A DESPERATE RESOLVE.
Lady Carradine's letter, figuratively speaking, smote poor Nell, like
a bolt from the blue. She had imagined several things, any one of
which might have delayed Dare's coming--he had given her to understand
that his business in London would not take up more than a fortnight at
the most--but no faintest dread or suspicion that, after so long a
time, he would be arrested and cast for trial on a charge connected
with his past career had ever entered her mind. It was like a stab in
the dark by an unseen hand, and she reeled under it, and felt for a
while as if she were hurt in a vital part past hope of recovery.
She did not sleep a wink during the whole of the night after her
receipt of the news. Now and then she lay down for a little while on a
couch, but for the most part she spent the long dark hours in pacing
her room restlessly from end to end. No sooner, however, had the first
streak of daylight appeared in the sky than she quitted the house,
and, making her way down to the banks of the little river which ran
past the foot of the park, she followed its solitary windings for some
miles, till it drew near the village of Mosscrags, where the early
housewives were now astir, and the laborers going forth to their work;
then she turned and retraced the way she had come. It had seemed to
her that she could think more clearly and coherently under the free
air of heaven than in the confined space of her own chamber.
All her thinking had for its intent the answering of one question:
"What can I do to help him?" But so bitterly did the sense of her
powerlessness weigh upon her that she could have beaten her head
against the wall in a tempest of rage and impotent passion. She could
do nothing--nothing; a month-old babe would be as competent to help
him as she was. The four walls of a jail held him, and there was no
door of escape open to him save that last one of all which led to the
gallows. Several times in the course of the night the shadows that
seem to lurk so thickly around one at such times had shaped themselves
into the ghastly semblance of a cross-tree with its dangling rope,
which, all imaginary though it was, had caused her soul to shudder and
grow sick within her.
In the days to which our narrative refers the old barbarous and
inhuman penal code was still in full operation, and crimes which a
short term of imprisonment with hard labor would now expiate had the
last dread sentence of the law pronounced on them without hope of
reprieve. At the Lanchester spring assizes of that year, as Miss
Baynard did not fail to call to mind, a couple of men had been
condemned to death, one of them for sheep-stealing and the other for
shop-lifting. In the eye of the law the crime for which Geoffrey Dare
stood committed was of a much more heinous kind than either of those,
and should the charge be proved against him, as there seemed every
likelihood of its being, then would the gallows seen by Nell with the
eyes of her imagination develop into a very real erection on the roof
of Lanchester jail. In such a case as Dare's--whether or no they
succeeded in identifying him with "Captain Nightshade"--the death
penalty would indubitably be exacted. Justice would demand her victim,
while Mercy wept with her face turned to the wall.
And still Nell's heart echoed persistently with the cry, "What can I
do to help him?" But it was a cry which both earth and heaven flung
back, and to which no answer was vouchsafed her. All that day and all
the next night she was like a distracted creature, but distracted
after the quiet fashion of one who craves for absolute solitude, and
to whom even the society of those nearest and dearest is distasteful,
if not positively unbearable.
Kind-hearted Mrs. Budd was greatly put about, being altogether at a
loss to divine what was the matter with Nell, and whether the
strangeness of her manner was due to a mental or bodily cause. Never
before had she developed such peculiar symptoms, for no more sane and
healthy being ever existed. She had never swooned in her life,
although swooning, at proper times and season, was regarded rather as
a fashionable accomplishment than otherwise. She never fancied that
she was ill when nothing ailed her, or pretended that she had lost her
appetite; she was never troubled with qualms, or spasms, or "the
vertigo"; and as for being dyspeptic, she did not know the meaning of
the word. She had been rendered very anxious and unhappy by the
abduction of Evan, and proportionately happy by his recovery, but
there had been nothing in the way she bore herself at that time which
at all resembled the peculiar and inexplicable mood of which she had
been the victim for the last four-and-twenty hours.
It was in a certain measure due to Mrs. Budd's instinctive tact, which
taught her when it was advisable to speak and when to keep silent,
that she and Miss Baynard had got on so well together. On the present
occasion her instinct told her that Nell was in no mood to bear
questioning, and she kept a guard on her tongue accordingly. But by
the afternoon of the second day her uneasiness had grown to such an
extent that she felt she should be lacking in her duty to one so much
younger than herself if she refrained any longer from endeavoring to
discover what it was that had changed Miss Baynard so unaccountably in
so short a space of time.
"My dear Elinor, what is it that ails you? Whatever is the matter with
you?" she at length summoned up courage to ask. "You are not like the
same girl that you were at breakfast-time yesterday."
"Am I not? And yet I am the same," replied Nell with a smile which had
more of tears than mirth in it. "What is't that ails me, do you ask!
Nothing more serious than a fit of the megrims, I assure you. But I am
apt to be dangerous at such times. You had better not come too near
me; I might grow worse and bite you."
Then, before the astonished lady had time to collect her faculties,
she found herself hugged and kissed, and left alone. Half a minute
later she heard Miss Baynard singing as she went upstairs to her room.
Then a door clashed somewhere in the distance, and all was still.
Some time in the dead of night Nell lay down on the couch in her
bedroom, and presently sank into the deep sleep of utter exhaustion.
In that sleep she had a very vivid dream, from which, at the end of a
couple of hours, she suddenly awoke. So strongly had the particulars
of her dream impressed themselves upon her that she lay for another
hour without stirring, turning them over and over in her mind till she
had mastered every detail of the scheme which, as she firmly believed,
had been revealed to her by some supernatural influence in her sleep.
She had scarcely eaten a mouthful of anything since her receipt
of her godmother's letter, but this morning she appeared at the
breakfast-table as usual, and looking as if the last two days had been
blotted out of her existence. She was still a little pale, and dark
round the eyes, but the eyes themselves had lost that look of almost
fierce despair, as of a creature driven to bay and not knowing which
way to turn, which had been their dominant expression for the last
eight-and-forty hours. Now they shone with a serene and steadfast
lustre, which yet had in it a something of fixed resolution, as if
bent on carrying out some hidden purpose, which the busy brain behind
was brooding remotely over, even while its outward attention was
occupied and given with seeming abandonment to far other things.
Mrs. Budd saw and was satisfied, and was far too wise to put any
further questions with reference to a state of affairs which was so
evidently over and done with.
Nell followed Mrs. Budd's lead over breakfast-table-talk wherever that
good lady chose to let it wander, and her divagations were many and
various. She seemed in the best of spirits, and when the meal was over
she indulged herself and Evan with a wild romp.
The boy had been much put about in his childish way because for the
last two nights he had been banished from his Aunt Nell's chamber to
that of Mrs. Budd (in those first days after his recovery Nell would
not entrust him at night to the care of any of the servants), but this
glorious romp made amends for everything.
After that Nell disappeared for some hours, and was engaged upstairs
in her own rooms; but she joined Mrs. Budd and Evan at dinner, and in
the afternoon they all drove out together and watched the sunset from
the summit of Goat Scar. Then followed a long and happy evening. Never
had Mrs. Budd seen the girl more seemingly merry and light-hearted
than she was that day; she and the Nell of the day before were two
different beings. And yet at times there would come a pause in her
gayety, and for a few seconds the light in her eyes would deepen and
darken, and a look would come into them as if something had suddenly
crossed her vision, seen by herself alone. But, whatever it might be,
it went as quickly as it had come, and with one sharp-drawn breath she
was herself again.
Next day at breakfast her mood was unaltered; but again, in the course
of the forenoon, she was invisible for a couple of hours. That there
was some secret business afoot Mrs. Budd felt satisfied, but, being
the most discreet of matrons, she would rather have tied a
handkerchief over her eyes than have allowed them to see what it was
evidently not intended they should see. Still, it was not without a
little shock of surprise that she heard the news which Nell broke
abruptly to her as soon as their two o'clock dinner had come to an
end.
"I am about to leave you for a little while," said the girl, smiling
bravely. "At present I can tell you neither the object of my journey
nor my destination, but that you will know everything in good time I
do not doubt. Neither can I fix the date of my return, because that is
a point about which I am not quite clear. I leave Evan in your hands
with every confidence. That you will look well after him I feel
assured. He loves you and will be happy with you."
After this followed a few directions with regard to household and
other matters; then Miss Baynard went to get ready for her journey.
An hour later Mrs. Budd and Evan were waiting on the steps of the main
entrance to see her start. Presently, mounted on her mare Peggy, and
followed by John Dyce, also on horseback, she came riding round from
the stables, and a very fair and gracious picture she made in her long
dark-blue riding habit, over which she wore a short gray cloak lined
with black and tied with black ribbons, being in mourning for Mr.
Cortelyon. Her hat was of black beaver, broad-brimmed and ornamented
with two sweeping ostrich plumes of the same color.
The afternoon sun, shining upon three or four heavy ringlets of
chestnut hair which had escaped from under her hat, made a golden
glory of them. The late pallor of her complexion had given place to a
lovely flush of color. Her eyes, while more than ordinarily brilliant,
did not smile as her lips did; rather did it seem as if they were
charged with the light of some great resolution which might need all
her courage to carry it through.
Evan was held aloft for the sake of a last kiss. There was a fervent
"Heaven keep you, darling!" a flickering smile, the glisten of a tear,
a last wave of the hand, and Nell was gone. The widow and child stood
hand in hand till the trees of the avenue hid her from view and the
sound of hoof-beats had died into silence. Then they went back indoors,
but for both the light and gladness of the house had vanished. There
was a chill upon everything, their spirits included.
An hour-and-a-half's good riding brought Miss Baynard and her escort
to the quaint old town of Lanchester, with its narrow streets and
narrower alleyways, with its many overhanging, lopsided houses, and
its grim old county jail, built of ragged graystone, which frowns
blankly down from the upper end of its wide, irregularly-shaped
market-place, as if in mute warning to all and sundry. Miss Baynard,
whose road led her past one corner of it, shuddered involuntarily as
she glanced at it out of a corner of her eye. For her just then that
gray old pile was the most vitally interesting spot in the whole
world.
She was bound, first of all, for Langrig, the seat of Sir James
Dalrymple, which was situated in the suburbs of Lanchester. Sir James,
it may be remembered, was one of the trustees appointed under Mr.
Cortelyon's unsigned will, and very glad he was, when he came to learn
the contents of that document, to find that it was so much waste
paper, and that he would not be called upon to help in the carrying
out of what he regarded as its most wicked and unjust provisions. He
had a warm regard for Nell, not only for her own sake, but for that of
her father, whom he had known and liked, and with whom he had spent
many a roystering evening when they were young blades together about
London town. Finally, it may be mentioned that Sir James was chairman
of the Lanchester bench of magistrates.
"I have come to you, Sir James, on rather a singular errand," began
Miss Baynard, when she had been shown into the library, where she
found the baronet sitting with one leg in a gout-rest, and after the
usual greetings had passed between them.
"My dear young lady, my humble services are at your command in any and
every way."
"At the present time there is a certain prisoner, Mr. Geoffrey Dare by
name, in Lanchester jail, awaiting his trial at the next assizes."
"Which open in three weeks from now. To be sure--to be sure. The
rascal who is said to have waylaid Sir Peter Warrendale and robbed him
of his watch and snuff-box, and who is shrewdly suspected of being none
other than the notorious Captain Nightshade. But what about him?"
"Merely this, Sir James, that I want you to give me an order of
admission--I know you have ample power to do so--to see him privately
in prison. When I say privately in prison, I of course mean without
witnesses."
Sir James gave vent to a low whistle. "My dear Miss Baynard, do you
know that this is really a somewhat extraordinary request of yours?"
"I am quite aware of it. But let me explain why I have preferred it."
She drew a long breath. Without she was prepared to tell a lie--nay,
more than one--she felt sure that her request would run the risk of a
refusal. Lies to her had ever been an abomination, but the aim she had
set before herself was such as to leave her no option in the matter.
When a man's life is at stake, and that the life of the person you
love best in the world, the ordinary rules of conduct are apt to get
mixed and blurred, and much may be forgiven. In such extreme cases
black is liable to be regarded as white, and white as any color you
please.
Miss Baynard had come prepared to answer objections, and she went on
after a hardly observable pause.
"The fact of the matter is, Sir James, that Mr. Dare, in his more
prosperous days, was the bosom friend of my late cousin, Dick
Cortelyon, whose young son, as you are aware, has just inherited his
grandfather's property. Well, it so happens that a couple of days ago,
in turning over some letters and other effects which had belonged to
my cousin, I came across a sort of rough diary which had been kept by
him during the last year of his life. In it there is a passage in
which he makes mention of a batch of rather important family papers
which, after he had fallen into disgrace at home, he had entrusted to
the keeping of Mr. Dare. Now, although I have sought for them high and
low, I have failed to find any trace of the papers in question, and am
consequently most anxious to ascertain from Mr. Dare what has become
of them; indeed, I think it most likely that they are still somewhere
in his keeping. Such is my reason, Sir James, for desiring an
interview with him. If it could be arranged for to-day I should esteem
it a great favor, as some very special business will take me from home
to-morrow, and the date of my return is altogether uncertain."
"My dear Miss Baynard, not a word more is needed. I will at once write
and give you a note, addressed to Captain Jeffs, the governor of the
jail, authorizing him to permit you to have a private interview with
the prisoner Dare. What a pity, what a damnable pity it is (begging
your pardon) that a young fellow with good family and with the
brilliant prospects which, I am given to understand, were once
his, should have brought his kettle of fish to such a market as he
seems to have done! But, as we make our bed, so must we lie on it.
And now---- But, dear me! dear me! here am I running on without ever
thinking to ask you what you will take in the way of refreshment.
That's one of the fruits of being an old bachelor, and of having no
womenfolk to keep me up to the mark and teach me not to forget the
minor courtesies of life."
In the result, Nell agreed to accept a glass of the baronet's
"particular old Madeira" and a biscuit. Not to have done as much as
that would have been to infringe the unwritten laws of north-country
hospitality.
Then said Sir James: "I had Lawyer Piljoy here t'other day. His
purpose in coming was to tell me all about the lost child and its
recovery, and a most amazing story it is; and, further, to consult
with me as to what steps, if any, it is advisable to take in the
affair. The first thing I did was to send for Staniforth, who was to
have been your uncle's other trustee, and then we three laid our heads
together. I need not bother you with reciting any of our arguments pro
and con, but in the end we agreed that it would not, for various
reasons, be advisable that any further proceedings should be taken in
the matter. The child has been restored, which is the main thing to be
borne in mind, and we felt pretty sure that no attempt would be made
to abduct him a second time."
"You say, Sir James, that the child has been restored, which is quite
true, but do you know whom we have to thank for it?"
"Haven't the remotest notion. I asked Piljoy how it came about, but he
couldn't tell me. He said that if anybody knew, you did, but that
beyond telling him it was the Honorable Mrs. B. who had abducted the
youngster (what a she-cat that woman must be!) you had favored him
with no particulars."
"It is to Mr. Geoffrey Dare, now a prisoner in Lanchester jail, that
the child's recovery is due. It had been arranged that he--the
boy--should be secretly transported to America, where we should never
have heard of him more, when Mr. Dare, having discovered what was
afoot, in the guise of a highwayman stopped the carriage in which he
was being carried off, and rescued him from the wretches to whose
charge he had been committed."
"Never heard of such a thing in my life, damme if I did! Um--um! I
crave your pardon, my dear, but strong feelings have a way of finding
their vent in strong language. And young Dare did that, did he? Well,
well, we must see what can be done for him when his trial comes on.
Such stuff as he seems made of is too good for the gallows. And now I
will write you the promised note. I'm afraid you'll be a little later
than the regulation hour for seeing prisoners, but maybe Jeffs will
strain a point for once in a way. At any rate, I'll ask him to do so."