CHAPTER III.—THE EVENTS OF A NIGHT.
Down-stairs in the public room, the faithful Derrick is engaged in a seemingly interesting conversation with mine host Hobb Dipping and two or three other jolly good fellows, who are all drinking at his expense. No sign yet had the attendant discovered that had served to arouse his suspicions. No word had been spoken which in any way showed that the natives of this desolate place were anxious to know more about his master or himself. A suspicion of danger often arouses our fears and doubts when there is perhaps the smallest occasion for either. The honest countrymen troubled themselves much less about the matter than even the worthy host, who was happily indifferent to everything but the fact that Mr Morton and his servant were rare and profitable customers. The lumbering knot of labourers at length departs, and mine host locks and bars the door; while Derrick, not a little fatigued with the harassing events of the day, is left standing alone, surveying a row of empty benches which the retiring fenmen have just quitted. Burly Hobb comes back puffing and blowing, his red face glowing like the setting sun, and his bald skull spotted with perspiration through the exertion he has undergone in securing the strongly built outer door.
‘Landlord, I’m going to bed,’ says Derrick, who has suddenly returned to his original gruffness.
‘Very good, sir,’ is the reply of the host, who forthwith trims and lights an atom of a lamp which he fishes out of a cupboard by the fireplace. ‘I hope you will sleep well, sir.’
Derrick’s eyes are watching the innkeeper from under his beetling brows, and he answers gruffly: ‘I hope so.’
‘I’ve heard it said,’ goes on the loquacious host, ‘that a good sleep is worth a fortune to an over-tired man. I see nothing to prevent you sleeping well here, sir.’
‘Not much likelihood of being roused in the night, eh?’ remarks the attendant.
‘Why, no, sir,’ answers Dipping, wondering what motive his guest could have in asking such a question. ‘There’s no one to disturb you here, unless, indeed, it be your master himself.’
‘Many visitors here?’ inquired Derrick, as old Hobb leads the way up the dusky, creaking staircase with the flickering lamp in his hand.
‘None at all, sir,’ replied the landlord in a melancholy tone. ‘There never is any one here—leastways, very, very seldom. I haven’t had a visitor stopping in this house for a matter of—I can’t rightly say how long; but I know it’s a mortal long while, for since my poor wife died’——
‘Is this my room?’ interrupts Derrick, as the innkeeper halts before a solid-looking black door at the head of the staircase.
‘It is,’ answers old Dipping. ‘You are pretty close to your master, sir.’
‘I know,’ is all that the attendant deigns to say, as he pushes open the door and enters with the light, leaving the landlord to stumble down-stairs in the dark as best he may. Having carefully fastened the door, Derrick sets down the light, and approaches the window with the intention of getting a breath of fresh air. The casement is somewhat hard to unfasten, and when at length he succeeds in opening it, the lamp which he has brought is blown out under the sudden influence of a gust of air which is admitted. No matter; he does not want it. The night-breeze is cool and refreshing, a favourable contrast to the hot stifling room below, and Derrick, as he leans upon the window-ledge, begins to appear more contented and at ease. All afterglow of the twilight has long disappeared, and the moon is shining with a sickly light upon a low layer of mist which covers the marshy flats. Above the thin watery fog which has arisen from the sluggish stream and enshrouded the village as in a winding-sheet, the great shattered tower of the monastery rises ghostlike and dim, while the silence of the vast solitude is unbroken by a single sound. Even Derrick is not insensible to the peculiar beauty and stillness of the scene, and he lounges there, humming a tune, and watching the silvery trickle upon the watery marsh long after mine host has retired to rest. At length he closes the casement and divests himself of his heavy boots. Tired as he is, he does not attempt to remove his clothes. The man had seen a deal of sharp service, and experience had taught him long ago that in cases where he might be wanted at any moment, it were better to sleep in them. He merely places his pistols within reach, and then throwing himself upon the bed, endeavours to sleep.
Every one knows what it is to arrive at that dreamy state of semi-unconsciousness when the weary senses, failing at once to engage the attentions of the drowsy god, find a sort of relief in a long train of most disconnected thought. It was thus with Derrick. The fatigues of the day had proved too much for even that hardy individual, so that, instead of falling at once into a sound refreshing sleep, he was drowsily conning over the different events which had occurred, his rambling imagination colouring them with a variety of indistinct pictures and incidents. These weird fancies at length grew fainter and fainter, and the attendant was fast sinking into slumber, when suddenly, and as it seemed without a cause, he awoke. Through the casement the moon was staring down upon him like a pale still face, and the greater part of his recumbent person lay bathed in its cold light. All was still; there seemed not the slightest reason why he should be thus aroused. The silence was profound, and the very beating of Derrick’s heart sounded like a hammer thumping time in his head. Scarcely knowing what he does, he sits up on the edge of his bed and listens. Yes; he was not mistaken, there seemed to be a faint noise approaching the old inn—a low measured tramp. The hammer-like beating grows louder as Derrick, with every nerve strained to the utmost pitch, silently rises and once more opens the casement. There can be no mistake now; some persons are approaching; and in that low tramp, distant as it is, he recognises the marching of a body of soldiers. He closes the window softly, and taking his heavy riding-boots in his hand, unfastens the door, and glides softly along the gallery towards his master’s apartment. Owing to the pitchy darkness in which the gallery is enveloped, he experiences some difficulty in groping his way without stumbling; but reaching the further end at last, he feels his way to his master’s door and gives the required signal. It is answered with unexpected suddenness, the door being instantly thrown open, and Sir Carnaby appearing on the threshold. He is fully dressed, like Derrick; he has not even removed his outer clothing, and in his hand is a short broad-bladed knife. The saddle-bags lie upon the table, and a portion of their contents, discernible by a dim night-light, is scattered about; but the black box is gone.
In a very few words, the trusty henchman explains what is the reason of his coming, and urges his master to hold himself in readiness to escape, should it be necessary. Sir Carnaby looks at him while he speaks as if he does not quite understand his hurried explanation; but when the attendant has finished, he looks around the room with an anxious air, and then says: ‘If it be so, Derrick, we must get off somehow as quickly as we can. This window, I think, looks towards the back of the house. Can you not manage to descend into the courtyard and get out our horses? Lead them down the bank of the stream towards that tall beacon by the dike. You must remember the place; we remarked it as we passed the mill on our journey here.’
‘I remember the place, Sir Carnaby; but I am not going to make off there, and leave you alone here.’
‘I shall be safe enough, I tell you, Derrick,’ said the baronet as he hastily motioned to the attendant to go. ‘I cannot come yet; I cannot; it is impossible.’
‘I will wait below, then,’ is the stubborn reply of his servant, who is already half out of the window.
‘Derrick,’ says Sir Carnaby, laying his hand upon the attendant’s shoulder, ‘do what I tell you. I cannot come now; and if you wait below for me, as you say, we shall both be discovered. More lives than our own depend upon your obeying me at this moment. Go, as I tell you, and wait for me by the beacon; and I will join you as soon as I possibly can.’
The man clasps his master’s hand, and, with something like tears in his eyes, makes his way to the ground. The fugitive baronet has no emotion expressed on his countenance, for he fears not for himself; his thoughts are centred upon that black box which has now so strangely disappeared. With the broad-bladed knife still in his hand, he goes towards a corner of the room, kneels down, and appears to busy himself with the planking of the floor.
Fortunately for himself, Derrick had found his way to the shed where the horses had been stabled; and his efforts to saddle and bring them out had proved successful. The great gates leading out of the courtyard of the old inn were fastened; but this did not deter the attendant’s movements for an instant. Leading the horses through a gap in the fence at the back of the Saxonford Arms, he crossed a small cultivated inclosure, and emerged from the cover of a hedge upon the open highway. Stopping for a moment to listen, he plainly distinguished the measured tramp of soldiers approaching the inn, mingled with the low peculiar clank of arms and accoutrements. One circumstance which particularly alarmed Derrick was that the sound plainly came from the direction in which he had to go. There was no time for thought, however; the warning tramp which broke the stillness of the night came nearer and nearer, and over the old timber bridge which crossed the stream came a dim file of figures—eleven of them. Derrick could easily count the number as they passed over the bridge and came straight towards the old Saxonford Arms, their fixed bayonets flashing and glittering in the moonlight.
There was but one course he could take; he must move forward and pass them. No opportunity for making a detour, for the military were not one hundred yards from the house, and the attendant knew that he had been seen. Muttering a prayer for his master’s safety, Derrick put the horses to a slow trot, and advanced towards the soldiers with a feeling of fear at his heart which he had never before experienced. He had not covered half the distance before a sharp word of command came from the front, and a line was drawn up across the road, evidently with the intention of disputing his further progress. A dash for it now; delay meant capture both for himself and his master. Digging spurs into his horse’s sides, the attendant laid the flat of his broad blade over the flanks of Sir Carnaby’s charger which he led, and tore down the road like a whirlwind. It was all over in a minute. A sheet of flame shot forth as the bold horseman broke through the line, and then, without a check, he found himself ascending the steep bank close against the bridge. The soldiers, however, who had taken the initiative, had no intention of letting their suspected quarry escape. Before Sir Carnaby’s servant could head the bank, he was surrounded, and a hoarse cry to stop and surrender came from his pursuers. In this they had mistaken their man. Derrick entertained no such idea. He indeed hoped that the firing would alarm his master, and allow him time to make his retreat in safety; but not a thought had he of yielding. Once more clapping spurs to his horse, and striking right and left with his drawn blade, the attendant partially succeeded in clearing himself from the press.
At this moment, a random shot from one of the military dropped his master’s horse, which he had been leading. Derrick had scarcely time to disengage his arm from the bridle before the poor animal went crashing down, breaking the worm-eaten railing of the bridge like matchwood, and throwing one of his assailants headlong into the stream below. In the confusion, Derrick received a bayonet-wound in the left arm, and he was nearly pulled from his saddle; but shaking himself free with almost superhuman strength, he applied his spurs, and galloped across the old bridge for dear life.
Although there appeared to be no attempt at pursuit, Derrick did not judge it prudent to ride straight for the spot where he hoped to meet his master. After making a considerable circuit, the trusty henchman, faithful to the last, reined in his reeking steed, and gazed across the flat misty space in the direction of the Saxonford Arms. The silence, however, was as complete as when he had sat at that open window looking over the fen. Not a soul was anywhere near him. Putting his horse once more in motion, the man rode slowly along the bank until he reached the place of rendezvous. It was as he both feared and suspected. Sir Carnaby was not there. He must wait. The clear night clouded, and the hours passed by, but yet his master came not. Derrick might wait until the crack of doom, but he never would meet his master again on earth. The devoted courage of the servant was useless now, for, pierced by a musket bullet, Sir Carnaby Vincent lay lifeless across the stairs of the old Saxonford Arms.