THE GARDEN-HOUSE
During that long afternoon the master of the house had sat in his own
room, before his table, hearing the ceaseless footsteps and the voices
overhead, and the ring of feet on the tiles outside his window, knowing
that his friend and priest was somewhere in the house, crouching in some
dark little space, listening to the same footsteps and voices as they
came and went by his hiding-place, and that he himself was absolutely
powerless to help.
He had been overpowered in the first rush as he pealed on the alarm-bell,
to which he had rushed when the groom burst in from the stable-yard
crying that the outer court was full of men. Lackington had then sent him
under guard to his own room, where he had been locked in with an armed
constable to prevent any possibility of escape. In the struggle he had
received a blow on the head which had completely dazed him; all his
resource left him; and he had no desire even to move from his chair.
Now he sat, with his head on his breast, and his mind going the ceaseless
round of all the possible places where Anthony might be. Little scenes,
too, of startling vividness moved before him, as he sat there with
half-closed eyes--scenes of the imagined arrest--the scuffle as the
portrait was torn away and Anthony burst out in one last desperate
attempt to escape. He saw him under every kind of circumstance--dashing
up stairs and being met at the top by a man with a pike--running and
crouching through the withdrawing-room itself next door--gliding with
burning eyes past the yew-hedges in a rush for the iron gates, only to
find them barred--on horseback with his hands bound and a despairing
uplifted face with pike-heads about him.--So his friend dreamed miserably
on, open-eyed, but between waking and the sleep of exhaustion, until the
crowning vision flashed momentarily before his eyes of the scaffold and
the cauldron with the fire burning and the low gallows over the heads of
the crowd, and the butcher's block and knife; and then he moaned and sat
up and stared about him, and the young pursuivant looked at him
half-apprehensively.
Towards evening the house grew quieter; once, about six o'clock, there
were voices outside, the door from the hall was unlocked, and a
heavily-built, ruddy man came in with two pikemen, locking the door
behind him. They paid no attention to the prisoner, and he watched them
mechanically as they went round the room, running their eyes up and down
the panelling, and tapping here and there.
"The room has been searched, sir, already," said the young constable to
the ruddy-faced man, who glanced at him and nodded, and then continued
the scrutiny. They reached the fireplace and the officer reached up and
tapped the wood over the mantelpiece half-a-dozen times.
"Here," he called, pointing to a spot.
A pikeman came up, placed the end of his pike into the oak, and leaned
suddenly and heavily upon it: the steel crashed in an inch, and stopped
as it met the stonework behind. The officer made a motion, the pike was
withdrawn, and he stood on tip-toe and put his finger into the splintered
panel. Then he was satisfied and they passed on, still tapping the walls,
and went out of the other door, locking it again behind them.
An hour later there were voices and steps again, and a door was unlocked
and opened, and Mr. Graves, the Tonbridge magistrate stepped in alone. He
was a pale scholarly-looking man with large eyes, and a weak mouth only
partly covered by his beard.
"You can go," he said nervously to the constable, "but remain outside."
The young man saluted him and passed out.
The magistrate looked quickly and sideways at Mr. Buxton as he sat and
looked at him.
"I am come to tell you," he said, "that we cannot find the priest." He
hesitated and stopped. "We have found several hiding-holes," he went on,
"and they are all empty. I--I hope there is no mistake."
A little thrill ran through the man who sat in the chair; the lethargy
began to clear from his brain, like a morning mist when a breeze rises;
he sat a little more upright and gripped the arms of his chair; he said
nothing yet, but he felt power and resource flowing back to his brain,
and the pulse in his temples quieted. Why, if the lad had not been taken
yet, he must surely be out of the house.
"I trust there is no mistake," said the magistrate again nervously.
"You may well trust so," said the other; "it will be a grievous thing for
you, sir, otherwise."
"Indeed, Mr. Buxton, I think you know I am no bigot. I was sent for by
Mr. Lackington last night. I could not refuse. It was not my wish----"
"Yet you have issued your warrant, and are here in person to execute it.
May I inquire how many of my cupboards you have broken into? And I hope
your men are satisfied with my plate."
"Indeed, sir," said the magistrate, "there has been nothing of that kind.
And as for the cupboards, there were but three----"
Three!--then the lad is out of the house, thought the other. But where?
"And I trust you have not spared to break down my servants' rooms, and
the stables as well as pierce all my panelling."
"There was no need to search the stables, Mr. Buxton; our men were round
the house before we entered. They have been watching the entrances since
eight o'clock last night."
Mr. Buxton felt bewildered. His instinct had been right, then, the night
before.
"The party was followed from near Wrotham," went on the magistrate. "The
priest was with them then; and, we suppose, entered the house."
"You suppose!" snapped the other. "What the devil do you mean by
supposing? You have looked everywhere and cannot find him?"
The magistrate shrugged his shoulders deprecatingly, as he stood and
stared at the angry man.
"And the roofs?" added Mr. Buxton sneeringly.
"They have been thoroughly searched."
Then there is but one possible theory, he reflected. The lad is in the
garden-house. And what if they search that?
"Then may I ask what you propose to destroy next, Mr. Graves?"
He saw that this tone was having its effect on the magistrate, who was
but a half-hearted persecutor, with but feeble convictions and will, as
he knew of old.
"I--I entreat you not to speak to me like that, sir," he said. "I have
but done my duty."
Then the other rose from his chair, and his eyes were stern and bright
again and his lips tight.
"Your duty, sir, seems a strange matter, when it leads you to break into
a friend's house, assault him and his servants and his guests, and
destroy his furniture, in search of a supposed priest whom you have never
even seen. Now, sir, if this matter comes to her Grace's ears, I will not
answer for the consequences; for you know Mistress Corbet, her
lady-in-waiting, is one of my guests.--And, speaking of that, where are
my guests?"
"The two ladies, Mr. Buxton, are safe and sound upstairs, I assure you."
The magistrate's voice was trembling.
"Well, sir, I have one condition to offer you. Either you and your men
withdraw within half an hour from my house and grounds, and leave me and
my two guests to ourselves, or else I lay the whole matter, through
Mistress Corbet, before her Grace." Mr. Buxton beat his hand once on the
table as he ended, and looked with a contemptuous inquiry at the
magistrate.
But the worm writhed up at the heel.
"How can you talk like this, sir," he burst out, "as if you had but two
guests?"
"Two guests? I do not understand you. How should there be more?"
"Then for whom are the four places laid at table?" he answered
indignantly.
Mr. Buxton felt a sudden desperate sinking, and he could not answer for a
moment. The magistrate passed his shaking hand over his mouth and beard
once or twice; but the thrust had gone home, and there was no parry or
riposte. He followed it up.
"Now, sir, be reasonable. I came in here to make terms. We _know_ the
priest has been here. It is certain beyond all question. All that is
uncertain is whether he is here now or escaped. We have searched
thoroughly; we must search again to-morrow; but in the meanwhile, while
you yourself must be under restraint, your guests shall have what liberty
they wish; and you yourself shall have all reasonable comfort and ease.
So--so, if we do not find the priest, I trust that you and--and--Mistress
Corbet will agree to overlook any rashness on my part--and--and let her
Grace remain in ignorance."
Mr. Buxton had been thinking furiously during this little speech. He saw
the mistake he had made in taking the high line, and his wretched
forgetfulness of the fourth place at table. He must make terms, though it
tasted bitter.
"Well, Mr. Graves," he said, "I have no wish to be hard upon you. All I
ask is to be out of the house when the search is made, and that the
ladies shall come and go as they please."
The magistrate leapt at the lure like a trout.
"Yes, yes, Mr. Buxton, it shall be as you say. And to what house will you
retire?"
Mr. Buxton appeared to reflect; he tapped on the table with a meditative
finger and looked at the ceiling.
"It must not be too far away," he said slowly, "and--and the Rector would
scarce like to receive me. Perhaps in--or----Why not my summer-house?" he
added suddenly.
Mr. Graves' face was irradiated with smiles.
"Thank you, Mr. Buxton, certainly, it shall be as you say. And where is
the summer-house?"
"It is across the garden," said the other carelessly. "I wonder you have
not searched it in your zeal."
"Shall I send a man to prepare it?" asked the magistrate eagerly. "Will
you go there to-night?"
"Well, shall we go across there together now? I give you my parole," he
added, smiling, and standing up.
"Indeed,--as you wish. I cannot tell you, sir, how grateful I am. You
have made my duty almost a pleasure, sir."
They went out together into the hall, Mr. Buxton carrying the key of the
garden-house that he had taken from the drawer of his table; he glanced
ruefully at the wrecked furniture and floor, and his eyes twinkled for a
moment as they rested on the four places at table still undisturbed, and
then met the magistrate's sidelong look. The men were still at the doors,
resting now on chairs or leaning against the wall, with their weapons
beside them; it was weary work this mounting sentry and losing the hunt,
and their faces showed it. The two passed out together into the garden,
and began to walk up the path that led straight across the avenue to
where the high vanes of the garden-house stood up grotesque and towering
against the evening sky, above the black yew-hedges.
All the while they went Mr. Buxton was thinking out his plan. It was
still incoherent; but, at any rate, it was a step gained to be able to
communicate with Anthony again; and at least the poor lad should have
some supper. And then he smiled to himself with relief as he saw what an
improvement there had been in the situation as it had appeared to him an
hour ago. Why, they would search the house again next day; find no one,
and retire apologising. His occupancy of the garden-house with the
magistrate's full consent would surely secure it from search; and he was
not so well satisfied with the disguised entrance to the passage at this
end as with that in the cellar.
They reached the door at last. There were three steps going up to it, and
Mr. Buxton went up them, making a good deal of noise as he did so, to
ensure Anthony's hearing him should he be above ground. Then, as if with
great difficulty, he unlocked the door, rattling it, and clicking sharply
with his tongue at its stiffness.
"You see, Mr. Graves," he said, rather loud, as he opened the door a
little, "my prison will not be a narrow one." He threw the door open,
gave a glance round, and was satisfied. The targets leaned against one
wall, and two rows of flower-pots stood in the corner near where the
window opened into the lane, but there was no sign of occupation. Mr.
Buxton went across, threw the window open and looked out. There was a
steel cap three or four feet below, and a pike-head; and at the sound of
the latch a bearded face looked up.
"I see you have a sentry there," said Mr. Buxton carelessly.
"Ah! that is one of Mr. Maxwell's men."
"Mr. Maxwell's!" said the other, startled. "Is he in this affair too?"
"Yes; have you not heard? He came from Great Keynes this morning. Mr.
Lackington sent for him."
Mr. Buxton's face grew dark.
"Ah yes, I see--a pretty revenge."
The magistrate was on the point of asking an explanation, for he felt on
the best of terms again now with his prisoner, when there were footsteps
outside and voices; and there stood four constables, with Nichol, Hubert
Maxwell and Lackington in furious debate coming up the path behind.
They looked up suddenly, and saw the door open and the magistrate and his
prisoner standing in the opening. The four constables stood waiting for
further orders while their three chiefs came up.
"Now, now, now!" said Mr. Graves peevishly, "what is all this?"
"We have come to search this house, sir," said Nichol cheerfully.
"See here, sir," said Hubert, "have you given orders for this?"
"Enough, enough," said Lackington coolly. "Search, men."
The pursuivants advanced to the steps. Then Mr. Buxton turned fiercely on
them all.
"See here!" he cried, and his voice rang out across the garden. "You
bring me here, Mr. Graves, promising me a little peace and quietness,
after your violent and unwarranted attack upon my house to-day. I have
been patient and submissive to all suggestions; I leave my entire house
at your disposal; I promise to lay no complaints before her Grace, so
long as you will let me retire here till it is over--and now your men
persecute me even here. Have you no mind of your own, sir?" he shouted.
"Really, sir----" began Hubert.
"And as for you, Mr. Maxwell," went on the other fiercely, "are you not
content with your triumph so far? Cannot you leave me one corner to
myself, or would your revenge be not full enough for you, then?"
"You mistake me, sir," said Hubert, making a violent effort to control
himself; "I am on your side in this matter."
"That is what I am beginning to think," said Lackington insolently.
"You think!" roared Mr. Buxton; "and who the devil are you?"
"See here, gentlemen," said Mr. Nichol, "what is the dispute? Here is an
empty house, Mr. Buxton tells us; and Mr. Maxwell tells us the same.
Well, then, let these honest fellows run through the empty house; it will
not take ten minutes, and Mr. Buxton and his friend can take the air
meanwhile. A-God's name, let us not dispute over a trifle."
"Then, a-God's name, let me go to my own house," bellowed Mr. Buxton,
"and these gentlemen can have the empty house to disport themselves in
till doomsday--or till her Grace looks into the matter"; and he made a
motion to run down the steps, but his heart sank. Mr. Graves put out a
deprecating hand and touched his arm; and Mr. Buxton very readily turned
at once with a choleric face!
"No, no, no!" cried the magistrate. "These gentlemen are here on my
warrant, and they shall not search the place. Mr. Buxton, I entreat you
not to be hasty. Come back, sir."
Mr. Buxton briskly reascended.
"Well, then, Mr. Graves, I entreat you to give your orders, and let your
will be known. I am getting hungry for my supper, too, sir. It is already
an hour past my time."
"Sup in the house, sir," said Mr. Nichol smoothly, "and we shall have
done by then."
Then Hubert blazed up; he took a step forward.
"Now, you fellow," he said to Nichol, "hold your damned tongue. Mr.
Graves and I are the magistrates here, and we say that this gentleman
shall sup and sleep here in peace, so you may take your pursuivants
elsewhere."
Lackington looked up with a smile.
"No, Mr. Maxwell, I cannot do that. These men are under my orders, and I
shall leave two of them here and send another to keep your fellow company
at the back. We will not disturb Mr. Buxton further to-night; but
to-morrow we shall see."
Mr. Buxton paid no sort of further attention to him, but turned to the
magistrates.
"Well, gentlemen, what is your decision?"
"You shall sleep here in peace, sir," said Mr. Graves resolutely. "I can
promise nothing for to-morrow."
"Then will you kindly allow one of my men to bring me supper and a couch
of some kind, and I shall be obliged if the ladies may sup with me."
"That they shall," assented Mr. Graves. "Mr. Maxwell, will you escort
them here?"
Hubert, who was turning away, nodded and disappeared round the yew-hedge.
Lackington, who had been talking in an undertone to the pursuivants, now
went up another alley with one of them and Mr. Nichol, and disappeared
too in the gathering gloom of the garden. The other two pursuivants
separated and each moved a few steps off and remained just out of sight.
Plainly they were to remain on guard. Mr. Buxton and the magistrate sat
down on a couple of garden-chairs.
"That is an obstinate fellow, sir," said Mr. Graves.
"They are certainly both of them very offensive fellows, sir. I was
astonished at your indulgence towards them."
The magistrate was charmed by this view of the case, and remained talking
with Mr. Buxton until footsteps again were heard, and the two ladies
appeared, with Hubert with them, and a couple of men carrying each a tray
and the other necessaries he had asked for.
Mr. Buxton and the magistrate rose to meet the ladies and bowed.
"I cannot tell you," began their host elaborately, "what distress all
this affair has given me. I trust you will forgive any inconvenience you
may have suffered."
Both Isabel and Mary looked white and strained, but they responded
gallantly; and as the table was being prepared the four talked almost as
if there were no bitter suspense at three of their hearts at least. Mr.
Graves was nervous and uneasy, but did his utmost to propitiate Mary. At
last he was on the point of withdrawing, when Mr. Buxton entreated him to
sup with them.
"I must not," he said; "I am responsible for your property, Mr. Buxton."
"Then I understand that these ladies may come and go as they please?" he
asked carelessly.
"Certainly, sir."
"Then may I ask too the favour that you will place one of your own men at
the door who can conduct them to the house when they wish to go, and who
can remain and protect me too from any disturbance from either of the two
officious persons who were here just now?"
Mr. Graves, delighted at this restored confidence, promised to do so, and
took an elaborate leave; and the three sat down to supper; the door was
left open, and they could see through it the garden, over which veil
after veil of darkness was beginning to fall. The servants had lighted
two tapers, and the inside of the great room with its queer furniture of
targets and flower-pots was plainly visible to any walking outside. Once
or twice the figure of a man crossed the strip of light that lay across
the gravel.
It was a strange supper. They said innocent things to one another in a
tone loud enough for any to hear who cared to be listening, about the
annoyance of it all, the useless damage that had been done, the warmth of
the summer night, and the like, and spoke in low soundless sentences of
what was in all their hearts.
"That red-faced fellow," said Mary, "would be the better of some manners.
(He is in the passage below, I suppose.)"
"It is scarce an ennobling life--that of a manhunter," said Mr. Buxton.
("Yes. I am sure of it.")
"They have broken your little cupboard, I fear," said Mary again. ("Tell
me your plan, if you have one.")
And so step by step a plan was built up. It had been maturing in Mr.
Buxton's mind gradually after he had learnt the ladies might sup with
him; and little by little he conveyed it to them. He managed to write
down the outline of it as he sat at table, and then passed it to each to
read, and commented on it and answered their questions about it, all in
the same noiseless undertone, with his lips indeed scarcely moving. There
were many additions and alterations made in it as the two ladies worked
upon it too, but by the time supper was over it was tolerably complete.
It seemed, indeed, almost desperate, but the case was desperate. It was
certain that the garden-house would be searched next day; Lackington's
suspicions were plainly roused, and it was too much to hope that
searchers who had found three hiding-places in one afternoon would fail
to find a fourth. It appeared then that it was this plan or none.
They supped slowly, in order to give time to think out and work out the
scheme, and to foresee any difficulties beyond those they had already
counted on; and it was fully half-past nine before the two ladies rose.
Their host went with them to the door, called up Mr. Graves' man, and
watched them pass down the path out of sight. He stood a minute or two
longer looking across towards the house at the dusky shapes in the garden
and the strip of gravel, grass, and yew that was illuminated from his
open door. Then he spoke to the men that he knew were just out of sight.
"I am going to bed presently. Kindly do not disturb me." There was no
answer; and he closed the two high doors and bolted them securely.
He dared not yet do what he wished, for fear of arousing suspicion, so he
went to the other window and looked out into the lane. He could just make
out the glimmer of steel on the opposite bank.
"Good-night, my man," he called out cheerfully.
Again there was no answer. There was something sinister in these watching
presences that would not speak, and his heart sank a little as he put-to
the window without closing it. He went next to the pile of rugs and
pillows that his men had brought across, and arranged them in the corner,
just clear of the trap-door. Then he knelt and said his evening prayers,
and here at least was no acting. Then he rose again and took off his
doublet and ruff and shoes so that he was dressed only in a shirt, trunks
and hose. Then he went across to the supper-table, where the tapers still
burned, and blew them out, leaving the room in complete darkness. Then he
went back to his bed, and sat and listened.
Up to this point he had been aware that probably at least one pair of
eyes had been watching him; for, although the windows were of bottle-end
glass, yet it was exceedingly likely that there would be some clear glass
in them; and, with the tapers burning inside, his movements would all
have been visible to either of Lackington's men who cared to put his eye
to the window. But now he was invisible. Yet, as he thought of it, he
slipped on his doublet again to hide the possible glimmer of his white
shirt. There was the silence of the summer night about him--the silence
only emphasised by its faint sounds. The house was quiet across the
garden, though once or twice he thought he heard a horse stamp. Once
there came a little stifled cough from outside his window; there was the
silky rustle of the faint breeze in the trees outside; and now and again
came the snoring of a young owl in the ivy somewhere overhead.
He counted five hundred deliberately, to compel himself to wait; and
meanwhile his sub-conscious self laboured at the scheme. Then he glanced
this way and that with wide eyes; his ears sang with intentness of
listening. Then, very softly he shifted his position, and found with his
fingers the ring that lifted the trap-door above the stairs.
There was no concealment about this, and without any difficulty he lifted
the door with his right hand and leaned it against the wall; then he
looked round again and listened. From below came up the damp earthy
breath of the basement, and he heard a rat scamper suddenly to shelter.
Then he lifted his feet from the rugs and dropped them noiselessly on the
stairs, and supporting himself by his hands on the floor went down a step
or two. Then a stair creaked under his weight; and he stopped in an
agony, hearing only the mad throbbing in his own ears. But all was silent
outside. And so step by step he descended into the cool darkness. He
hesitated as to whether he should close the trap-door or not, there was a
risk either way; but he decided to do so, as he would be obliged to make
some noise in opening the secret doors and communicating with Anthony. At
last his feet touched the earth floor, and he turned as he sat and
counted the steps--the fourth, the fifth, and tapped upon it. There was
no answer; he put his lips to it and whispered sharply:
"Anthony, Anthony, dear lad."
Still there was no answer. Then he lifted the lid, and managed to hold
the woodwork below, as he knelt on the third step, so that it descended
noiselessly. He put out his other hand and felt the boards. Anthony had
retired into the passage then, he told himself, as he found the space
empty. He climbed into the hole, pushed himself along and counted the
bricks--the fourth of the fourth--pressed it, and pushed at the door; and
it was fast.
For the first time a horrible spasm of terror seized him. Had he
forgotten? or was it all a mistake, and Anthony not there? He turned in
his place, put his shoulders against the door and his feet against the
woodwork of the stairs, and pushed steadily; there were one or two loud
creaks, and the door began to yield. Then he knew Anthony was there; a
rush of relief came into his heart--and he turned and whispered again.
"Anthony, dear lad, Anthony, open quickly; it is I."
The brickwork slid back and a hand touched his face out of the pitch
darkness of the tunnel.
"Who is it? Is it you?" came a whisper.
"It is I, yes. Thank God you are here. I feared----"
"How could I tell?" came the whisper again. "But what is the news? Are
you escaped?"
"No, I am a prisoner, and on parole. But there is no time for that. You
must escape--we have a plan--but there is not much time."
"Why should I not remain here?"
"They will search to-morrow--and--and this end of the tunnel is not so
well concealed as the other. They would find you. They suspect you are
here, and there are guards round this place."
There was a movement in the dark.
"Then why think----" began the whisper.
"No, no, we have a plan. Mary and Isabel approve. Listen carefully. There
is but one guard at the back here, in the lane. Mary has leave to come
and go now as she pleases--they are afraid of her; she will leave the
house in a few minutes now to ride to East Maskells, with two grooms and
a maid behind one of them. She will ride her own horse. When she has
passed the inn she will bid the groom who has the maid to wait for her,
while she rides down the lane with the other, Robert, to speak to me
through the window. The pursuivant, we suppose, will not forbid that, as
he knows they have supped with me just now. As we talk, Robert will watch
his chance and spring on the pursuivant. As soon as the struggle begins
you will drop from the window; it is but eight feet; and help him to
secure the man and gag him. However much din they make the others cannot
reach the man in time to help, for they will have to come round from the
house, and you will have mounted Robert's horse; and you and Mary
together will gallop down the lane into the road, and then where you
will. We advise East Maskells. I do not suppose there will be any
pursuit. They will have no horses ready. Do you understand it?"
There was silence a moment; Mr. Buxton could hear Anthony breathing in
the darkness.
"I do not like it," came the whisper at last; "it seems desperate. A
hundred things may happen. And what of Isabel and you?"
"Dear friend; I know it is desperate, but not so desperate as your
remaining here would be for us all."
Again there was silence.
"What of Robert? How will he escape?"
"If you escape they will have nothing against Robert; for they can prove
nothing as to your priesthood. But if they catch you here--and they
certainly will, if you remain here--they will probably hang him, for he
fought for you gallantly in the house. And he too will have time to run.
He can run through the door into the meadows. But they will not care for
him if they know you are off."
Again silence.
"Well?" whispered Mr. Buxton.
"Do you wish it?"
"I think it is the only hope."
"Then I will do it."
"Thank God! And now you must come up with me. Put off your shoes."
"I have none."
"Then follow, and do not make a sound."
* * * *
Very cautiously Mr. Buxton extricated himself; for he had been lying on
his side while he whispered to Anthony; and presently was crouched on the
stairs above, as he heard the stirrings of his friend in the dark below
him. There came the click of the brickwork door; then slow shufflings;
once a thump on the hollow boards that made his heart leap; then after
what seemed an interminable while, came the sound of latching the fifth
stair into its place; and he felt his foot grasped. Then he turned and
ascended slowly on hands and knees, feeling now and again for the
trap-door over him--touched it--raised it, and crawled out on to the
rugs. The room seemed to him comparatively light after the heavy darkness
of the basement, and passage below, and he could make out the
supper-table and the outline of the targets on the opposite wall. Then he
saw a head follow him; then shoulders and body; and Anthony crept out and
sat on the rugs beside him. Their hands met in a trembling grip.
"Supper, dear lad?" whispered Mr. Buxton, with his mouth to the other's
ear.
"Yes, I am hungry," came the faintest whisper back.
Mr. Buxton rose and went on tip-toe to the table, took off some food and
a glass of wine that he had left purposely filled and came back with
them.
There the two friends sat; Mr. Buxton could just hear the movement of
Anthony's mouth as he ate. The four windows glimmered palely before them,
and once or twice the tall doors rattled faintly as the breeze stirred
them.
Then suddenly came a sound that made Anthony's hand pause on the way to
his mouth; Mr. Buxton drew a sharp breath; it was the noise of three or
four horses on the road beyond the church. Then they both stood up
without a word, and Mr. Buxton went noiselessly across to the window that
looked on to the lane and remained there, listening. The horses were now
passing down the street, and the noise of their hoofs grew fainter behind
the houses.
Anthony saw his friend in the twilight beckon, and he went across and
stood by him. Suddenly the hoofs sounded loud and near; and they heard
the pursuivant below stand up from the bank opposite. Then Mary's voice
came distinct and cheerful.
"How dark it is!"
The horses were coming down the lane.