So another fortnight passed away, and nothing happened to disturb the
usual peace of Ashacombe. Nothing was seen or heard of the idiot or
his mother nor of any one who corresponded to the description of the
deserter. The Corporal indeed realised that the tone of the village
towards him was not so friendly as before, but he set that down to the
preacher's influence and took little notice of it; for indeed he cared
little so long as he was with Lady Eleanor and the children, and could
count Colonel Fitzdenys among his friends.
But up at the Hall there were heavy hearts; for Lady Eleanor had
spoken, not for the first time, to Colonel George about sending Dick to
school, and he had answered that it was high time for him to go, as it
was a bad thing for boys to stay too long at home with their mothers;
and he said that he himself had been sent to school at six, whereas
Dick was already nine. He added that by chance he had heard of a good
school while passing through London, and would arrange matters for her
if she wished it. It was rather strange, by the way, that Colonel
George always happened by chance to know everything that could save
Lady Eleanor trouble. So with a sigh Lady Eleanor had assented that
Dick should go; and it had been settled that he should leave in a few
weeks. Dick was rather triumphant, Elsie rather jealous, the Corporal
in secret rather sad, and Lady Eleanor very melancholy.
So one day early in September Lady Eleanor promised the children that
for an unusual treat they should have a ride with the Corporal rather
further than usual on to the moor. She would not ride herself, for her
favourite horse was lame, but settled that she would drive them some
way up the valley in the afternoon, and there meet the Corporal, who
would go on before them leading the ponies, and ride with them on to
the moor. Accordingly on the appointed day the Corporal rode through
the village on old Billy, leading a pony on each side. Not a soul
wished him good-day, and the Corporal felt that all were making
unpleasant remarks--indeed he caught the words, "Dear! to think that
they sweet children should be trusted to such as he."
But he trotted on without taking any notice, up the valley to the
appointed meeting-place.
Lady Eleanor drove up rather late, for the horse-flies had been very
troublesome; and the children seeing the grey pony which drew them
covered all over with little flecks of blood, had constantly entreated
her to stop while they jumped down and knocked the flies off him. At
last, however, she came. The children mounted their ponies, Dick very
proud of a new saddle and stirrups to which he had been promoted after
leaping the bar bare-backed, and they rode away up a grass path to the
covert, kissing their hands as they went.
And then Lady Eleanor turned round and drove down the valley, feeling
very lonely and unhappy over the prospect of losing Dick. Her thoughts
wandered back to her first meeting with Richard Bracefort, the handsome
captain of Light Dragoons, her engagement, her wedding in a London
drawing-room, and her first visit to Bracefort Hall. Then had come
some two years of happy life in country-quarters. Those were pleasant
days to look back on, when her husband would come in from parade and
say that he believed he had in his troop as good officers and men as
were to be found in the service; while George Fitzdenys, the
lieutenant, would tell her that there were few such officers as her
husband to be found in the Army, and the little cornet, who was little
more than a boy, would be lavish in praise of both. Her maid again was
always repeating to her what Brimacott, then her husband's
soldier-servant, said of the devotion of the men to the captain.
Finally there came the crowning happiness of the birth of the children;
and she still remembered seeing a little knot of troopers gathered
round the diminutive creatures called Dick and Elsie.
But, very soon after, came the miserable day when the regiment was
ordered on active service, and she rode with her husband at the head of
his troop to the rendezvous. She could see him still as he appeared
mounted on Billy Pitt that day. Then followed the embarkation of men
and horses, and a desperate struggle with Billy, who objected to be
slung on board; and finally the last glimpse of sails disappearing over
the horizon and the long drive westward to Bracefort Hall. There old
Mr. Bracefort's delight over her arrival and over the children had
almost brought happiness back to her again; and cheerful letters from
Spain kept hope alive. But when the regiment reached the front, the
tragedy of war soon made itself felt. George Fitzdenys was badly
wounded in the first skirmish, two of the best troopers were killed and
others wounded; and, after that, twelve months of service seemed to cut
off member after member of what Fitzdenys had called the happiest troop
in the Army. The little cornet was shot dead, the troop-sergeant-major
drowned while crossing a treacherous ford, this trooper maimed for
life, that trooper--but she could not bear to think of it. And then
came the morning in August when old Mr. Bracefort had come in white and
trembling to break to her the news of Salamanca. It was well that in
those dreary days she had been obliged to look after him and give him
the comfort which he tried, but in vain, to give to her. She
remembered how, for all his courage, the old gentleman had drooped and
died after the death of his son, and how all ties with the old life
seemed to be severed, but for George Fitzdenys' letters of sympathy.
Then she recalled the arrival of Brimacott and Billy Pitt, which seemed
to mark the end of one stage of her life and the beginning of a new,
and yet to carry the last relics of the past continuously into the
present. All had been peaceful since then; the war had done its worst
for her, and her only link with Spain now lay in the messages, always
punctually delivered by old Lord Fitzdenys in person, that Captain
Fitzdenys sent his respectful service to her and hoped that she and the
children were well. She remembered how she had dreaded her first
meeting with Captain Fitzdenys after the peace, and how he seemed to
have realised that her whole life now lay in the children, and had made
friends with them at once. He had helped her through some difficulties
of business and had then rushed off to the campaign of Waterloo; and he
had come back safe and sound only to run away again after a few months
to India. And now he was back once more, in time to be of help to her;
but Dick must go to school and the happy home must be broken up again.
She sighed sadly, wondering where it all would end.
In this frame of mind she returned and sat in the hall waiting for the
children to come back. Six o'clock came, and there was no sign of
them. The long twilight faded slowly without a sound of hoofs on the
drive; seven o'clock struck; and she rang the bell and asked if nothing
had been seen of the Corporal and the children. The answer was
"Nothing;" and she waited in growing anxiety, listening for the trample
of the ponies or the sound of the children's voices, but hearing only
the ticking of the clock; until unable to endure the suspense, she went
out and walked first into the yard and then into the road by which they
should come. The night was fine, but overcast by light clouds of grey
mist, through which the moon pierced but very faintly. More than once
her hopes were raised by the sound of hoofs, and dashed to the ground
by the drone of wheels or by the appearance of a fat farmer jogging
home. She asked more than one if they had seen a man on a brown horse
and two children on ponies, but they only answered "no," and wished her
civilly good night. In this way the rumour passed through the village
that the Corporal and the children were missing; and many wondered, but
made no doubt that they would be back presently. As Lady Eleanor came
back to the house, the clock struck eight, and she returned to the Hall
with a deadly sinking at her heart. A quarter of an hour later, she
heard the Corporal's step, limping heavier than usual, and jumped to
her feet; and the Corporal came in, looking white and haggard and
weary, but braced himself to his usual erect attitude when he saw her,
and stood at attention.
Then he told his story quietly and clearly. They had ridden right up
to the highest point of a ridge, as they had designed, to look over the
moor to the coast of Wales; and while they were standing there a deer
had come by, and they had ridden down a little further to see what
should come next. And then the hounds had come up in full cry and only
half-a-dozen horsemen, among whom was Colonel Fitzdenys, anywhere near
them. Old Billy was so much excited that the Corporal could hardly
hold him, and at last the old horse fairly bolted away with him and the
two ponies after him. The Corporal had managed to pull up Billy, but
the two ponies had shot past him, both the children crying out with
delight, and while galloping on to catch them Billy had come down in a
boggy place, and the corporal supposed that he himself must have been a
bit stunned, for when he got up he found that he had let go of his rein
and that Billy and everybody else had disappeared. He had followed the
tracks of the horse as well as he could and had found him in the next
combe by the water, but had had a deal of trouble to catch him; and
though he had shouted and holloaed for the children he had neither seen
nor heard anything of them. Then as soon as he had ridden to the top
of the hill again, the mist came down thick and heavy, and there was no
seeing anything. So with some trouble he found his way back to the
road, being obliged to travel slowly, as the old horse had lamed
himself. He had left word at every house that he passed, and parties
had gone up the road in the valley with lanterns. "I hope and trust,
my Lady," said the Corporal in conclusion, "that Master Dick and Miss
Elsie have followed the hunt to the end, for his honour the colonel
will see to them. A man that I met on the road promised to carry a
message to Fitzdenys Court, but the deer was travelling fast, so I
doubt if the colonel will come home to-night unless so be as he must.
But, if you please, my Lady, I'll just take another horse and ride over
to the Court myself."
"Can nothing more be done?" said Lady Eleanor, calmed in spite of
herself by the Corporal's calmness and forethought.
"Nothing, I fear, my Lady," he answered sadly; "it's terrible thick out
over."
"But you are hurt," said Lady Eleanor, noticing the paleness of his
face, and the effort which it cost him to walk.
"It's nothing, my Lady," he said. "I'd sooner have lost both legs than
that this should have come." And he bowed and limped out; but within
an hour and a half he came galloping back with Colonel George, who had
met him on the road, and was hurrying over to say that though he had
ridden to the death of the hunted stag he had seen nothing of the
children then nor at any other time.
"Is the fog as thick on the moor as they say?" asked Lady Eleanor,
speaking bravely, though she was white to the lips.
"So thick that without a compass I could not have found my way across
it," said Colonel George. "It is right that you should know the truth.
But the farmers on the edge of the moor know what has happened and are
riding as far as they dare with whistles and horns--Brimacott saw to
that--and I propose to join them myself at once."
"I shall go with you," said Lady Eleanor, quietly.
Colonel George hesitated for a moment and then answered as quietly: "Be
it so; then you must ride my horse, which is cleverer on the moor than
any of yours. I will take my groom's, and you must let him have a
horse to take back some directions from me to Fitzdenys. Brimacott,
with your permission, shall watch the road by which you drove out this
morning, in case the ponies should find their way there."
Lady Eleanor soon came down in her habit, impatient to start, but found
Colonel George writing, with a tray of food and drink set down by him.
"You cannot start until you have eaten something," was all that he
said. "We may have a long ride and a long watch before us;" and Lady
Eleanor gulped down a few morsels, for she felt, while hardly knowing
why, that Colonel George had taken command and that she must obey
orders. In a few minutes he finished writing and sent the letter back
to Fitzdenys Court. Then he slung a field-glass over his shoulders;
and Lady Eleanor's heart sank low as she walked with him to the door,
for she perceived that he expected the search to be prolonged beyond
the night. "Courage," he said, as if reading her thoughts; and they
went out and rode away together into the dark.