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[Illustration: Front cover. "Minion of the moon: A romance of the
king's highway." Thomas Wilkinson Speight]
[Illustration: "God people, your money or your lives!" he said.]
A MINION OF THE MOON
BY
T. W. SPEIGHT
AUTHOR OF
"THE MYSTERIES OF HERON DYKE," "HOODWINKED," "BY
DEVIOUS WAYS," "THE HEART OF A MYSTERY," ETC.
NEW AMSTERDAM BOOK COMPANY
156 FIFTH AVENUE NEW YORK MDCCCXCVII
Copyright, 1896,
BY
NEW AMSTERDAM BOOK COMPANY
CONTENTS
--------
THE PROLOGUE
CHAPTER
I. "We fly by Night."
II. On the King's Highway
THE NARRATIVE
I. A Prentice Hand.
II. In Search of a Lodging.
III. Mr. Ellerslie of Rockmount.
IV. The Squire of Stanbrook.
V. Family Matters.
VI. A Man who Never Forgave.
VII. Who shall be Heir?
VIII. "A Woman of a Thousand."
IX. Converging Threads.
X. The Sequel of Miss Baynard's Adventure.
XI. "Little Short of Miraculous."
XII. A Startling Recognition.
XIII. Love the Conqueror.
XIV. A Fresh Actor on the Scene.
XV. "Fate Points the Way."
XVI. The Shears of Atropos.
XVII. An Astounding Discovery.
XVIII. The Missing Heir.
XIX. Mutual Confidences.
XX. The Adventures of a Snuff-Box.
XXI. In Quest of the Missing Heir.
XXII. The Hon Mrs. Bullivant to Captain Ferris.
XXIII. A Joyful Surprise.
XXIV. A Parting and a Letter.
XXV. A Desperate Resolve.
XXVI. "For my Sake."
XXVII. Three Years After.
A MINION OF THE MOON.
THE PROLOGUE.
CHAPTER I.
"WE FLY BY NIGHT."
When the nineteenth century was still a puling infant scarcely able
to stand alone, and not yet knowing what to make of the strange
hurly-burly into which it found itself born, Abel Ringwood and Sarah
his wife were respectively landlord and landlady of the King's Arms, a
noted commercial hotel and posting-house at Appleford, a town in the
North of England, on one of the great coach roads from the south to
Scotland. All His Majesty's mails, which travelled by that route,
stopped to change horses at the King's Arms, and, as there was a great
deal of private posting by noblemen and rich commoners in those days,
the hotel stables had seldom fewer than from twenty to thirty horses
in them at one time.
In view of the fact that Appleford--was and is--on the high-road from
the south to Gretna Green, it was hardly to be wondered at that a week
seldom passed without one or more runaway couples stopping to change
horses at the King's Arms, and then hurrying on again, helter-skelter,
as hard as they could go. Thus there was nothing out of the common
when, about six o'clock on a certain December evening, a post-chaise
dashed up to the hotel door containing a runaway couple and a lady's
maid.
The gentleman, although he seemed in a desperate hurry to get on,
induced the young lady to alight in order to relieve her cramped limbs
while fresh horses were being put into the chaise, and the lamps
freshly trimmed. She declined all refreshment, but he partook of a
glass of sherry and a biscuit, while a glass of steaming negus was
handed to the maid inside. The young lady, who was dressed from head
to foot in expensive furs, was exceedingly pretty, with large,
pathetic-looking eyes, and a wistful smile. The gentleman was
enveloped in a long military cloak, and was evidently connected with
the army. In three minutes and a half they were on the road again.
Everybody there, down to the stable-boy, wished them God-speed and a
happy ending to their adventure. The evening was clear and frosty;
there had been a slight fall of snow in the afternoon, which still lay
crisp and white on the hard roads; the moon would rise in less than an
hour.
No long time passed before it was known throughout the hotel who the
runaways were. The post-boy whispered the news to John Ostler, who, a
few minutes later, told it to his mistress. The lady was Miss Dulcie
Peyton, the niece and ward of Sir Peter Warrendale, of Scrope Hall,
near Whatton Regis. The gentleman was a Captain Pascoe, the heir of an
old but impoverished family.
According to report, Sir Peter had set his heart on his niece's
marrying some one who was utterly distasteful to her, and, with more
anger than politeness, had shown Captain Pascoe the door when that
gentleman had called upon him to ask permission to pay his addresses
to Miss Dulcie. It was further reported that for the last three months
or more the poor young lady had been virtually a prisoner, never on
any pretence being allowed outside the precincts of the park; and that
Sir Peter vowed a prisoner she should remain till the last hour of his
guardianship had struck, which would not be for three long years to
come. But "bolts and bars cannot keep love out," nor in either, for
that matter. The pretty bird had escaped from its cage, and everybody
devoutly hoped that it would not be recaptured.
The runagates had not been gone more than forty minutes when up dashed
another post-chaise, out of which bounced a very irascible-looking,
red-faced, middle-aged gentleman, presumably Sir Peter Warrendale,
who, with much spluttering and several expletives, ordered fresh
horses to be instantly put into the chaise, and then, perceiving
comely Mrs. Ringwood where she sat among the glasses and bottles in
her little snuggery, he strode up to her, and in his arrogant way
demanded to know whether she had seen anything of a runaway couple,
who, so he was credibly informed, had passed through Appleford a
little while before on their way to Gretna Green.
Now, the conscience of the worthy landlady was of that tender kind
that it would not allow her to tell a lie, but, in order to give the
fugitives a few minutes more start, she asked him to describe the two
persons to whom he referred. This he did in very few words, and
nothing was then left Mrs. Ringwood but to confess that she had seen
the young people in question, and that they had changed horses there
about an hour before.
On hearing this, the red-faced gentleman indulged in more bad
language, ordered a glass of hot brandy-and-water, which half choked
him in his hurry to swallow it, and then, still growling savagely in
his throat, was shut up next minute in his chaise, and driven rapidly
away. One small service Mrs. Ringwood had been able to do the
runaways. She had secretly told John Ostler to let them have the two
best horses in the stables, and the latter, of his own accord, had
supplied the red-faced gentleman with the two worst. Unless something
unforeseen should happen, there was not much likelihood of the
fugitives being overtaken.
Everything was going well with them, they had left Appleford about a
dozen miles behind, and had pretty well got over the worst part of the
fells, when one of the horses fell lame, and it quickly became
apparent that the poor animal was unable to go at any pace faster than
a walk, and that only with difficulty. What was to be done?
The next place where they could hope to obtain fresh horses was five
or six miles ahead, and it was almost a certainty that before they
could get so far they would be overtaken by Sir Peter, who, they
had not the slightest doubt, was in close pursuit of them. The
quick-witted post-boy suggested that they should tie the lame horse to
a tree by the roadside, leaving it to be fetched later on, and press
forward as fast as possible with the remaining horse; but, even so,
the chances were that the irate Sir Peter would overtake them before
another hour had gone by. It was a desperate chance, but no other was
left them.
The post-boy had just tied up the lame horse, and was on the point of
mounting the other, when, not more than a dozen yards from the chaise,
and as if he had sprung that moment out of the ground, a masked
horseman leaped the rough wall that divided the high-road from the
fells. "Stand, or you are a dead man!" he exclaimed in commanding
tones, as he presented a pistol at the postboys head. Then, turning to
the chaise window, which was open, and at the same moment flashing a
bull's-eye lantern on the travellers: "Good people your money or your
lives!" he said. The maid gave utterance to a scream; but the young
lady only clung in terrified silence to her lover's arm.
A network of filmy clouds covered the sky; but the moon, which had now
risen, gave enough light to enable the postilion to see that the
highwayman was mounted on a powerful black horse with a white stocking
on its near fore-leg, and a white star on its forehead; that he wore a
bell-shaped beaver hat; that his mask just reached to the tip of his
nose, and that his outer garment was a dark horseman's cloak with
several capes to it.
"I durst wager a thousand pounds to a farden it's Captain Nightshade,"
he muttered under his breath.
"Sir," said the young captain, bending forward so that his face was in
a line with the open window, speaking with much dignity and a
ceremonious politeness more common in those days than now, "here is my
watch, together with that of this lady, and here are our purses; but
if the feelings of a gentleman are still cherished by you--and by your
accent I judge you to be one--and if the sentiments of our common
humanity have still power to appeal to your heart, I beg and entreat
that you do not leave us wholly destitute of the means wherewith to
prosecute our journey. I and this lady are on our way to Gretna Green.
She has escaped from the custody of a most tyrannical uncle, who is
also her guardian, and who would fain force her into marriage with a
man whom she detests. That he is in pursuit of us, and no great
distance behind, we have every reason to believe. Now, sir, should you
be sufficiently hard-hearted to deprive us of the whole of our funds,
even should we by some miracle be enabled to reach the end of our
journey, the needful gold would still be lacking wherewith to forge
that link of Hymen which would give me a husband's right to protect
this dear girl from all the tyrannical uncles in existence."
The highwayman had listened attentively. The reins lay on his horse's
neck; his left hand held the lantern, the light from which shone full
into the body of the chaise; his right grasped a pistol the barrel of
which gleamed coldly in the moonlight.
"Sir, not another word, I entreat," he said when the captain had done
speaking, bowing low and withdrawing the light of his lantern at the
same moment. "Never shall it be said of me that I took toll of lovers
in distress. Rather would I do all that in me lies to aid them as far
as my poor powers might avail."
"Sir, I thank you most heartily," answered the captain with as much
high-breeding as though he were addressing a duke.
"One of your horses has fallen lame, is it not so?" demanded the
robber.
"Alas! yes; and the chances are a score to one that we shall be
overtaken by Sir Peter before we can reach any place where we can
obtain fresh ones."
The highwayman, who had put back his pistol into its holster,
refreshed himself with a pinch of snuff from a box, the jewels in
which flashed in the moonbeams, before he spoke. Then he said:--
"In that case, sir, it seems to me there is only one thing left you to
do."
"And that is----?" queried the captain eagerly.
"For you and the young lady to make use of my mare to speed you on
your journey. Leila will carry the pair of you to Gretna, and be as
fresh as a daisy at the end of it. And as for Sir Peter overtaking
you----" His scornful laugh rang clear through the frosty night.
Captain Pascoe might be excused if he fairly gasped for breath as he
listened to this extraordinary proposition, but it was far too good an
offer to be lightly refused. As a matter of politeness he made some
slight demur, which the highwayman promptly overruled, and three
minutes later he was astride the black mare. Then the highwayman,
taking the young lady round the waist, swung her lightly on to the
crupper.
"But what is to become of you?" queried the captain.
"Never fear for me, sir," replied the other. "I shall know how to take
care of myself."
Then in a low voice he gave the captain certain instructions where to
leave the mare, which he would send a trusty man to reclaim on the
morrow.
Then the captain held out his hand, which the other frankly grasped.
"It is the hand of one," he said, "who, under different circumstances,
would doubtless have been a different man."
Then the two men lifted their hats, the lady waved her hand, and half
a minute later black Leila and her double burden had disappeared round
a turn of the road.
CHAPTER II.
ON THE KING'S HIGHWAY.
The amazed post-boy was now directed to put the lame horse back into
its place and go slowly ahead, while the highwayman himself took the
captain's place inside the chaise.
"Don't you be frightened, my dear," he said to the trembling
waiting-woman, whom her young mistress had done her best to reassure
before leaving her. "I love your sex far too dearly ever to harm one
of you. With your leave I will ride part of the way with you, and
should anybody ask my name, you may call me Mr. Darke."
He removed his mask as he spoke; but it was too dark inside the
chaise to allow of his features being distinguished, even if the
waiting-woman had not been too terrified to do more than glance
furtively at him.
They had gone on slowly for about a quarter of an hour when it became
evident that some other vehicle was approaching them rapidly from the
rear.
"Keep your veil down and don't say a word," said Mr. Darke to his
companion after a backward glance through the open window.
He drew his hat down over his brows and turned up the collar of his
redingote about his ears, so that even had it been daylight little of
his face would have been visible. It was not unlikely that the Sir
Peter of whom mention had been made might do the same as he had
done--throw the light of a lantern on the inmates of the chaise.
Presently the pursuing chaise came up at a great pace, the post-boy
lashing his horses freely, and, passing the other one, drew up
suddenly some dozen yards ahead, straight across the narrow road, so
as effectually to bar its progress and bring it to a stand.
Mr. Darke put his head out of the window. "Post-boy, what is the
meaning of this stoppage?" he called. "Why don't you go on?"
"Can't do it, sir--road blocked by t'other shay."
Before more could be said, Sir Peter himself came stalking up
trembling with rage, followed by his servant with a lantern.
"So, so! sir, your nefarious scheme has not succeeded; your villainous
plot has miscarried, as it deserved to do," he stuttered, his words
tumbling headlong over each other in his passion. "I'll have the law
of you, sir, for this! You shall be taught that you cannot run off
with a gentleman's ward with impunity! You shall be cast for damages,
sir. Five thousand pounds--not one farthing less--damme!--But where is
that niece of mine--the shameless hussy? I will----"
"May I ask, sir, the meaning of this singular outrage?" demanded a
grave, stern voice from the interior of the chaise. "If His Majesty's
liege subjects are to be stopped on the highway by every inebriate
brawler, it is indeed time for the hand of authority to intervene. I
am myself in the Commission of Peace, and I must demand from you your
name and address, sir, in order that further inquiry may be made into
this most discreditable proceeding."
But by this time the servant had directed the rays of his lantern into
the interior of the chaise. Sir Peter stood like a man petrified. In
the farther corner sat a plainly-dressed, thin, angular woman, bolt
upright, and as rigid as a ramrod, who, although her face was hidden
by a thick veil, no one in his senses would for a moment mistake for
Miss Dulcie Peyton, and it was doubtless owing to the veil that he
failed to recognize in her that young lady's maid, with whose features
he was presumably not unfamiliar. Of the person who had addressed him
little could be seen save a large aquiline nose and a pair of fierce
black eyes. It was equally impossible, however, to confound him with
Captain Pascoe.
"I crave your pardon, sir," said Sir Peter, in a tone of almost abject
apology, as he took off his hat and made a ceremonious bow. "I shall
never forgive myself for my stupid blunder; but the fact is I mistook
your chaise for the one in which a niece of mine--confound her!--is at
the present moment on her way to Gretna Green. We had tidings of her
at the place where we last changed horses, and I made sure that the
first chaise we should overtake must be the one of which we were in
pursuit."
"Sir, your apology makes ample amends," responded Mr. Darke in the
most gracious of tones. "Your mistake was a most natural one. No doubt
the flight of your niece has been a source of much annoyance to you."
The scowl on Sir Peter's face was not pleasant to see.
"If once I clap hands on her, she won't escape me again. Bolts and
bars and bread-and-water--that's the only treatment for refractory
wenches. But pardon me for not introducing myself. I am Sir Peter
Warrendale, of Scrope Hall, near Whatton Regis."
"And I, Colonel Delnay, of Scowthwaite, by Carlisle." At this point
the two gentlemen bowed ceremoniously to each other. "I trust, Sir
Peter, to have the pleasure of meeting you on some more auspicious
occasion."
"With all my heart, Colonel, I reciprocate the wish. But,
ouns-an-codlins! I'm forgetting all about my runaway niece. May I ask
whether anything has passed you on the road at all resembling a
fly-by-night couple in a post-chaise?"
"Nothing resembling what you speak of, Sir Peter, I give you my word.
Most likely they have a post-boy with them who is acquainted with the
short cut across the fells. It's a dangerous road for a chaise to
traverse after dark, and the chances are that they will come to grief
before they reach the end of it."
"I'd give a hundred guineas, damme if I wouldn't, if one of their
linch-pins was to drop out! But I may yet be in time to overtake 'em."
And so, with a few more polite phrases on both sides, the two men
parted.
No sooner had the other chaise started on its way than Mr. Darke lay
back in his seat and gave vent to a burst of hearty laughter. Then, in
a full rich voice, he sang as under:--
You may ride through the night, nor draw rein all the day,
Change horse as you list, and--tantivy! away!
But from Humber to Ribble, 'twixt Derwent and Dee,
You'll ne'er find a trace of sweet Ellen O'Lee!
"Poor uncle! Poor Sir Peter!" he exclaimed. "His pretty niece will
have been wed a couple of hours ere he crosses the Border. What a
surly old curmudgeon he looks! No wonder his little bird was tired of
its cage, and seized the first chance to flutter its wings and away."
When they had gone about a mile further, he called to the post-boy to
stop, and alighted from the chaise. Dipping his hand into one of his
capacious pockets, he drew out something which he presented with a bow
to the maid. "Here's a trifle for you, my dear, to keep you in mind of
Mr. Darke," he said. "And now I must wish you goodnight and _bon
voyage_, with the hope that one of these days you will be run away
with by as gallant a gentleman as he who has carried off your
mistress."
With that he took off his hat and swept her a low bow with all the
grace imaginable. Then, stepping up to the post-boy, he put a couple
of guineas into his hand, "just to drink my health with," as he said.
Half-a-minute later he was lost to view in a plantation of young trees
which at that point lined one side of the road. The present he had
given the maid proved to be a chased-silver sweetmeat box of elaborate
workmanship, which had doubtless at one time been the property of some
person of quality.
Some six weeks later than the events just recorded, Mrs. Ringwood, the
landlady of the King's Arms, was drinking a dish of tea with her
friend, Miss Capp, who had been from home for a couple of months, and
was agog to hear all the news.
"The young people had been three hours married by the time Sir Peter
reached Gretna Green," said the landlady, in continuation of what had
gone before. "He stormed and raved, as a matter of course, and vowed
he would have the law of Captain Pascoe; but it was well known that he
would never have dared to go into court and let the world know with
how much cruelty he had treated his orphan niece. When the captain and
his bride came south a week later they stopped and dined at the King's
Arms, and it was then I learned all the particulars I have just told
you of their strange adventure."
"But what about Mr. Darke? What about the highwayman?" queried Miss
Capp eagerly.
"I can tell you very little about him. As to who he really was,
nothing has ever come out. He may have been the notorious Captain
Nightshade, as the post-boy firmly believes, or he may not. The
post-boy says he recognized him by the horse he was riding--a black
mare, with a white stocking on the near fore-leg and a white blaze on
the forehead. In any case, the act was that of one who had not
forgotten that once on a time he was a gentleman."
"It was the act of one who, whatever his other faults may be, has not
yet forfeited all right to that title," responded the enthusiastic
spinster, who envied Miss Peyton's maid her adventure.
"By the way, I mustn't forget to tell you that poor Sir Peter was
unlucky enough to be stopped on his way back from Gretna Green, and
eased of his watch and purse, together with his snuff-box, which
latter it seems he set great store by, it being a sort of family
heirloom. And I have it from the post-boy in charge of the chaise that
as the highwayman was on the point of riding away he lifted his hat
and said: 'Colonel Delnay has the honor, Sir Peter, to wish you a very
goodnight.'"
THE NARRATIVE.
CHAPTER I.
A PRENTICE HAND.
Among other wayfarers who, on a certain evening some four months
subsequently to the events already narrated, halted at the King's Arms
Hotel, Appleford, in order to refresh the inner man, was a stranger on
horseback, with a rather bulky saddle-bag strapped behind him, who,
judging from his style and appearance, might have been a cattle jobber
on his way to some fair, or farm bailiff, a "statesman" who farmed his
own acres, and had a comfortable little balance at the local bank; or,
at any rate, a man used to a healthy, outdoor country life, to whom
existence in a town would have been nothing less than intolerable.
Having dismounted from his very serviceable nag, he gave it into the
ostler's charge, with strict injunctions that it was to be well cared
for, and then made for the coffee-room, where, five minutes later, he
was seated with a noble cold sirloin before him, and at his elbow a
tankard of the best old ale the house could supply.
He was a prime trencherman, was John Dyce--they were common enough in
those days--and it would have made a modern dyspeptic stare to watch
the heroic way in which he attacked the sirloin, and with what
unequivocal appetite one well-mustarded slice after another, with its
accompaniment of delicious home-made bread, was disposed of. But not
even John could go on eating forever, and by and by he laid down his
knife and fork with an audible sigh, which might be partly due to the
satisfaction which comes--or should come--of comfortable repletion,
and partly a sigh of regret at having to bid farewell to the sirloin.
While the waiter cleared away he went as far as the stable in order to
satisfy himself that his nag was being properly looked after. He was
gone some little time, and when he came back he ordered a churchwarden
pipe, a screw of tobacco, and a tumbler of cold punch to be brought
him.
There were some half-dozen people in the room who had been there when
he arrived, and a number of others had come and gone in the interim.
Now and then a bell would be heard to ring somewhere indoors, now and
then a chaise or other vehicle would rattle up to the door and come to
an abrupt stand. The _Highflyer_ coach, going south, had stopped for
exactly three minutes and a half in order to change horses, during
which time a majority of the passengers had crowded into the hotel,
clamoring for drinks of various kinds.
John Dyce, sitting apart in a quiet corner of the long, oak-panelled,
low-ceilinged room, and puffing meditatively at his churchwarden, had
a quietly observant eye for every fresh face that came in. At
length--but not till his glance had travelled more than once, with
some anxiety in it, to the clock over the chimney-piece--his waiting
was rewarded.
The coffee-room door opened, and there entered a little,
comfortable-looking, rosy-gilled man, in whose features professional
gravity seemed to be struggling against a latent sense of humor. He
was Mr. Tew, managing clerk to Mr. Piljoy, solicitor of Arkrigg, a
town at the other end of the county. His employer being laid up with
gout, he had been sent to Stanbrook in his stead in order to get
Squire Cortelyon's will duly signed and witnessed. Having accomplished
his errand, he was now on his way back home, with the will carefully
buttoned up inside his breast pocket. Squire Cortelyon was not
expected to live from hour to hour.
"Bottle-green surtout with black velvet collar," muttered John Dyce to
himself. "Front tooth broken short off; red and black silk muffler
round his throat; white beaver hat the worse for wear. It must be
him."
Mr. Tew beckoned the waiter.
"Ham and eggs and a cup of strong coffee; and let me have them as
quick as possible. I must be on the road again in half an hour."
"'Am-an'-eggs--yessir--have 'em in a jiffy. Going far, sir, to-night,
may I ask?"
"Only as far as Arkrigg."
"A dozen long miles, sir, and as nasty a bit o' road as any in the
county, being nearly all up-hill and windin' in an' out among the
moors--let alone its bein' such a favorite road with Captain
Nightshade." Then, insinuatingly: "Better stay where you are, sir.
Could put you up very comfortable. His Grace of Malvern stayed with us
a night last month, and before goin' away he says, says he----"
"No, no," broke in Mr. Tew good-naturedly--waiters in our
great-grandfathers' days were often privileged mortals--"it's not a
bit of use your trying to tempt me. Home to-night I must get--highly
important; and as for Captain Nightshade, he flies at higher game than
the likes of me. If he were to strip me to the shirt, all I have would
hardly fetch him the price of a decent dinner and a bottle of wine. So
now for my ham and eggs."
Not a word of all this had escaped John Dyce, but his stolid face was
absolutely devoid of expression. He had changed his position to the
settle near the chimney-corner, and was sitting with one hand buried
deep in his breeches pocket, while the other held his long pipe, his
gaze meanwhile being contemplatively fixed on a corner of the
well-smoked ceiling.
He had already paid his "shot," and he now put down his pipe, stood
up, yawned, stretched himself, and then, after clapping his hat on his
head, strode slowly out of the room. Passing the bar, now empty of
customers, through the inner window of which he could see the plump
landlady busy with her knitting-needles, he paused for a few moments
at the top of the flight of broad shallow steps which led up to the
front door. Like so many similar establishments in those days, the
King's Arms Hotel formed three sides of a quadrangle, with the windows
facing into it, the fourth side consisting of an open gateway large
enough for a coach-and-four to be driven through with ease, having
shops on either side, the windows of which fronted on the main street.
As John Dyce stood on the topmost step he looked to right and he
looked to left. For a small provincial town the hour was growing late.
In the inn yard no one was about. A light shone dimly through the
stable window, and in one corner Mr. Tew's chaise, with two or three
other vehicles, made a confused heap, dimly discernible. Half an hour
later, with the arrival of the _Comet_, bound for Edinburgh, the whole
place would wake up, as at the stroke of an enchanter's wand, to a
brief spasm of feverish energy and excitement. Meanwhile somnolence
reigned.
John Dyce, whistling under his breath, descended the steps and picked
his way slowly in the direction of the stable, presumably in search of
the ostler; but it was not till a full quarter of an hour later that
he rode out of the inn yard, and, having crossed the market-place,
took the road which led due north out of the town. The clock of the
old church chimed the half-hour past ten as he left it behind. A
crescent moon was sailing in a clear sky.
Presently John's nag broke into a gentle trot, and so the two jogged
quietly along till the last house in Appleford had been left some four
miles behind. Then, at a point where the road, dipping a little, cut
through the dark heart of a plantation of firs, he drew rein and let
his horse subside into a walk. He had got about halfway through the
plantation when, a little way ahead of him, what looked like an
irregular fragment of the blackness which walled him in on either hand
broke itself away, as it were, and, moving out into the middle of the
road, showed there clear and distinct by the light of the young moon,
and then, as he drew a pace or two nearer, took on itself the shape of
another horse and another rider.
John seemed in nowise alarmed by the sudden apparition, but rather,
indeed, as if the _rencontre_ was not unexpected by him.
"So! it is you; I was rather doubtful at first," said the other in a
full rich voice as he drew near. "Well, what luck have you had?"
As well as could be seen, the speaker was a young and very handsome
man, with an unmistakable air of distinction. His outer garment was a
long, loose, dark blue cloak without sleeves, fastened at the throat
by a silver clasp, which hid the rest of his attire except his long
riding boots and his small three-cornered hat. His dark hair, the real
color of which could not be distinguished by that light, was slightly
sprinkled with powder and tied up behind with black ribbon into the
form of an ample queue. His hands were covered by a pair of buff
gauntlets, and from the holsters in front of him the stocks of a brace
of pistols bulged menacingly.
John Dyce carried a finger to his forehead as his nag came to halt.
"Everything gone off all right, your honor," he said in reply to the
young man's question. "I left Mr. Tew at the King's Arms in Appleford.
He'd just ordered his supper, but seemed in a hurry to get on, and I
should say that by this time he's nearly ready to start again, so that
your honor's wait for him shouldn't be a long one. Before coming away
I managed, unseen by anybody, to draw the charges of his pistols,
which he had left behind him in the chaise when he went in to supper."
"Well done, John! There's far more in that head of years than most
people give you credit for. But now you must leave me. I will await
Mr. Tew here. I don't think I could find a more convenient bit of road
for my purpose than this. You will wait for me, as arranged, at the
first toll-bar on the Whinbarrow road."
"Better not send me away, your honor," said John in a tone of earnest
entreaty; "better let me keep with you, or, at least, be within hail
in case of accident."
"No, no, John, I won't have you mixed up in the affair more than is
absolutely necessary. There's nothing to fear--more especially now
that you have drawn the charges of the pistols. But, at the best of
times, I don't believe Mr. Tew has an ounce of courage in that plump,
well-lined body of his. More likely than not he will take me for
Captain Nightshade, and be all a-quake with fright. So you must just
do as you are bidden, and make the best of your way to the place
agreed upon. And remember, I forbid you on any account to wait about
here."
John attempted no further protest, knowing, probably, how futile it
would have been, but wheeling his nag round, without a word more
started off down the road at a gentle trot.
The young man waited without stirring till the last thud of his
horse's hoofs had died into silence. Then he shivered--the night was
bitter enough to excuse his doing so--and drew his cloak more closely
around him; and then he glanced about him, somewhat timorously it
might have been thought.
"Pish! what folly is this!" he muttered peevishly. "A gentleman of the
road, a despoiler of timid travellers, shivering and shaking because
he finds himself alone, drawing on for midnight, on a solitary bit of
the King's highway! I shall be frightened of my own shadow next.
Captain Nightshade would indeed laugh me to scorn."
He patted his mare on the neck and began to walk her up and down on
the narrow stretch of turf which fringed the road on either hand. It
was not one of the great thoroughfares running north and south, busy
day and night with traffic in one or other of its manifold forms, but
merely a by-road between one provincial town and another. The only
living things seen by our young horseman while he waited were a drove
of cattle, in charge of a couple of men, on their way to Appleford
market. While they were passing he withdrew into the shade of the
plantation.
After all, he had hardly so long to wait as he had feared he would
have. John Dyce had not been more than a quarter of an hour gone when
his straining ears caught the faint sound of wheels. He had already
adjusted the crape mask he had brought with him, and settled his chin
in the ample folds of the India silk muffler he had tied round his
throat. He now set his hat more firmly on his head, and drew a pistol
from its holster.
And now, some distance down the road, there shone two yellow points of
flame, as they might be the eyes of some wild animal shining in the
dark. They were the lamps of the coming chaise. Nearer and nearer
sounded the hoof-beats of the horses on the hard road. A minute more
and the whole concern had passed out of the moonlight into the gully
of blackness in which our horseman was lurking. The moment for action
had come. Three strides of his horse brought him into a line with the
postilion. "Halt, or you are a dead man!" he called out in commanding
tones, as he held a pistol to the man's head, and at once the horses
were pulled up short on their haunches. It was not the first command
of the kind that postilion had been called upon to obey.
The highwayman had brought no lantern with him. He knew, or thought he
knew, quite well who the occupant of the chaise was. He could just
discern a vague huddled-up figure in one corner. And now, in no
uncertain voice, came the formula, sacred by long use on such
occasions: "Your money or your life!" Not that it was the traveller's
money our young friend was risking so much to obtain, but something
very different, only he had not seen his way at the moment to vary the
customary command.
The answer was a flash and a report from the interior of the chaise,
and the same instant a harsh voice yelled out, "Drive on Tim, and be
damned to you!" Hardly had the words left his lips before the
post-boy's lash came down heavily on his horses, and the chaise sprang
forward.
Unused to such surprises, the young man's horse shied violently and
then backed towards the plantation, as if its rider had lost control
of it. What would have happened next there is no telling, had not
another horse and rider, springing from nowhere, as it seemed,
appeared at this instant on the scene. Our would-be highwayman, his
hat fallen off and his head thrown back, was swaying in his saddle,
and the newcomer was only just in time to grasp him round the waist,
and so save him from falling.
A few seconds later he gave vent to a low whistle, expressive of an
amazement almost too deep for words.
"By the Lord that made me--a woman!" was his whispered ejaculation.