THE ADVENTURE IN THE WOOD
A loud roll of drums beneath my windows, the inspiriting music of
trumpets, the lively measured stamp of feet. The troops with General
Amherst at their head were marching down St. James's Street on their
way to embark for Canada, and the tune to which they marched sang in
my head that day as I rode out of London. The beat of my horse's hoofs
kept time to it, and at Brentford a girl singing in a garden of
apple-trees threw me a snatch of a song to fit to it.
She sang, and I caught the words up as I rode past. The sparkle of
summer was in the air, and an Indian summer, if you will, at my heart.
I slept that night at Hartley Row, and the next at Down House, and the
third at a little inn some miles beyond Dorchester. A brook danced at
the foot of the house, and sang me to sleep with the song I had heard
at Brentford, and, as I lay in bed, I could see out of my window the
starlight and the quiet fields white with a frost of dew and thickets
of trees very black and still; and towards sunset upon the fourth day,
I suddenly reined in my horse to one side and sat stone-still. To my
left, the road ran straight and level for a long way, and nowhere upon
it was there a living thing; on each side stretched fields and no one
moved in them, and no house was visible. That way I had come, and I
had remarked upon the loneliness. To my right, the road ran forward
into a thick wood, and vanished beneath a roof of overhanging boughs.
It was the aspect of that wood which took my breath away, and it
surprised me because it was familiar. There was a milestone which I
recognised just where the first tree overhung the road; there was a
white gate in the hedge some twenty paces this side of the milestone.
I knew that too. Just behind where I sat there should be three tall
poplars ranged in a line like sentinels, the wood's outposts; I
turned, and in the field behind me, the poplars reached up against the
sky. I had no doubt they would be there, yet the sight of them fairly
startled me. I had seen them--yes, but never in my life had I ridden
along this road before. I had seen them only on the map in my lodging
at St. James's Street.
The sun dropped down behind the trees, and the earth turned grey. I
sat there in the saddle with I know not what superstitious fancies
upon me. I could not but remember that the traveller had ridden into
the wood, and had not ridden out and down the open bank of grass upon
the other side. "What if his horse has stumbled?" Clutterbuck had
asked. "What if he is lying at the roadside under the trees?" I could
see that picture very clearly, and at last, very clearly too, the
rider's face. I looked backwards down the road with an instinctive
hope that some other traveller might be riding my way in whose company
I might go along. But the long level slip of white was empty. All the
warmth seemed to have gone from the world with the dropping of the
sun. A sad chill twilight crept over the lonely fields. A shiver
caught and shook me; I gathered up the reins and rode slowly among the
trees, where already it was night.
I rode at first in the centre of the highway, and found the clatter of
my horse's hoofs a very companionable sound. But in a little the
clatter seemed too loud, it was too clear a warning of my approach, it
seemed to me in some way a provocation of danger. I drew to one side
of the road where the leaves had drifted and made a carpet whereon I
rode without noise. But now the silence seemed too eerie--I heard, and
started at, the snapping of every twig. I strained my ears to catch
the noise of creeping footfalls, and I was about to guide my horse
back to the middle of the road, when I turned a corner suddenly, and
saw in front of me in a space where the forest receded and let the sky
through, lights gleaming in a window.
I set spurs to the horse and galloped up to the door. The house was an
inn; the landlord was already at the threshold, and in a very short
while I was laughing at my fears over my supper in the parlour.
"Am I your only guest to-night?" I asked.
"There is one other, sir," returned the landlord as he served me, and
as he spoke I heard a footstep in the passage. The door was pushed
open, and a young man politely bowed to me in the entrance.
"You have a very pretty piece of horseflesh, sir," said he, as he came
into the room. "I took the liberty of looking it over a minute ago in
the stables."
"It is not bad," said I. There was never a man in the world who did
not relish praise of his horse, and I warmed to my new acquaintance.
"We are both, it seems, sleeping here to-night, and likely enough we
are travelling the same road to-morrow."
The young man shook his head.
"I could wish indeed," said he, "that we might be fellow-travellers,
but though it may well be we follow the same road, we do not, alas,
travel in the same way," and he showed me his boots which were thickly
covered with dust. "My horse fell some half-a-dozen miles from here
and snapped a leg. I must needs walk to-morrow so far as where I trust
to procure another--that is to say," he continued, "if I do not have
to keep my bed, for I have taken a devilish chill this evening," and
drawing up his chair to the empty fireplace, he crouched over an
imaginary fire and shivered.
Now since he sat in this attitude, I could not but notice his boots,
and I fell to wondering what in the world he had done with his spurs.
For he wore none, and since he had plainly not troubled to repair the
disorder of his dress, it seemed strange that he should have gone to
the pains of removing his spurs. However, I was soon diverted from
this speculation by the distress into which Mr. Featherstone's cold
threw him. Featherstone was his name, as he was polite enough to tell
me in the intervals of coughing, and I told him mine in return. At
last his malady so increased that he called for the landlord, and
bidding him light a great fire in his bedroom said he must needs go to
bed.
"I trust, however," he continued politely to me, "that you, Mr.
Berkeley, will prove a Samaritan, and keep me company for a while. For
I shall not sleep, upon my word I shall not sleep a wink," and he was
so positive in his assurances that, though I was myself sufficiently
tired, I thought it no more than kindness to fall in with his wishes.
Accordingly I followed him into his bedroom, where he lay in a great
canopied bed, with a big fire blazing upon the hearth, and a bottle of
rum with a couple of glasses upon a table at the bedside.
"It is an ague," said he, "which I caught upon the Gambia River, and
from which I have ever since suffered many inconveniences;" he poured
out the rum into the glasses, and wished me with great politeness all
prosperity.
It was no doubt, also, because he had voyaged on the Gambia River that
he suffered no inconvenience from the heat of the room. But what with
the hot August night, and the blazing fire, and the closed window, I
became at once so drowsy that I could hardly keep my eyes open, and I
wished him good-night.
"But you will not go," said he. "We are but this moment acquainted,
and to-morrow we shall wave a farewell each to the other. Let us, Mr.
Berkeley, make something of the meanwhile, I beg you."
I answered him that I did not wish to appear churlish, but that I
should most certainly appear so if I fell asleep while we talked,
which, in spite of myself, I was very likely to do.
"But I have a bottle of salts here," said he, with a laugh, as he
reached out of bed and fumbled with his coat. "I have a bottle of
salts here which will infallibly persuade you from any thought of
sleep," and he drew out from the pocket of his coat a pack of cards.
"Well, what do you say?" he continued, as I did not move.
"It is some while since I handled a card," said I slowly.
"A game of picquet," he suggested.
"It is a good game," said I.
He flipped the edges of the cards with his thumb. I drew nearer to the
bed.
"Well, one game then," said I.
"To be sure," said he, shuffling the cards.
"And the stakes must be low."
"I hate a gambler myself."
He cut the cards. I sat down on the bedside and dealt them.
"It is your elder," said I.
He looked disconsolately at his hand.
"Upon my word," said he. "Deuce take me if I know what to discard. I
have no hand for picquet at all, though as luck will have it I have
very good putt cards."
I glanced through my hand.
"I have better putt cards than you," said I.
"It is not likely," he returned.
"I'll make a wager of it," I cried.
"Your horse," said he, leaning up on his elbow. He spoke a trifle too
eagerly, he sprang up on his elbow a trifle too quickly. I looked
again through my hand, and I laid the cards down on the counterpane.
"No," said I quietly. "It is very likely you are right: I have two
treys and an ace, but you may have two treys and a deuce."
"Why, this is purely magical," he exclaimed, with the most natural
burst of laughter imaginable. "Two treys and a deuce! Those are indeed
the cards I hold."
He fell back again in the bed, and we played our single game of
picquet. He won the game. Indeed, he could not but win it, for I paid
no attention whatever to the cards which I held, or to how I should
draw, or--and this perhaps was my most important omission--to how Mr.
Featherstone shuffled and dealt. The truth is, I had suddenly become
very curious about Mr. Featherstone. I had recalled his great
politeness of manner. I remarked his face, which was of an almost
girlish delicacy. I reflected that here was a man in a great hurry to
travel by the same road as myself, and I remembered how I had learned
that trick by which he had tried to outwit me of my horse. Even as it
was I had all but fallen into the trap. I should most certainly have
done so had not Lieutenant Clutterbuck once explained it to me on a
particular occasion. I remembered that occasion very clearly as I sat
on the bed playing this game of picquet by the light of a single
candle, and I wondered whether I could fit Mr. Featherstone with
another name.
"I am afraid," said he, "that this is a capote," as I played my last
card.
"But the loss is trifling," said I, "and I have kept my horse."
"Very true," said he, whistling softly between his teeth. "You have
kept your horse," and as I wished him good-night, he added, "you will
be careful to shut the door behind you, won't you?"
But before the words were out of his mouth, he was seized with so
violent a paroxysm of shivering that he could barely stammer out the
end of the sentence.
"These infernal fevers," said he, with a groan.
"I notice, however," I returned, "that they are intermittent," and
latching the door as he again requested me, I went off to my own room.
I could not but wonder what trickery the fire was intended to help,
for until the last fit of the ague had seized him, he had given no
sign of any sickness since he had brought out the cards. However,
there was a more important question to occupy my mind. I had little
doubt that Mr. Featherstone was Cullen Mayle: I had little doubt that
he was hurrying as fast as he could to the Scillies, since he had
received no answer to the message which he sent with the negro. But
should I tell him of the men who watched for his coming, keeping their
watches as at sea? On the one side their presence meant danger to
Cullen Mayle, it could hardly mean anything else; and since it meant
danger he should be warned of it.
On the other hand, the watchers might have tired of their watching and
given it up as profitless. Besides I was by no means sure in what
light Cullen himself was to be regarded. Was his return to Tresco, a
prospect to be welcomed or deplored? Did he come as a friend to that
distracted girl alone in the lonely house by the sand? I could not
answer these questions. I knew Cullen to be a knave, I knew that the
girl cared for him, and these two items made the sum of my knowledge.
I turned over in my bed and fell asleep, thinking that my course might
be clear to me in the morning.
And in the morning it was clear. I woke up with a mind made up. I had
a horse; Cullen travelled on foot; since he had come so far on foot,
it was not likely that he had the money to purchase a horse, for the
story of the stumble and the broken leg I entirely disbelieved, and
with the best of reasons. I had travelled myself along that road
yesterday, and I had passed no disabled horse upon the way. I had
therefore the advantage of Cullen. I would journey on without saying a
word to him of my destination. I would on arriving take council with
Dick Parmiter and Helen Mayle and seek to fathom the trouble. I should
still have time to cross back to the mainland and hinder Cullen from
attempting the passage.
Thus I planned to do, but the plan was never put to the test of
action. For while I was still dressing, a loud hubbub and confusion
filled the house. I opened my door. The noise came from the direction
of Cullen's room. I hastily slipped on my coat and ran down the
passage. I could hear Cullen's voice very loud above the rest, a woman
or two protesting with a shrill indignation and the landlord trying to
make all smooth, though what the bother was about I could not
distinguish.
It seemed that the whole household was gathered in the room, though
Mr. Featherstone still lay abed. The moment that I appeared in the
doorway,
"Ah! here's a witness," he cried. "Mr. Berkeley, you were the last to
leave me last night. You closed the door behind you? I was particular
to ask you to close the door?"
"I remember that very well," said I, "for I was wondering how in the
world you could put up with the door closed and a blazing fire."
"There!" cried Featherstone turning to the landlord. "You hear? Mr.
Berkeley is a gentleman beyond reproach. He shut the door behind him,
and this morning I find it wide open and my breeches gone. There is a
thief, sir, in your inn, and we travellers must go on our way without
breeches. It is the most inconsiderate theft that ever I heard of."
"As for the breeches, sir," began the landlord.
"I don't care a button for them," cried Featherstone. "But there was
money in the breeches' pockets. Fifteen guineas in gold, and a couple
of bills on Mr. Nossiter, the banker at Exeter."
"The bills can be stopped," said the landlord. "We are but eighteen
miles from Exeter."
"But how am I to travel those miles; do you expect me to walk there in
my shirt tails. No, I stay here in bed until my breeches are found,
and, burn me, if I don't eat up everything in the house," and
immediately he began to roar out for food. "I will have chops at once,
and there's a great sirloin of beef, and bring me a tankard of small
ale."
Then he turned again to me, and said pathetically,
"It is not the breeches I mind, though to be sure I shall cut a
ridiculous figure on the highroad; no, nor the money, though I have
not a stiver left. But I woke up this morning in the sweetest
good-humour, and here am I in a violent passion at nine o'clock in the
morning, and my whole day spoilt. It is so discouraging," and he lay
back upon the pillow as though he would have wept.
The landlord offered him his Sunday breeches. They were of red cloth,
and a belted earl might wear them without shame.
"But not without discomfort," grumbled Mr. Featherstone, contemplating
the landlord who was of a large figure. "They will hang about me in
swathes like a petticoat."
"And as for the fifteen guineas," said I, "my purse is to that amount
at your disposal."
"That is a very gentlemanly offer, Mr. Berkeley," said he, "from one
stranger to another. But I have a horror of borrowing. I cannot accept
your munificence. No, I will walk in my host's red cloth breeches as
far as Rockbere, which to be sure is no more than twelve miles, quite
penniless, but when I reach my friends, upon my word, I will make such
a noise about this inn as will close its doors, strike me dead and
stiff, if don't."
His threat had its effect. The landlord, after the usual protestations
that such an incident had never occurred before, that he had searched
the house even to the servants' boxes, and that he could make neither
head nor tail of the business, wound up his harangue with an offer of
five guineas.
"It is all I have in the house, sir," said he, "and of course I shall
charge you neither for food nor lodging."
"Of course not," said Mr. Featherstone indignantly. "Well, I must make
the best of it, but oh! I woke up with so happy a disposition towards
the world;" and dismissing the women he got up and dressed. The
landlord fetched the five guineas and his red cloth breeches, which
Featherstone drew on.
"Was ever a man so vilely travestied?" he said. "Sure, I shall be
taken for a Hollander. That is hard for a person of some elegance,"
and he tied his cravat and went grumbling from the room.
"This is a great misfortune, sir, for me," said my host. "I have lived
honest all my days. There is no one in the house who would steal; on
that I would stake my life. I can make nothing of it."
"Mr. Featherstone is quite recovered from his ague," said I slowly. I
crossed over to the empty fireplace heaped with the white ashes of the
logs which had blazed there the night before.
"The fire no doubt did him some benefit."
"That is precisely what I was thinking," said I, and I knelt down on
the hearth-rug and poked amongst the ashes with the shovel. Suddenly,
the landlord uttered an exclamation and threw up the window. I heard
the clatter of a horse's hoofs upon the road. I got up from my knees
and rushed to the window. As I leaned out Mr. Featherstone rode
underneath and he rode my horse.
"Stop!" I shouted out.
"Mr. Berkeley," he cried, airily waving his hand as he rode by, "you
may hold very good putt cards, but you haven't kept your horse."
"You damned thief!" I yelled, and he turned in his saddle and put out
his tongue. It is, if you think of it, a form of repartee to which
there is no reply. In any case I doubt if I could have made any reply
which would have reached his ears. For he had set the horse to a
gallop and was far down the road.
I went back to the hearth where the landlord joined me. We both knelt
down and raked away the ashes.
"What's that?" said I, pointing to something blackened and scorched.
The landlord picked it up.
"It is a piece of corduroy."
"And here's a bone button," said I. "The ague was a sham, the fire a
device to rob you. He came here without a penny piece and burnt his
breeches last night. He has robbed you, he has robbed me, and he will
reach the Scilly Islands first. How far is it to Rockbere?"
"Twelve miles."
"I must walk those twelve miles?"
"Yes."
"Will I get a horse there?"
"It is doubtful."
"He has a day's start then at the least."
So after all, though the horse did not stumble, nor the rider lie
quiet by the roadside, he did not ride out of the forest at a gallop,
and down the green bank into the open space beyond.