‘Only one or two persons, sir,’ answered Dipping—‘I didn’t want the tale to get abroad—an’ when they see it, they turned it over just the same as you’re a-doing now: they none of ’em could make it out.’
‘What became of the other papers?’ suddenly demanded Ainslie, looking up, and desisting from the occupation of gnawing his thumb-nail.
‘There were none others as I know of, sir,’ replied old Dipping. ‘A pair of saddle-bags, I think, was took—my memory ain’t quite so good as it used to be. But this I do know for certain—there were no papers found except this one little bit. The soldiers swore hard, and said that the man who got off had taken ’em with him.’
‘Did it never occur to you that the attendant acted most strangely on that occasion?’ asked Ainslie.
‘Ay, sir, I have thought of that many a time,’ answered mine host, scratching his head. ‘It was a queer thing for him to do—to be sure it was. The man certainly was not running away cowardly-like, to leave his master in the lurch; he would never have hampered himself with the other horse in the way he did, and then go and cut his way through the middle of the redcoats. He might have got off t’ other way through the village without riskin’ his blessed neck. It’s my opinion, sir, an’ always was, that he did it to take the fire off on himself, while Sir Carnaby got away over Long Fen on foot. Very creditable it must ha’ been on him, sir; an’ had he drawn the redcoats away for a few minutes longer, the poor gentleman would have been clean away. He was nearly down at the foot of the stairs when they challenged him. It being dark, and getting no answer back, they blazed away. I let the soldiers in myself, or they would have beat the door down. But when they called out they would fire at the gentleman if he did not speak, I yelled to ’em not to do murder in my house. But it were too late,’ said old Hobb, sternly knitting his brows—‘it were too late. God help me! what could I do? I couldn’t stop it.’
‘It was no fault of yours, my man!’ said Ainslie, seeing that the old fellow faltered; ‘and do not imagine for an instant that you will get into any trouble by telling me all this. To set your mind easy on that score, I may as well inform you at once that Sir Carnaby Vincent, who so unfortunately lost his life here, was my uncle.’ Reginald paused for a moment to watch the effect which this announcement had upon his listener, and then went on once more. ‘The affair,’ said he, ‘which brings me here is of the greatest secrecy, and whatever consequences may result from my taking this step, I strictly require of you that no word of it shall ever be mentioned hereafter.’
‘Trust me for that, sir,’ returned the landlord: ‘it shall never pass my lips to any one.’
Directing mine host to draw his chair nearer to the fire, Reginald Ainslie commenced a narration which is sufficiently long to warrant its being the subject of another chapter.
CHAPTER VII.—REGINALD’S STORY.
‘My father,’ said the lieutenant, ‘was a gentleman of great property, and a close friendship existed between him and the brother of his wife—Sir Carnaby, to wit. They became mixed up with a discontented body of people named Jacobites; and a short time before the unhappy affair which we have been talking about, two warrants were issued for their apprehension. My father was seized at once; but Sir Carnaby Vincent contrived to make his escape for a time, till at length he closed his flight at this place. You know what happened when he and his servant arrived here; they were surprised by a party of military, who had received notice of their movements; and my uncle was shot dead. His attendant fortunately escaped, and returned, after a short time had elapsed, to our family with the sad news. The proceedings against my father, Sir Henry Ainslie, were suspended through want of sufficient evidence, and he was allowed to come back to his home, only to die shortly afterwards, broken both in spirits and in circumstances. Before his death, he made an appalling disclosure to my mother, the sum of it being this—that, trusting to the ultimate success of the revolution which he had been hoping to raise, both he and Sir Carnaby had heavily mortgaged their estates, and placed all their available money at the service of the king that was to be. Where this large amount had been placed, or to whom it had been intrusted, it is now impossible to say, for my father breathed his last ere he could impart any additional information. The consequences of this act proved most disastrous. Our mansion and estates were immediately seized upon; and beyond a small income which my mother possessed in her own right, we were left with scarcely any means of support. From the scanty information we could gather from Sir Carnaby’s attendant, it was considered not at all improbable that the disposal of this wealth had been intrusted to his master; and subsequent inquiries proved that he had actually taken with him in his flight a number of valuable papers and documents. What these papers referred to, it is equally impossible to say; but there has always existed among us a strong impression that they related to the immense sum which had been advanced upon the family estates.’