Bladys of the Stewponey by Sabine Baring-Gould (easy readers txt) 📖

in a leather wallet. Pardon me, Stewponey Bla, if I disturb you, and excuse the intrusion on you at such a time. I must obtain possession of that bag. Hold him, two of you, whilst I search the interior of the calash. And you, Number Nick, point the pistol to his ear, and if he make a movement, do not scruple to blow out his brains. Unless I am vastly mistaken, the bride will not cry her eyes out to lose him.”

Luke bit his lips. But for the apparition of the ape, he would not have left the carriage. Had he been in his place, before the horses could have been arrested, he would have had time to get the pistols, and when the men came to the door, he would have shot two of them dead. That wretched monkey had been the means of delivering him over, unarmed, unable to offer the least resistance, into their hands.

“May I request you to step out?” said one of the highwaymen to Bladys.

He offered his hand.

At once she descended from the carriage, and stood in the road.

Francis looked around him. The carriage had been drawn up where the highway crossed a tract of sandy common strewn with whin bushes and dotted with birch-trees, the former black as blots, the latter silver-trunked and feather-headed. In the rear was a sombre belt of wood, probably Stourton Forest. The man who had handed out Bladys now entered the calash, and removed the pistols and the bag that contained the money.

“These,” said he, handing the firearms to one his companions, “these barking irons are more like to render service to us than to the gentleman who has so kindly brought them here. Now, sir, unless the Captain has any more commands for you, when it pleases you to go forward we will not interfere with your will.”

The sun had disappeared. A yellow halo hung over the place where he had set, and the moon had mounted above the mists, and displayed her orb lustrous as burnished silver. Every birch trunk stood out as a thread of moonlight.

“My Jacko! My Jacko!” called a voice, and up came the Savoyard, out of breath, “Where my Jacko? Me thought him with carriage. He clebber—me run!”

The man paid no attention to the masked footpads. Nothing concerned him save his ape. At his voice the creature that was cowering on the ground uttered a scream of recognition; it had arrived at the conclusion that it was safer with its master than elsewhere. It ran to him and leaped on his shoulder.

“Comrades,” shouted the man who acted as leader of the band, “a wedding party this—and no dance. That should never be. I am sorry, my good sir, further to delay you, but such an occasion as this is not of nightly occurrence, and it is a maxim in life to seize opportunities as they pass—take a purse when you can, stop a coach when there is money in the mails, and foot it when there is a partner to be had. Here we have a smooth turf, as any parquet, a musician with his instrument, and the bonny bride herself with whom I shall do myself the honour of opening the ball. Run some one of you, and constrain Nan Norris to come. By Saturn, Mercury, and all the gods of Olympus! I would another carriage might arrive, that we were able to provide ourselves with a lady apiece.”

Two men held Luke Francis by the arms, and one pointed a pistol at his head. He was incapable of resistance. He was constrained to look on, quivering with rage, gnawing his lips with vexation. Bladys mechanically obeyed the Captain, as he ordered her to come forward upon the turf. The Italian turned the wheel of his hurdy-gurdy, and fingered the short, bone keys.

Then the monkey, hearing the familiar strain, and supposing that it was expected to go through its wonted performance, somewhat reluctantly descended from its perch, and began to dance.

Presently up came the only disengaged highwayman, bringing with him a young woman. “Nan,” called the Captain, “fall in as well.” She stood opposite the man who had brought her, and so they danced in the moonlight on the sward—the two highwaymen, the maidens, and, as a fifth, the ape.

Thus they danced, to the grinding of the hurdy-gurdy, till suddenly sank on the grass unconscious.

Chapter 8.

THE ROCK TAVERN

The highwaymen vanished as speedily as they had appeared. In the chequered light and shade on the common, studded with clumps of whin, birch, ridges and mounds of bramble, this was of easy execution. It would have been so had they been alarmed. But there was now nothing to alarm them—they disappeared because there was nothing more to be got by staying. No sooner was Luke released than he ran to the prostrate girl. Nan Norris also hastened to her assistance.

The Savoyard ceased turning the handle of his hurdy-gurdy. The monkey desisted from its capers, and returned to its place on his shoulder.

The postboy stood looking on, as stolid as his horses. In the grey light from the sky—partly moonlight, partly the suffused illumination of departed day—the face of Bladys was that of death.

“It is in the family,” said the man by the horses. “Her aunt dropped just like this, and died right away.”

Nan, who knelt by her head, and was chafing her hands, said, “She may be dead now.”

“It is a faint,” said Luke. “Help get her into the carriage. We must drive forward, and that without delay.”

“Drive forward with her in this condition!” exclaimed the girl. “It’s murder.”

“Egad, were it not most prudent for me to conduct you both back to the Stewponey?” observed the postboy.

“To the Stewponey!” echoed Francis. “Never! What, and let all there see, and laugh to see, that I have been robbed! I—I been robbed. On my life, never!”

He stamped with rage.

“Hold your fool’s tongue,” he continued; “he wins who last laughs, and i’ faith they have not done with me yet. ‘Twas the worst night’s work they ever accomplished when they stayed me. I shall not be balked of my revenge.” Then, turning on the girl, he asked, “Do you know—doubtless you do that—who these footpads are? For one fetched you.”

“One fetched me—yes; a man masked. But I have no keener eyes than yourself to see through a patch of velvet. I warrant ye I was too scared to disobey when he said, ‘Come along with me, baggage.’”

“But you danced.”

“So did she—Bla of the Stewponey. She is your wife now, I hear. So did the ape. Ask her when she fetches to—and if she does not, then inquire of the ape.”

“I must hurry forwards. I cannot tarry here.”

“Then go on, and leave her here.”

“What—on this moor?”

“No, not so. Our cottage is hard by.”

“Old Lydia Norris has a tavern nigh this,” explained the postboy, “and Nan is her daughter.”

Luke hesitated what to do. He was in the utmost perplexity. He could not allow Bladys to remain longer unconscious on the grass in an open common. He was impatient to be away from a spot where he had been robbed and exposed to humiliation. He could not be certain whether his wife were alive or only in a dead syncope. He had pressing duties that necessitated his presence in Shrewsbury.

“Well, it shall be so, then,” said he. “I will take her to your house. You have cordials—brandy. We will give her some and see if that revives her, and when she returns to her senses she shall continue the journey.”

Then he broke into curses against his misfortune at having been waylaid, and at having been caught at the one moment when he was incapacitated for defending himself and protecting his money.

“You will not recover her by oaths,” said the girl. Then to the postboy, “Prithee, Tom, turn about the heads of the horses, and we will remove her to the Rock.”

There was obviously no better course to be taken. Francis acquiesced, sullen and muttering threats. In a very few minutes the postillion drew up where the road was dark, overshadowed by broad-leaved sycamores, so that in spite of all the light of the sky it was there pitch-black night.

On the left hand was a bank, above this bank a garden occupying as it were a terrace above the highway. At the back of the garden a long, low brick cottage. No light shone through the windows.

“Here we are,” said Nan. “There is none within, save my old mother. Folk don’t come this way after nightfall; our customers are day travellers, and of them only such as are footers. There are three steps at first, then five, and you reach the garden.”

“What are your orders for the chaise?” asked the driver. “Shall I unharness?”

“Unharness, you fool!” answered Francis. “Do you not see that there are no stables here? Nowhere that a horse could put his head in? Turn the carriage about. In five minutes my wife will be better and able to resume the journey. What art laughing at?” he inquired sharply, turning on the young woman.

“By Goles, that was purely!” exclaimed Nan. “I was laughing to think that we should have stables, mother and I. Odds boddikins! Whatever should we do with horses?”

Bladys, still unconscious, was conveyed into the cottage. The building was but one room deep, but had a face that showed it comprised three chambers; these were in communication within. The house was constructed against a bank, on the top of which grew sycamores. Wooden shutters were before the windows.

When the door was opened, then it was seen that the tavern was constructed against a face of rock, which served as inner wall, and this face was dug into to form recesses for shelves, and pierced by a door that probably gave access to the cellar.

A fire was seen burning on the hearth, and an old woman sat crouching over it with hands extended, so that the flames threw gigantic shadows on the walls and ceiling.

“What have you here?” croaked the crone. “Nan, I’ll have no corpses brought in. Anything but that. I have ever set my face against that. I have no fancy to wear Onion’s collar.”

Luke Francis started, and looked inquiringly at the speaker.

“Mother,” answered the daughter, “this is the Stewponey wench that was married to-day, as you have heard tell. She is ill, in a faint—God knows, perchance dead.”

“I’ll have no corpses here. They’ll inquitch her in the house, and I won’t have it. I don’t like the look and smell of crowners. They turns my stomick.”

Nan explained to Francis, “Mother is a bit hard of hearing, and she’s full of old woman’s whimsy-whamsies. Don’t you heed a word she says.”

“Lay my wife by the fire, where she can have warmth. Is there a surgeon near? She may need be let blood.”

“I’ll have no blood here,” screamed Mistress Norris. “Gold—gold, if you will, and welcome, but blood has no profit in it.”

Nan helped to place Bladys on the tiled floor by the hearth. The red glow of the turf and wood fire fell over her death-like face.

The mouth was partially open, and the teeth glinted in the firelight. The eyelids were also ajar, and there was a glitter of the white of the balls below the lids.

“Have they shot her or run her through?” called the hag. “I have always said it was folly to shed blood.” She leaned forward, and peered at the insensible girl on the floor.

“She is in a faint, mother,” said Nan, and took the beldame by the shoulders, twisted her round, and said, “Look to the pot with the taties