Volume Two—Chapter Twenty Five.
Mellersh is Convinced.
“Well, Dick,” said Mellersh, as he sought Linnell out, after a stroll round the rooms in search of Cora Dean, “how long are you going to keep yourself on the gridiron?”
“I don’t understand you.”
“Then I shall not try to explain.”
“Have you seen anything?”
“N-no.”
“Don’t hesitate, man; you have?”
“No, Dick, no. Of course, I’ve seen a certain young lady, and I’ve seen Rockley hanging about.”
“Well, that proves nothing, does it?”
“My dear Dick, why should I waste my breath on a man in your condition?”
“My condition, you wretched old cynic? You never knew what it was to love.”
“Wrong. I have loved, and I am in love now.”
“You? You?”
“Yes, my boy, and with a woman who cares for somebody else; but I don’t go stalking about like a tragedy hero, and rolling my eyes and cursing the whole world. If I cannot have the moon, I shall not cry for it.”
“Hist! There goes Rockley.”
“Well, let him go.”
Richard Linnell made no reply, but quietly followed the Major.
“I mustn’t let them meet without me there,” thought Mellersh. “The scoundrel might hit him badly next time.”
He strode off after Richard Linnell, but missed him, and it was quite half an hour before they met again.
“I have been about the gate,” said Richard hoarsely. “There is no post-chaise there.”
“Then it is a hoax.”
“No; I cannot think that it is. Rockley is yonder, and he is watching about in a curious, restless way that means something.”
“Where is he?”
“Over there by the saloon window.”
“Oh, my dear Dick, I am hungry for a good hand at whist, and to win a little Philistine gold, and here you keep me hanging about after you, looking for a mare’s nest.”
“I can’t stop,” said Linnell. “Where shall I find you if I want you?”
“Here, on this seat, under this bush, smoking a cigar. No; I’ll stick by you, my lad.”
They went off together, and, going straight up to the window pointed out by Linnell, found that Rockley was not there.
“I left him there, I’ll swear,” said Linnell savagely. “No, don’t let us separate; I may want you.”
“Quite right; and I may want you,” replied Mellersh.
They walked hastily round, looking in at window after window, but there was no sign of Rockley. The throng of guests were dancing, playing, or conversing, and the scene was very brilliant; but the tall, dark officer of the dragoons was the only one of his party that they could not see.
“Mellersh,” exclaimed Linnell suddenly, “with all my watchfulness, I seem to have failed.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Claire!”
“Claire? Why, I saw her seated on that rout-chair five minutes ago.”
“Yes; but she has gone.”
“Quick, then—down to the gate! We must see them there.”
“Unless they have passed through,” said Linnell, with a groan. “I ought not to have left the entrance.”
“Don’t talk,” said Mellersh, almost savagely now, he seemed so moved from his ordinary calm. “I don’t want to think you are right, Dick, but I begin to be suspicious at last.”
They hurried down to the gate, where a knot of servants were chatting, the lights from the carriage-lamps glistening in polished panels and windows, and throwing up the gay liveries of the belaced footmen waiting.
“Has any one passed through here lately?” said Mellersh sharply.
“No, sir,” was chorused.
“Not a lady and gentleman?”
“No, sir—yes, about half an hour ago Colonel Lascelles and the doctor at the barracks went out together.”
“But no lady and gentleman separately or together?”
“No, sir.”
“No carriage?”
“No, sir,” said the footman who had acted as spokesman.
“Only wish they would,” grumbled a coachman from his box close by the gate.
“We are in time,” said Mellersh, and Linnell breathed more freely as he took up a position in the shade of a great clump of evergreens just inside the gate.
“Have you any plan?” said Mellersh, after a few minutes’ waiting, during which time the servants, gathered in a knot, were at first quiet, as if resenting the presence of the two gentlemen. Then their conversation began again, and the watchers were forgotten.
“Plan? Yes,” said Linnell. “I shall take her from him, and not leave her until she is in her father’s care.”
“Humph! That means mischief, Dick.”
“Yes; for him, Mellersh. I shall end by killing that man.”
Mellersh was silent, and the minutes glided by.
“I can’t bear this,” said Linnell at last. “I feel as if there is something wrong—that he has succeeded in getting her away. Mellersh! man! why don’t you speak? Here, come this way.”
Mellersh followed as his companion walked to the gate.
“Is there a servant of Mrs Pontardent’s here?”
“Yes, sir,” said a man holding a lantern, “I am.”
“Is there any other entrance to these grounds?”
“No, sir,” said the man sharply, and Linnell’s heart beat with joy. “Leastwise, sir, only the garden gate.”
“Garden gate?”
“Yes, sir; at the bottom of the broad walk.”
“Here—which way?”
“Right up through the grounds, sir; or along outside here, till you come to the lane that goes round by the back. But it’s always kept locked.”
“Stop here, Mellersh, while I go round and see,” whispered Linnell. “If I shout, come to me.”
“Yes; go on. It is not likely.”
They went outside together, past the wondering group of servants, and then separating, Linnell was starting off when Mellersh ran to him.
“No blows, Dick,” he whispered, “Be content with separating them.”
Linnell nodded, and was starting again when a man ran up out of the darkness, and caught Mellersh hastily by the arm.
“Seen a post-chaise about here, sir?”
“Post-chaise, my man?”
“Yes, sir—four horses—was to have been waiting hereabouts. Lower down. Haven’t heard one pass?”
“No,” said Linnell quickly; “but what post-chaise? Whose? Speak man!”
“Who are you?” said the man roughly.
“Never mind who I am,” cried Linnell. “Tell me who was that post-chaise waiting for?”
The man shook him off with an oath, and was starting again on his search, when about fifty yards away there was the tramp of horses, the rattle and bump of wheels; and then, as by one consent, the three men ran towards the spot, they caught a faint glimpse of a yellow chaise turning into the main road; then there was the cracking of the postboys’ whips, and away it went over the hard road at a canter.
“Too late!” groaned the man, as he ran on, closely followed by Linnell and Mellersh.
“Too late!” groaned Linnell; but he ran on, passing the man, who raced after him, though, and for about a quarter of a mile they kept almost together, till, panting with breathlessness and despair, and feeling the utter hopelessness of overtaking the chaise on foot, Linnell turned fiercely on the runner and grasped him by the throat.
“You scoundrel!” he panted. “You knew of this. Who’s in that chaise?”
“Curse you! don’t stop me. Can’t you see I’m too late?” cried the man savagely.
“Linnell! Are you mad?” cried Mellersh, coming up.
“Linnell!—are you Linnell?—Richard Linnell?” panted the man, ceasing his struggles.
“Yes. Who are you?”
“Don’t waste time, man,” groaned the other. “We must stop them at any cost. Did you see them go? Who is it Major Rockley has got there?”
“A lady we know,” said Mellersh quickly. “Who are you?”
“The drunken fool and idiot who wanted to stop it,” groaned Bell. “Here, Linnell,” he said, “what are you going to do?”
“The man’s drunk, and fooling us, Mellersh,” cried Linnell excitedly. “Quick! Into the town and let’s get a post-chaise. They are certain to take the London Road.”
“No,” cried Bell excitedly; “he would make for Weymouth. Tell me this, though, gentlemen,” he cried, clinging to Linnell’s arm. “I am drunk, but I know what I am saying. For God’s sake, speak: is it Claire Denville?”
“Who are you?” cried Mellersh sharply. “Stand off, or I’ll knock you down. It is the Major’s man, Dick, and he’s keeping us back to gain time. I didn’t know him at first.”
“No: I swear I’m not,” cried the dragoon, in a voice so full of anguish, that they felt his words were true. “Tell me, is it Miss Denville?”
“Yes.”
“Curse him! I’ll have his life,” cried the man savagely. “This way, quick!”
“What are you going to do?” cried Linnell, as Bell set off at a sharp run towards the main street of the town.
“Come with me and see.”
“No: I shall get a post-chaise and four.”
“And give them an hour’s start,” cried the dragoon. “Horses, man, horses.”
“Where can we get them quickly?”
“In Major Rockley’s stable, curse him!” was the reply.
In five minutes they were at the stable, and the dragoon threw open the door.
“Can you saddle a horse?” he panted, as they entered the place, dimly lit by a tallow candle in a swinging horn lantern.
“Yes—yes,” was the reply.
“Quick then. Everything’s ready.”
Each ran to a horse, the head-stalls were cast loose, and the order of the well-appointed stable stood them in such good stead that, everything being at hand, in five minutes the three horses were saddled and bridled, and being led out, champing their bits.
“We’ve no spurs. Where are the whips?”
“They want no whips,” cried the dragoon excitedly; “a shake of the rein and a touch of the heel. They’re chargers, gentlemen. Can you ride, Mr Linnell?”
“Yes,” was the answer; and as it was given Linnell’s foot was painfully raised to the stirrup.
He stopped though, and laid his hand upon the dragoon’s shoulder.
“The London Road?” he said, looking him full in the eyes.
“The Weymouth Road, I tell you.”
Another half minute and they were mounted and clattering down the lane to turn into the main street, up which the three sleek creatures pressed, hanging close together, and snorting, and rattling their bits as they increased their stride.
“Steady—steady—a carriage,” cried Mellersh; and they opened out to ride on either side of a chariot with flashing lamps, and as they passed they had a glimpse of Lady Drelincourt being escorted home from the party by Sir Matthew Bray.
“Steady!” cried Mellersh again, as they came in sight of the cluster of lamps and carriages by Mrs Pontardent’s gates; and but for his insistance there would have been a collision, for another carriage came out and passed them, the wheel just brushing Linnell’s leg in the road narrowed by a string of carriages drawn up to the path.
“Now we’re clear,” said Mellersh; and they cantered by the wall, past the lane in which the chaise had been waiting, past a few more houses and the ragged outskirts, always mounting, and then bearing off to the left as the way curved, till there it lay, the broad chalk western road, open, hard, and ready to ring to their horses’ beating hoofs.
“Now then, forward!” cried the dragoon hoarsely.
“At a trot!” shouted Mellersh.
“No, no; gallop!” roared the dragoon, and his horse darted ahead.
“Halt!” shouted Mellersh in a ringing voice, for he had not forgotten old field-practice; and the three horses stopped short.
“Listen!” he continued, in a voice of authority; “they’ve half an hour’s start nearly, and we shall not overtake them this stage. We must not blow our horses at the beginning. A steady trot for the first few miles, and then forward at a canter. It will be a long race.”
“Right, sir,” cried the dragoon. “He’s right, Mr Linnell. Take the lead, sir; my head’s on fire.”
“Forward!” cried the Colonel; and away they went through the dark night, but with the chalky road making their way clear.
After a mile or two the rapid swinging trot of the chargers grew into a regular military canter, and that, by an imperceptible change, into a rapid gallop that was now kept up, for the excitement of the chase told upon Mellersh, and his ideas of prudence as to husbanding the horses’ powers were swept away as if by the keen wind that dashed by their ears.
“I ought to check him,” said Mellersh, as he toned down his excitement for the minute; and then—“No, I cannot, for I must take that scoundrel by the throat.”