazily on his left arm, and taking his duty very
stolidly.
Jeffray’s wit served him at the crisis. He slipped back from the
bracken, and skirted round under the trees till he came to the back of
the cottage. There was no second door to it, and the narrow lattices
were closed. He gained the back of the cottage, moved step by step to
the angle of the wall, and peered round it with his pistols ready. An
apple-tree half hid from him the man leaning against the fence. The
fellow was still whistling stolidly, and seemed in no fear of a
surprise.
The grass path gave Jeffray the advantage that he needed. He crept on
till he reached the farther edge of the cottage, and had the broad back
of Solomon’s son in full view. Covering the man with one of his pistols,
he stamped his foot, and kept his finger tight upon the trigger.
The man by the fence whipped round as though he had been touched on the
shoulder. The levelled pistol, with the black circle of the muzzle
covering him, appeared to astonish him considerably.
“Put down your musket, or I fire.”
The clear, tense tones rang out like a pistol-shot. Solomon’s son
hesitated and obeyed.
“Hold up your hands.”
A pair of dirty paws went up.
“March off ten paces.”
Jeffray advanced on the fellow from the cottage. His last command was
obeyed with such exaggerated nimbleness that Jeffray saw the sentinel
take to his heels and scud towards the woods. He held his fire, and,
reaching over the fence, possessed himself of the abandoned musket. He
had hardly turned back towards the cottage when he heard the sound of
shouting coming from the forest. He ran up the path and put his
shoulders to the door of the cottage. It was locked and the key was
gone. Clinching his teeth, he levelled the musket and blew in the lock.
The door yielded to him, and he crossed the threshold.
One rapid glance showed Bess lying full length upon the oak table, bound
wrist and ankle, the cords passing also about her body. The voices
increased in volume rapidly. Jeffray ran to the door, and looked out.
Pack-horses were being driven from the clearing into the woods; men were
rushing to and fro in the sunlight, cursing, and cutting the bales from
the beasts’ backs. Jeffray saw Solomon’s son shouting and waving his arm
in the direction of Dan’s cottage. Several figures broke away from the
mob of pack-horses and gathered round the man. Jeffray slammed the door
to, shot the heavy bolts, snatched the wooden bar from the corner and
ran it through the staples. He turned back into the room, took the knife
from the sheath at his belt, and cut the cords that bound Bess.
She struggled up, flung her arms round Jeffray, and kissed him on the
lips.
“They are coming,” she said, hoarsely.
“Yes, yes.”
“Give me the musket. I can fight.”
Jeffray gave the musket into her hands, looked at his pistols, laid his
sword upon the table and the belt that carried the powder-flask and
bullets.
“Load it,” he said, quietly; “ram home several slugs. Kneel down behind
the chair.”
Bess, giving him a fierce love glance, did as he commanded her.
“Watch the window; I will hold the door. Reload for me if you can. We
shall have the whole smuggling crew on us in a moment.”
Even as he spoke they heard the sound of men running. Heavy footsteps
came up the path towards the cottage. They heard Dan’s voice roaring at
them, bidding them open to him, or they would break down the door.