THE COUP DE MAIN.
It was two o'clock in the morning; Miss Harmer was at her devotions.
Half her nights were so spent. Not that she felt any more need for
prayer than she had formerly done, nor that she had one moment's remorse
or compunction concerning the course she had adopted; in that respect
she was in her own mind perfectly justified. He whom she had looked up
to for so many years for counsel and advice, he who to her represented
the Church, had enjoined her to act as she had done, had assured her
that she was so acting for the good of the Church, and that its blessing
and her eternal happiness were secured by the deed; and she did not for
an instant doubt him. The only moment that she had wavered, the only
time she had ever questioned whether she was doing right, was when Polly
Ashleigh had so vividly described the chamber, and when it had seemed to
her that the secret was in the course of being revealed by dreams. She
thought it altogether natural and right that the estate of her Catholic
ancestors--the estate which her elder brother had actually devised to
the Church, and which had been only diverted from that destination by
what she considered an actual interposition of the evil one
himself--should go as they had intended. So that she never questioned in
her own mind the right or justice of the course she had taken.
Miss Harmer rose at night to pray, simply because she had been taught in
the stern discipline of the convent in which she had been brought up and
moulded to what she was, that it was right to pass a part of the night
in prayer, and she had never given up the custom. And, indeed, it was
not merely from the force of custom that she made her devotions; for she
prayed, and prayed earnestly, and with all her strength, prayed for the
increase and triumph of the Church, that all nations and people might be
brought into its fold, and that God would show forth His might and power
upon its enemies. On this night she was more wakeful than usual, for the
wind was blowing strongly round the old walls of Harmer Place, and
sounded with a deep roar in its great chimneys. This was always pleasant
music to her; for she, like her dead brothers, loved the roar and battle
of the elements, and the fierce passionate spirit within her seemed to
swell and find utterance in the burst of the storm.
Suddenly she paused in the midst of her devotions; for amidst the roar
and shriek of the wind she thought she heard the wild cry of a person in
distress. She listened awhile; there was no repetition of the sound, and
again she knelt, and tried to continue her prayers; but tried in vain:
she could not divest herself of the idea that it was a human cry, and
she again rose to her feet. Stories she had heard of burglaries and
robbers came across her. She knew that there was a good deal of valuable
plate in the house; and then the thought, for the first time, occurred
to her, that perhaps it was her sister's voice that she had heard. She
did not hesitate an instant now, but went to a table placed against the
bed on which lay two pistols: curious articles to be found in a lady's
bedroom, and that lady more than seventy years old. But Miss Harmer was
prepared for an emergency like this. For the last year Father Eustace
had been warning her of the danger of it; not perhaps that he had any
idea that a burglary would actually be attempted, but he wished to be
resident in the house, and to this, with her characteristic obstinacy
when she had once made up her mind to anything, she refused to assent.
The Harmers' chaplains she said never had been resident; there was a
house in the village belonging to them, which they had built specially
for their chaplains to reside in, and which they had so inhabited for
more than a hundred years, and she did not see why there should be any
change now. Father Eustace had urged that the sisters slept in a part of
the building far removed from the domestics, and that if the house were
entered by burglars they might not be heard even if they screamed ever
so loud.
"I am not likely to scream, although I am an old woman," Miss Harmer had
answered grimly; and the only result of Father Eustace's warning had
been, that Miss Harmer had ordered a brace of her brother's pistols to
be cleaned and loaded, and placed on the table at her bedside; and it
was the duty of the gardener to discharge and reload these pistols every
other morning, so that they might be in perfect order if required.
Miss Harmer's pistols were rather a joke among the servants; and yet
they all agreed that if the time ever did come when she would be called
upon to use them, the stern old woman would not hesitate or flinch for a
moment in so doing.
So with a pistol in one hand, and a candle in the other, Miss Harmer
went out of her door and along the short corridor which led to her
sister's bedroom--a strange gaunt figure, in a long white dress covering
her head--in fact a nun's attire, which she put on when she prayed at
night, and from underneath which the stiff white frills of her cap
bristled out strangely. She walked deliberately along, for she believed
that she was only deceiving herself, and that the cry which she had
thought she heard was only a wilder gust of wind among the trees. When
she reached her sister's door, she paused and listened. Then she started
back, for within she could hear low murmured words in men's voices, and
then a strange stifled cry: she hesitated but for one moment, to
deliberate whether she should go back to fetch the other pistol--then
that strange cry came up again, and she threw open the door and entered.
She was prepared for something, but for nothing so terrible as met her
eyes. The room was lighted by the two candles which still burned in a
little oratory at one end of the room before a figure of the Virgin; a
chair lay overturned near it, and it was evident that Angela Harmer had,
like her sister, been engaged at her devotions when her assailants had
entered the room, and when she had given that one loud cry which had at
last brought her sister to her assistance. But all this Cecilia Harmer
did not notice then, her eyes were fixed on the group in the middle of
the room.
There, in a chair, her sister was sitting, a man, standing behind it,
held her there; another was leaning over her, doing something--what her
sister could not see; a third stood near her, seemingly giving
directions; all had black masks over their faces.
Angela Harmer was a pitiful sight: her white nun's dress was all torn
and disarranged; her cap was gone; her thin grey hair hung down her
shoulders; her head and figure were dripping wet--she having fainted
from pain and terror, and having been evidently recovered by pouring the
contents of the water-jug over her, for the empty jug lay on the ground
at her feet. Her face was deadly pale with a ghastly expression of
terror and suffering, made even more horrible to see, by a red
handkerchief which one of the ruffians had stuffed into her mouth as a
gag.
It was a dreadful sight, and Miss Harmer gave a loud cry when she saw
it. She rushed forward to her sister's aid, discharging as she did so,
almost without knowing it, her pistol at the man nearest to her. As she
fired, there was a volley of deep oaths and fierce exclamations; the one
who was holding Angela Harmer, with a jerk sent the chair in which she
was sitting backwards, bringing her head with fearful force against the
floor. There was a rush to the door; one of the robbers struck Cecilia
Harmer a violent blow on the head with the butt end of a heavy pistol
which he held in his hand, stretching her insensible on the ground; and
then the three men rushed downstairs, and through the hall window, by
which they had entered; across the grounds--but more slowly now, for one
was lagging behind--and out into the road.
There in the lane a horse and light cart were standing, the horse tied
up to a gate. Two of them jumped at once into the cart. "Jump up, mate!"
the shorter of the two said, and with the exception of fierce oaths of
disappointment, it was the first word which had been spoken since
Cecilia Harmer had entered the room. "Jump up, mate! we have no time to
lose."
"I can't," the man said; "that she-devil has done for me."
"You don't say that," the other said, getting out of the cart again. "I
thought she had touched you by the way you walked, but I fancied it was
a mere scratch. Where is it?"
"Through the body," the man said, speaking with difficulty now, for it
was only by the exercise of almost superhuman determination that he had
succeeded in keeping up with the others.
"Well, you are a good plucked 'un, mate," the man said, admiringly.
"Here, Bill, lend me a hand to get him into the cart."
The other man got down, and the two lifted their almost insensible
companion into the cart, laid him as tenderly as they could in the straw
at the bottom, and then, jumping in themselves, drove off down the hill
as fast as the horse could gallop. This speed they kept up until they
were close to Canterbury; and then they slackened it, and drove quietly
through the town, not to excite the suspicions of such policemen as they
passed in the streets. When clear of the town, they again put the horse
to his fullest speed. Once, after going three or four miles, they drew
up, where a little stream ran under the road. Here one of them fetched
some water, and sprinkled it on the face of the wounded man, who was now
insensible. They then poured some spirits, from a flask one of them
carried, between his lips, and he presently opened his eyes and looked
round.
"Cheer up, mate; you will do yet," one said, in a tone of rough
kindness.
The wounded man shook his head.
"Yes, yes, you will soon be all right again, and we shan't drive so fast
now we are quite safe. There, let's have a look at your wound."
They found that, as he had said, he was hit in the body. The wound had
almost ceased bleeding now, and there was nothing to be done for it.
With an ominous shake of the head, they remounted the cart, and drove
gently on.
"This is a bad job, Bill."
"A ---- bad job," the other said, with an oath; "about as bad as I ever
had a hand in. Who would have thought that old cat would have held out
against that? I know I could not have done it."
"No, nor I either. I would have split on my own mother before I could
have stood that. I am afraid it is all up with him," and he motioned
towards the man at the bottom of the cart.
The other nodded.
"What are we to do with him, Schoolmaster?"
"We must leave him at Parker's, where we got the cart. He can't be taken
any farther. I will ask him." And he stopped the cart, and told the
wounded man, who was conscious now, what they intended to do, and asked
if he could suggest anything better.
He shook his head.
"He is a good fellow; he will make you comfortable, never you fear."
The man seemed now to want to ask a question, and The Schoolmaster
leaned over him to catch the words.
"Did you take anything?"
The man hesitated a little.
"Well, mate, truth is I did. I grabbed a watch and chain, and a diamond
cross, which were laying handy on the table."
The wounded man looked pleased.
"I am glad of that; they will think it is only a common burglary. I
don't think the woman will ever tell."
"I don't think she will," the other said, carelessly. "I expect it was
too much for her, and Bill threw her over mortal hard. I thought it a
pity at the time, but I don't know now that it was not for the best. The
old fool, why did she give us all that trouble, when one word would have
settled the whole business."
"Do you think we are safe?" the wounded man asked.
"Safe! aye; we are safe enough. We shall drive into the place the same
side we went out, and no one will suspect us honest countrymen of being
London cracksmen."
Nor would any one have done so.
After passing through Canterbury, they had taken disguises from the
bottom of the cart, and even had it been light no one would have guessed
they were not what they seemed--countrymen going into early market. The
shorter one was in a shooting jacket and gaiters, and looked like a
farmer's son; the other had on a smock-frock and a red handkerchief
round his neck, and with his big slouching figure looked exactly like a
farm labourer.
They drove along at a steady pace for another two hours. They had some
time since left the main road, to avoid the towns of Sittingbourne and
Chatham, and they were now in the lanes and byways skirting Rochester.
The man called Bob was a native of Chatham, and knew all the country
well. It was nearly six o'clock, and was still pitch dark, and since
they had left Canterbury they had not met a single person.
In a short time they entered the highroad again, about a mile on the
London side of Rochester, and turned their tired horse's head back again
in the direction of that town. They kept along this till the lights of
Rochester were close to them, and then turned again from the main road
down a narrow lane, and stopped at a house about a hundred yards from
the road.
The morning was beginning to break now, not giving much light, but
sufficient to show that it was a small house standing in a yard, which
the sense of smell, rather than sight, at once told to be a tanyard.
There was a gate in the wall, which was unfastened, for it yielded
easily when one of the men got down from the cart and pushed it; he then
led the horse and cart in, and closed the gate after them, and then
knocked at the door of the house with his hand. In a minute or two a
man's head appeared at an upper window.
"Is it you, boys?" he asked.
"All right, Parker; make haste and come down as quickly as you can."
The door was soon opened, and a man came out--a big man, with a not
dishonest face, respectably dressed, and evidently the master of the
place.
"So you are come back?" he said. "I don't want to ask any questions, but
have you done well?"
"No," was the answer; "as bad as bad can be. Our mate has got
hurt--badly hurt, too."
"Where is he?"
"In the cart."
The man gave a long whistle.
"The devil he is! This is a pretty kettle of fish, upon my word. What is
to be done?"
"He must be left here, Parker,--that's the long and short of it. There
is not the least fear of his being traced here; we have never seen a
soul since we left Canterbury."
"I don't suppose there is much fear," the man said gruffly; "but if he
should be, I am done for."
"Not a bit of it, Parker; you have only to show the receipt we gave you,
and stick to the story we agreed upon, and which happens to be true.
Three men called upon you, and said that they wanted to hire a light
cart for a day, and that they heard you let one out sometimes. You told
them that as you did not know them, you could not trust the horse with
strangers, and so they left thirty-five pounds in your hands as
security,--that they brought back the cart in the morning, and said one
of their number had fallen out and got hurt, and that you agreed to let
him stay for a day or so till he got well; and that you did not find,
till the other two men had left, that the one who remained had been
wounded by a bullet."
Here a slight groan from the cart called their attention to it.
"But what on earth am I to do with him?"
"Put him up in one of the garrets. You don't keep a servant; there will
be no one to know anything about it; and as for the pay, there is
twenty-five pounds left in your hands, after taking the ten pounds for
the hire of the trap--that will be enough for you, won't it?"
"Aye, aye," the man said. "I am not thinking of the money. I would not
do it for ten times the money if I had the choice; as I have not, I
would do it whether I am paid or not. The first thing is to get him
upstairs."
Accordingly the three men lifted him out of the cart, and carried him as
carefully as they could upstairs, and laid him on a bed. The tanner then
summoned his wife, a respectable-looking woman, who was horrified at the
sight of the pallid and nearly lifeless man upon the bed.
"Oh, William!" she said, bursting into tears, "and so it has come to
this! Did I not agree to stop with you only on the condition that you
had nothing more to do with this business beyond taking care of things,
and keeping them hid till all search for them should be over? and did
you not give me your solemn oath that you would do nothing else?"
"No more I have, Nancy," the man said; "no more I have, girl. I have had
nothing to do with this job. I don't know what it is, or where it came
off, no more than a babe, though no doubt we shall hear all about it
soon enough. But here the man has come home in our cart, and here he
must be, unless you want him put out into one of the sheds."
"No, no, William; we must do what we can for him, but that is little
enough. He looks dying, and he ought to have a doctor. But what can we
say to him?--how can we explain how he got hurt?--who can we trust? Oh,
William, this is a bad business!" and the woman wrung her hands
despairingly.
The wounded man made a slight movement, as if he would speak.
"What is it, mate?" the man called The Schoolmaster said, leaning over
him.
The wounded man murmured, with a great effort, the words--
"Dr. Ashleigh, Canterbury."
"Dr. Ashleigh, of Canterbury," the tanner said, when the other repeated
the words aloud. "I have heard of him as a clever man and a kind one;
but how can we trust in him more than another?"
The wounded man tried to nod his head several times to express that he
might be trusted.
"You are quite sure?" the tanner asked.
Strong and positive assent was again expressed.
"You know him?"
"Yes, yes."
"Will he come?"
"Yes," again.
"Well, it must be risked," the tanner said; "the man must not die like a
dog here, with no one to see after him. Perhaps when the ball is out he
may get round it yet. I will take my other horse, and ride over at once.
I have been over there several times to buy bark, so there will be
nothing out of the way in it. Don't be uneasy," he said, kindly, to the
wounded man. "You will be as safe here as you would be in your own
place, and I will get the doctor to you before night. Now, boys, you go
and put on the changes you brought down from London with you, and get
off by the next train. I will saddle up, and start at once. By the way,
what name shall I say to the doctor?"
A sharp pang of pain passed over the wounded man's face.
"Come, Bill," The Schoolmaster said, with rough kindness, "we don't want
to hear the mate's name; so we will be off at once. Goodbye, mate. It is
a bad job; but keep up your spirits, and you will soon get round again.
You are a good plucked one, and that's all in your favour;" and the two
men, with this parting, went off to re-disguise themselves previous to
their starting for London.
The tanner again leant over the bed, and the wounded man said, with a
great effort, "Tell him Robert, Sophy's husband, is dying, and wants to
speak with him."
The tanner repeated the words over, to be sure he had them right; he
then, assisted by his wife, cut the clothes from Robert, so as to move
him as little as possible; they placed him carefully in the bed; and the
tanner gave his wife instructions to give him a little weak
brandy-and-water from time to time, and a few spoonsful of broth in the
middle of the day, if he could take it. He then collected the clothes
that he had taken off Robert Gregory, carried them downstairs, and
burned them piece by piece in the kitchen fire.
After that he went out into the yard. It was not a large yard, but there
were several pits with the skins lying in the tan, and there was a pile
of oak bark in one corner. On one side of the yard was a long shed, in
which some of the other processes were carried on; on the other side was
the stable. The tanner next took out the straw from the cart, which was
all saturated with blood, and brought some fresh straw from the stable;
this he mixed with it, making it into a pile, and fetching a brand from
the fire, set it alight, and watched it until it was entirely consumed;
he then scattered the ashes over the yard. Next he carefully washed the
cart itself, put fresh straw into the bottom, wheeled it into the shed,
and cleaned down the horse which had been out all night; and then,
having put everything straight, he saddled the other horse, mounted it,
and started for Canterbury.