CHAPTER IVAT THE YEW-STUMP AND AFTERTHEmist lifted a little as Rhys Walters left the Dipping-Pool and turned out of the watercourse on to smooth turf. He could not help smiling as he thought of Charley Turnbull’s misgivings, though in his heart he sympathized with them more than he would admit, even to himself.He looked forward with pleasure to the coming raid, and with still more to the prominent part he was to play in it, but through his pleasure ran the devout hope that he would not be recognized. Not that he feared the law more than he feared anything else, but his respectability was dear to him, as dear as his love of adventure, and the struggle to eat his cake and have it was a part of his inmost soul.Only one person at Great Masterhouse was to know his secret, and that was Nannie Davis, an old servant who had belonged to the establishment since his birth, and who had screened and abetted many of his boyish pranks. She was built on an entirely opposite pattern to her mistress, and the unregenerate old woman had often felt a positive joy in his misdoings, the straitened atmosphere which clung round Mrs. Walters being at times like to suffocate her. From her Rhys intended hiding nothing. He knew that, whatever protest she might see fit to make, she would neither betray him nor grudge him the clothes necessary to his disguise. His plan was, briefly, to tell his mother that he had business in Abergavenny, a town some fourteen miles on the other side of the mountain, and, having ostentatiously departed for that place, to makefor the Dipping-Pool. To the Dipping-Pool also he would return when he had seen the adventure through, and from thence in a day or two home in peace. At least so he trusted.The direct line from the inn to Great Masterhouse took him past one of the many remains of old buildings to be found round the mountain. Only a yard or so of broken wall indicated where a long-disused chapel had stood, and the roots of a yew marked the turf; where passing animals had scraped the bark with their hoofs, reddish patches proved what manner of tree the solitary stump had been. Some stones had been quarried from the ground close by, leaving a shallow pit almost overgrown with grass.It was a dismal enough place, he thought, as he rode past, and his heart almost stopped as he heard his own name sounding from the quarry. Having found superstition inconvenient he had long ago rid himself of it, still the voice in the mist sent a perceptible chill through him.“Rhys! Rhys!” came from the hollow, and a figure was distinguishable by the old wall.He turned towards the spot, but the horse reared straight up; he had his own ideas about things which sprang out of mists. Rhys was never cruel to animals, seldom even rough, and he patted his neck, gripping him tightly with his knees and pressing him forward with those indescribable noises dear to horses’ hearts.The voice rang out again, this time with a very familiar tone.“Mary! Is that you?” he called sharply, dismounting by the wall.“Oh, Rhys!” she cried, as he came face to face with her, “don’t you be angry! I’ve come all the way from the Dipping-Pool so as to see you here.”And as she caught sight of his expression, she burst into violent weeping.He stood in front of her frowning, though the sight of herdistress touched him a little through his vexation. She had always touched him rather—that was the worst of it.“What have you come here for?” he asked, feeling great misgivings as to the reason. “Come, sit here like a good girl and tell me. Lord! your dress is dripping. ’Tis like a madwoman to go running over the country these damp nights.”And he drew her down upon the yew-stump and put his arm about her. The horse began to crop the short grass. He was completely reassured, and like many who considered themselves his betters, he found his stomach a source of much solace and occupation. Mary leaned her head against Rhys, and her sobs ceased as she found his arm round her; she was cold and wearied, and she was suffering an anxiety that was more than she could well bear.“Rhys,” she said, “I know all about it. Mr. Evans was telling Turnbull o’ Tuesday evening, an’ I heard every word. Don’t you go—don’t you. I’ve come all the way through this lonesome place to ask you.” And she clung to him, imploring. He sat silent for a moment.“Damnation,” he said at last between his teeth.Mary’s tears broke out afresh. “Now you hate me for it, I know,” she sobbed, breaking away and standing before him, a slight wild figure against the clearing atmosphere. “But oh! how could I help it?”“Nonsense,” said the young man impatiently, “come back and don’t be a fool. I couldn’t hate you, and that you know.”“Is that true?” she asked, clasping her hands and fixing her large eyes on him. The wet mist had made her hair limp and heavy, and a lock of it showed on her shoulder, under the cloak she had thrown over her head. Even tears, cold, and wet could not make her anything but an attractive woman, and he put out his hand and took hers. It was like a piece of ice.“You silly wench,” he said, pulling her towards him and kissing her. “Why do you come out like this, catching yourdeath of cold? Not but what I’m glad you came, all the same, for I don’t seem to see you now-a-days, as I used to. What is it you want me to do?”“Don’t go to the toll-gate wi’ them Rebecca people,” she begged. “It’s a black business, and oh! if you were to get caught what would they do to you? Rhys, there’s a man in Carmarthen jail that I used to know, and I’ve heard tell that they won’t let him out for years an’ years. And what would become of me?”“Mary,” he said sharply, “have you told any one of this?”“Never a soul have I spoken one word to, as God above made me,” she answered. “’Twas likely I’d tell any one, and you in it; why should you think so bad of me, Rhys? I’d never mistrust you like that. An’ for my own sake——”He interrupted her with another kiss.“Don’t be angry, my dear, I don’t distrust you at all. And I love you truly, Mary, indeed I do.”“Well then, if you do, you’ll promise not to go along with Evans an’ the rest, won’t you?” she coaxed, putting her arms round his neck. “Promise, promise.”“I can’t, Mary, I can’t, so there’s an end of it.”“Very well,” she said in a trembling voice, “then good-bye, for I’d best be going.”She took up a corner of her cloak, and pressed it to her eyes; there was something infinitely pathetic in the gesture. It was an acceptance of so much—more even than lay in that one interview.“Dear, don’t you be afraid,” said Rhys, “there’s not the smallest chance of any of us being caught. We have it spread all over the country, that there’s to be a fine to-do that night at the gate by the river, and every constable will be down there and out of our way.”“But the soldiers,” said the girl; “they say they’re hanging about everywhere. They’ll be pouncing out upon you—mark my words—wi’ their swords an’ dreadful things, and, like as not, you’ll be killed. Oh, Rhys! Rhys!”“The soldiers will all be at the Wye gate with the police, you little blockhead, if there are any at all.”“Ah! you can’t tell.”“Well, if they do come,” exclaimed he, with a laugh, “they’re not likely to catch me. If there’s a run for it, I fancy I know this country better than any young fool that ever put on a yeomanry uniform and thought himself a soldier. Since you know so much, Mary, I may as well tell you the whole job. I’m to set out for Abergavenny two days beforehand, but I shan’t go there, I shall go to the Dipping-Pool.”“I’m glad of that,” she said simply, “for then I’ll see you.”“And so,” he went on without heeding her, “if the yeomanry should get wind of it and come down to the gate, I shall have a good mare under me, and I’ll be into Abergavenny before the news of it gets even as far as Great Masterhouse. There’s a man there who will swear to my having been in his house two days.”“But how do you know they’ll keep their mouths shut—them at the Dipping-Pool, I mean? There’s that Watkins, it’s anything for talk wi’ him.”He struck his fist on his knee.“I’ll break every bone in his sneaking body if he says a word now or after, and so I’ll tell him. He’s frightened out of his life of me as it is, and I’ll scare him still more.”“Oh, Rhys, you’re a wild man,” she sighed, “and your look makes me cold when you talk like that. Listen now, you won’t hurt my father? He’s an old man, but he’s not one o’ those to stand by and see his gate destroyed without a word. I mind him well when he could use his hands wi’ the best.”“I won’t lay a finger on him, Mary.”The girl’s heart smote her, when she remembered how her father’s danger had weighed on her mind, as she sat waiting for Rhys to come by. Since seeing him, the old man had become but an afterthought; and yet, she had always beenreckoned a good daughter. But her world had turned on a different pivot for the last six months. She recognized that and sat silent.“You needn’t fear about him,” continued her companion, observing the lines of repressed pain round her closed lips.“I wasn’t thinking of that; Rhys, you know what I’m thinking about. It’s not the word for a maid to say to a man, but I must. When—when is it to be, Rhys?”He plucked up a piece of grass and turned it over and over in his fingers before he answered. To say the truth, he had no desire to marry any one just now. That he loved the girl beside him he could not deny; that she loved him and had trusted his word completely was a fact of which he was profoundly aware. Of another fact he was profoundly aware too, and that was, that, if he were to make her rue it, he would be a blackguard. He did not want to be a blackguard, and he hated the thought of her being in trouble; she was good and true and loving, and she had, in spite of her position, a refined and delicate beauty he never saw among the girls who made eyes at him in Llangarth and giggled when he spoke to them. She would look lovely in the pretty clothes and the surroundings his money would buy for her. And, as he understood love, he loved her.But what was she? An inn servant; there was no getting over that. His mother would be horrified were he to bring back a wife taken from such a place. For this, it is true, he cared but little, for the antagonism which had existed in his boyhood between himself and Mrs. Walters had stayed unchanged. They were on more equal terms, that was all. What he chose to do he would do. All the same his pride rebelled a little at the thought of marrying Mary, for he liked making a figure in the eyes of his neighbours.For a few seconds neither of them spoke. The horse had ceased cropping and was pricking his ears; he whinnied softly, so softly that the sound was hardly more than a gurgle in his throat, but it was enough to make Rhys spring up and seizehim by the bit. He led him down the sloping side of the old quarry, dragging Mary with him, and the three stood together at the bottom, Rhys in his shirt-sleeves, holding his coat over the animal’s head. The trot of horses came near as they waited stock-still and breathless in their shelter; evidently the riders, whoever they were, would pass very near, and the sound of voices was audible between them and the direction of the Dipping-Pool. The horse began to stamp about.“Mary,” whispered Rhys, “they’re coming close past us and they must see this brute. Do you lie down flat by the wall and I’ll mount and meet them. I’ll be bound they are lost in the mist and will think I am in the same plight. I can lead them a bit wide of here, and, when they’re passed, go you home. I’ll get on to Masterhouse; it’s late, and I’d have to be leaving you in any case.”“But,” she said anxiously, as though there had been no interruption, “you haven’t answered me. Tell me; it’s to be soon, oh! isn’t it?”“After the toll-gate business,” he answered. She held up her face and they kissed each other; then he hurried on his coat, threw himself into the saddle and disappeared over the top of the quarry.He rode straight to the right across the path by which he judged the riders to be advancing. As they came upon him, he slackened his pace and stood, as though irresolute which way to take. The new-comers pulled up and hailed him. “Hoy! sir!” shouted the foremost of the two.He turned and saw a man, some years younger than himself, followed by another, whom at a rapid glance he took to be his servant. The master seemed little more than a boy; he had a young, fresh face, and curly hair flattened in rings upon his forehead by the moisture of the air. He might have stood for an equestrian statue of frank and not too intellectual youth. The servant carried a valise, and was mounted on an elderly-looking flea-bitten grey.“I have lost myself in this infernal mist,” observed the youngfellow, coming towards him, as he had hoped, and leaving the quarry on his left.“Indeed, sir! So have I,” replied Rhys.“Plague on it for that,” he went on, “for now you can’t tell me which way to go.”Walters smiled a little. “I don’t know where you are bound for,” he remarked.The other laughed out.“Lord! I had forgotten that. Well then, my name is Harry Fenton, and I am going down to my father’s at Waterchurch.” He said this all in a breath, as though anxious to get it out and go on to more, if need be.“Then you are Squire Fenton’s son, of Waterchurch Court,” said Rhys, who had suspected his identity ever since he came in sight.“Yes, that’s who I am. And who are you?”The social standing of this competent-looking man puzzled him hugely. Curiosity and admiration, too, struggled within him like dogs on a leash, while good manners kept a faltering hold on the string. “Excuse me, sir,” he added, reddening, “if I am impertinent.”“Not at all, sir,” replied the other; “my name is Rhys Walters.” This information seemed to convey something to the younger man, for he opened his eyes very wide and looked eagerly at his companion.“Oh!” he exclaimed, “then you are Walters of Great Masterhouse.” Then he reddened again as he remembered that he was talking to a farmer whom he did not know, and had omitted the “Mister.”“At your service,” said Rhys.“It’s surprising to findyoulost,” observed Harry, treading as accidentally upon the truth as if it had been a lady’s dress.Rhys smiled, this time internally. Like a devout lover he loved strategy, even more for herself than for what she might bring him.“I have heard that you know your way in places where no one else does,” continued young Fenton.“Masterhouse is so near the mountain that one has to be pretty sharp these dark nights. But I’ve been baffled this time. However, I have a suspicion where we are now. With your leave, sir, I’ll go with you for a little and put you on the right track.”“I should like that very much,” said Harry, gratefully, “but my home and yours lie so far apart that it would be taking you much out of your road.”“The mist is clearing, so that, when I’ve left you, I can canter home in twenty minutes. It will be no trouble.”“Oh, thank you indeed; I am afraid my poor mother will think I am bogged, or have fallen in with Rebecca; women are always nervous,” said the boy, with a male air which was entirely lost on Rhys. At the mention of women his thoughts had flown to the quarry hard by, and he was anxious to push on and leave the coast clear for Mary’s escape.They went steadily forward, side by side, the elder man steering west along the plateau, to where the lanes began to run down to Crishowell, the younger riding unquestioning alongside. The servant jogged quietly along in the rear.“That’s a good-looking nag you have under you, Mr. Walters,” remarked Harry, when they had gone some way, “and he seems in good condition too.”Rhys pinched the bay’s neck critically.“Not bad,” he said. “Yes, he’s a nice little beast. I like him as well as any I’ve got.”“Ah,” said Harry, “and I suppose you have plenty more like him.” He sighed wistfully, remembering his fellow-traveller’s reputed wealth. He loved horses dearly, but though he was Squire Fenton’s eldest son, the one he was riding represented his whole stud. While there were Bob and Tom and Llewellyn to be provided for, he had to do as best he could with one, and Bob and Tom and Llewellyn shared histastes. Not that he grudged his brothers anything, for he was much too generous, but he could not help envying the man beside him. He wished, too, that he had something to serve as a yeomanry charger besides his own horse, for, by all accounts, there would be work soon. That was what was bringing him home.“There have been tremendous doings at Carmarthen,” he remarked, after a pause.“Yes,” said Rhys, quietly, “and I suppose we shall soon see the same here. I believe the yeomanry are to come out too. There’s a great raid pending in these parts.”“That’s what I have come down for,” replied his companion, a glow of interest rising in his face. “They’ll have us out at last, and I hope we shall get some fun for our pains. Have you heard much about it?”“It’s a good deal talked of. They talk too much, these rioters,” replied Rhys with a short laugh, riding up closer to Fenton. “Never you mind, sir, how I know it, but know it I do. It’s to take place before long, and it’s to be the Wye gate, down by the river at Llangarth.”“By Gad! is it? Well, we’ll come out as strong as we can and be a match for the whole crew. You are a yeomanry man, aren’t you?”“No, I am not. Though I have often thought——”“Ah, but you’ll come out, surely Mr. Walters!” interrupted Harry, cutting the sentence short, “a man like you, with the Lord knows how many horses and men!”“I should dearly like it,” answered Rhys, “but I am going to Abergavenny very soon, and I cannot tell when I may have to be off. It’s an urgent matter. It may just fall out that I’m at Abergavenny when I most want to be here; and I can’t put it off either, or go till I’m sent for.”“What a monstrous pity!” There was vexation in Harry’s voice. Besides his zeal for law and order as exemplified by fighting and pursuing, he was strongly attracted by this man and longed to see more of him.They had come down the side of a straggling thorn hedge, and now, at its angle, they halted by a gate.“Now,” said Rhys, “this lane will take you down into Crishowell. There’s no mist below, if I know anything, and you’ll see your way to Waterchurch easily. So here we will part.”The boy held out his hand.“A thousand thanks for your company,” he said cordially. “And you won’t fail us if you can help it, will you?”“If it’s possible to be there, I’ll be there somehow,” was the reply.And in that Rhys Walters spoke truth.
THEmist lifted a little as Rhys Walters left the Dipping-Pool and turned out of the watercourse on to smooth turf. He could not help smiling as he thought of Charley Turnbull’s misgivings, though in his heart he sympathized with them more than he would admit, even to himself.
He looked forward with pleasure to the coming raid, and with still more to the prominent part he was to play in it, but through his pleasure ran the devout hope that he would not be recognized. Not that he feared the law more than he feared anything else, but his respectability was dear to him, as dear as his love of adventure, and the struggle to eat his cake and have it was a part of his inmost soul.
Only one person at Great Masterhouse was to know his secret, and that was Nannie Davis, an old servant who had belonged to the establishment since his birth, and who had screened and abetted many of his boyish pranks. She was built on an entirely opposite pattern to her mistress, and the unregenerate old woman had often felt a positive joy in his misdoings, the straitened atmosphere which clung round Mrs. Walters being at times like to suffocate her. From her Rhys intended hiding nothing. He knew that, whatever protest she might see fit to make, she would neither betray him nor grudge him the clothes necessary to his disguise. His plan was, briefly, to tell his mother that he had business in Abergavenny, a town some fourteen miles on the other side of the mountain, and, having ostentatiously departed for that place, to makefor the Dipping-Pool. To the Dipping-Pool also he would return when he had seen the adventure through, and from thence in a day or two home in peace. At least so he trusted.
The direct line from the inn to Great Masterhouse took him past one of the many remains of old buildings to be found round the mountain. Only a yard or so of broken wall indicated where a long-disused chapel had stood, and the roots of a yew marked the turf; where passing animals had scraped the bark with their hoofs, reddish patches proved what manner of tree the solitary stump had been. Some stones had been quarried from the ground close by, leaving a shallow pit almost overgrown with grass.
It was a dismal enough place, he thought, as he rode past, and his heart almost stopped as he heard his own name sounding from the quarry. Having found superstition inconvenient he had long ago rid himself of it, still the voice in the mist sent a perceptible chill through him.
“Rhys! Rhys!” came from the hollow, and a figure was distinguishable by the old wall.
He turned towards the spot, but the horse reared straight up; he had his own ideas about things which sprang out of mists. Rhys was never cruel to animals, seldom even rough, and he patted his neck, gripping him tightly with his knees and pressing him forward with those indescribable noises dear to horses’ hearts.
The voice rang out again, this time with a very familiar tone.
“Mary! Is that you?” he called sharply, dismounting by the wall.
“Oh, Rhys!” she cried, as he came face to face with her, “don’t you be angry! I’ve come all the way from the Dipping-Pool so as to see you here.”
And as she caught sight of his expression, she burst into violent weeping.
He stood in front of her frowning, though the sight of herdistress touched him a little through his vexation. She had always touched him rather—that was the worst of it.
“What have you come here for?” he asked, feeling great misgivings as to the reason. “Come, sit here like a good girl and tell me. Lord! your dress is dripping. ’Tis like a madwoman to go running over the country these damp nights.”
And he drew her down upon the yew-stump and put his arm about her. The horse began to crop the short grass. He was completely reassured, and like many who considered themselves his betters, he found his stomach a source of much solace and occupation. Mary leaned her head against Rhys, and her sobs ceased as she found his arm round her; she was cold and wearied, and she was suffering an anxiety that was more than she could well bear.
“Rhys,” she said, “I know all about it. Mr. Evans was telling Turnbull o’ Tuesday evening, an’ I heard every word. Don’t you go—don’t you. I’ve come all the way through this lonesome place to ask you.” And she clung to him, imploring. He sat silent for a moment.
“Damnation,” he said at last between his teeth.
Mary’s tears broke out afresh. “Now you hate me for it, I know,” she sobbed, breaking away and standing before him, a slight wild figure against the clearing atmosphere. “But oh! how could I help it?”
“Nonsense,” said the young man impatiently, “come back and don’t be a fool. I couldn’t hate you, and that you know.”
“Is that true?” she asked, clasping her hands and fixing her large eyes on him. The wet mist had made her hair limp and heavy, and a lock of it showed on her shoulder, under the cloak she had thrown over her head. Even tears, cold, and wet could not make her anything but an attractive woman, and he put out his hand and took hers. It was like a piece of ice.
“You silly wench,” he said, pulling her towards him and kissing her. “Why do you come out like this, catching yourdeath of cold? Not but what I’m glad you came, all the same, for I don’t seem to see you now-a-days, as I used to. What is it you want me to do?”
“Don’t go to the toll-gate wi’ them Rebecca people,” she begged. “It’s a black business, and oh! if you were to get caught what would they do to you? Rhys, there’s a man in Carmarthen jail that I used to know, and I’ve heard tell that they won’t let him out for years an’ years. And what would become of me?”
“Mary,” he said sharply, “have you told any one of this?”
“Never a soul have I spoken one word to, as God above made me,” she answered. “’Twas likely I’d tell any one, and you in it; why should you think so bad of me, Rhys? I’d never mistrust you like that. An’ for my own sake——”
He interrupted her with another kiss.
“Don’t be angry, my dear, I don’t distrust you at all. And I love you truly, Mary, indeed I do.”
“Well then, if you do, you’ll promise not to go along with Evans an’ the rest, won’t you?” she coaxed, putting her arms round his neck. “Promise, promise.”
“I can’t, Mary, I can’t, so there’s an end of it.”
“Very well,” she said in a trembling voice, “then good-bye, for I’d best be going.”
She took up a corner of her cloak, and pressed it to her eyes; there was something infinitely pathetic in the gesture. It was an acceptance of so much—more even than lay in that one interview.
“Dear, don’t you be afraid,” said Rhys, “there’s not the smallest chance of any of us being caught. We have it spread all over the country, that there’s to be a fine to-do that night at the gate by the river, and every constable will be down there and out of our way.”
“But the soldiers,” said the girl; “they say they’re hanging about everywhere. They’ll be pouncing out upon you—mark my words—wi’ their swords an’ dreadful things, and, like as not, you’ll be killed. Oh, Rhys! Rhys!”
“The soldiers will all be at the Wye gate with the police, you little blockhead, if there are any at all.”
“Ah! you can’t tell.”
“Well, if they do come,” exclaimed he, with a laugh, “they’re not likely to catch me. If there’s a run for it, I fancy I know this country better than any young fool that ever put on a yeomanry uniform and thought himself a soldier. Since you know so much, Mary, I may as well tell you the whole job. I’m to set out for Abergavenny two days beforehand, but I shan’t go there, I shall go to the Dipping-Pool.”
“I’m glad of that,” she said simply, “for then I’ll see you.”
“And so,” he went on without heeding her, “if the yeomanry should get wind of it and come down to the gate, I shall have a good mare under me, and I’ll be into Abergavenny before the news of it gets even as far as Great Masterhouse. There’s a man there who will swear to my having been in his house two days.”
“But how do you know they’ll keep their mouths shut—them at the Dipping-Pool, I mean? There’s that Watkins, it’s anything for talk wi’ him.”
He struck his fist on his knee.
“I’ll break every bone in his sneaking body if he says a word now or after, and so I’ll tell him. He’s frightened out of his life of me as it is, and I’ll scare him still more.”
“Oh, Rhys, you’re a wild man,” she sighed, “and your look makes me cold when you talk like that. Listen now, you won’t hurt my father? He’s an old man, but he’s not one o’ those to stand by and see his gate destroyed without a word. I mind him well when he could use his hands wi’ the best.”
“I won’t lay a finger on him, Mary.”
The girl’s heart smote her, when she remembered how her father’s danger had weighed on her mind, as she sat waiting for Rhys to come by. Since seeing him, the old man had become but an afterthought; and yet, she had always beenreckoned a good daughter. But her world had turned on a different pivot for the last six months. She recognized that and sat silent.
“You needn’t fear about him,” continued her companion, observing the lines of repressed pain round her closed lips.
“I wasn’t thinking of that; Rhys, you know what I’m thinking about. It’s not the word for a maid to say to a man, but I must. When—when is it to be, Rhys?”
He plucked up a piece of grass and turned it over and over in his fingers before he answered. To say the truth, he had no desire to marry any one just now. That he loved the girl beside him he could not deny; that she loved him and had trusted his word completely was a fact of which he was profoundly aware. Of another fact he was profoundly aware too, and that was, that, if he were to make her rue it, he would be a blackguard. He did not want to be a blackguard, and he hated the thought of her being in trouble; she was good and true and loving, and she had, in spite of her position, a refined and delicate beauty he never saw among the girls who made eyes at him in Llangarth and giggled when he spoke to them. She would look lovely in the pretty clothes and the surroundings his money would buy for her. And, as he understood love, he loved her.
But what was she? An inn servant; there was no getting over that. His mother would be horrified were he to bring back a wife taken from such a place. For this, it is true, he cared but little, for the antagonism which had existed in his boyhood between himself and Mrs. Walters had stayed unchanged. They were on more equal terms, that was all. What he chose to do he would do. All the same his pride rebelled a little at the thought of marrying Mary, for he liked making a figure in the eyes of his neighbours.
For a few seconds neither of them spoke. The horse had ceased cropping and was pricking his ears; he whinnied softly, so softly that the sound was hardly more than a gurgle in his throat, but it was enough to make Rhys spring up and seizehim by the bit. He led him down the sloping side of the old quarry, dragging Mary with him, and the three stood together at the bottom, Rhys in his shirt-sleeves, holding his coat over the animal’s head. The trot of horses came near as they waited stock-still and breathless in their shelter; evidently the riders, whoever they were, would pass very near, and the sound of voices was audible between them and the direction of the Dipping-Pool. The horse began to stamp about.
“Mary,” whispered Rhys, “they’re coming close past us and they must see this brute. Do you lie down flat by the wall and I’ll mount and meet them. I’ll be bound they are lost in the mist and will think I am in the same plight. I can lead them a bit wide of here, and, when they’re passed, go you home. I’ll get on to Masterhouse; it’s late, and I’d have to be leaving you in any case.”
“But,” she said anxiously, as though there had been no interruption, “you haven’t answered me. Tell me; it’s to be soon, oh! isn’t it?”
“After the toll-gate business,” he answered. She held up her face and they kissed each other; then he hurried on his coat, threw himself into the saddle and disappeared over the top of the quarry.
He rode straight to the right across the path by which he judged the riders to be advancing. As they came upon him, he slackened his pace and stood, as though irresolute which way to take. The new-comers pulled up and hailed him. “Hoy! sir!” shouted the foremost of the two.
He turned and saw a man, some years younger than himself, followed by another, whom at a rapid glance he took to be his servant. The master seemed little more than a boy; he had a young, fresh face, and curly hair flattened in rings upon his forehead by the moisture of the air. He might have stood for an equestrian statue of frank and not too intellectual youth. The servant carried a valise, and was mounted on an elderly-looking flea-bitten grey.
“I have lost myself in this infernal mist,” observed the youngfellow, coming towards him, as he had hoped, and leaving the quarry on his left.
“Indeed, sir! So have I,” replied Rhys.
“Plague on it for that,” he went on, “for now you can’t tell me which way to go.”
Walters smiled a little. “I don’t know where you are bound for,” he remarked.
The other laughed out.
“Lord! I had forgotten that. Well then, my name is Harry Fenton, and I am going down to my father’s at Waterchurch.” He said this all in a breath, as though anxious to get it out and go on to more, if need be.
“Then you are Squire Fenton’s son, of Waterchurch Court,” said Rhys, who had suspected his identity ever since he came in sight.
“Yes, that’s who I am. And who are you?”
The social standing of this competent-looking man puzzled him hugely. Curiosity and admiration, too, struggled within him like dogs on a leash, while good manners kept a faltering hold on the string. “Excuse me, sir,” he added, reddening, “if I am impertinent.”
“Not at all, sir,” replied the other; “my name is Rhys Walters.” This information seemed to convey something to the younger man, for he opened his eyes very wide and looked eagerly at his companion.
“Oh!” he exclaimed, “then you are Walters of Great Masterhouse.” Then he reddened again as he remembered that he was talking to a farmer whom he did not know, and had omitted the “Mister.”
“At your service,” said Rhys.
“It’s surprising to findyoulost,” observed Harry, treading as accidentally upon the truth as if it had been a lady’s dress.
Rhys smiled, this time internally. Like a devout lover he loved strategy, even more for herself than for what she might bring him.
“I have heard that you know your way in places where no one else does,” continued young Fenton.
“Masterhouse is so near the mountain that one has to be pretty sharp these dark nights. But I’ve been baffled this time. However, I have a suspicion where we are now. With your leave, sir, I’ll go with you for a little and put you on the right track.”
“I should like that very much,” said Harry, gratefully, “but my home and yours lie so far apart that it would be taking you much out of your road.”
“The mist is clearing, so that, when I’ve left you, I can canter home in twenty minutes. It will be no trouble.”
“Oh, thank you indeed; I am afraid my poor mother will think I am bogged, or have fallen in with Rebecca; women are always nervous,” said the boy, with a male air which was entirely lost on Rhys. At the mention of women his thoughts had flown to the quarry hard by, and he was anxious to push on and leave the coast clear for Mary’s escape.
They went steadily forward, side by side, the elder man steering west along the plateau, to where the lanes began to run down to Crishowell, the younger riding unquestioning alongside. The servant jogged quietly along in the rear.
“That’s a good-looking nag you have under you, Mr. Walters,” remarked Harry, when they had gone some way, “and he seems in good condition too.”
Rhys pinched the bay’s neck critically.
“Not bad,” he said. “Yes, he’s a nice little beast. I like him as well as any I’ve got.”
“Ah,” said Harry, “and I suppose you have plenty more like him.” He sighed wistfully, remembering his fellow-traveller’s reputed wealth. He loved horses dearly, but though he was Squire Fenton’s eldest son, the one he was riding represented his whole stud. While there were Bob and Tom and Llewellyn to be provided for, he had to do as best he could with one, and Bob and Tom and Llewellyn shared histastes. Not that he grudged his brothers anything, for he was much too generous, but he could not help envying the man beside him. He wished, too, that he had something to serve as a yeomanry charger besides his own horse, for, by all accounts, there would be work soon. That was what was bringing him home.
“There have been tremendous doings at Carmarthen,” he remarked, after a pause.
“Yes,” said Rhys, quietly, “and I suppose we shall soon see the same here. I believe the yeomanry are to come out too. There’s a great raid pending in these parts.”
“That’s what I have come down for,” replied his companion, a glow of interest rising in his face. “They’ll have us out at last, and I hope we shall get some fun for our pains. Have you heard much about it?”
“It’s a good deal talked of. They talk too much, these rioters,” replied Rhys with a short laugh, riding up closer to Fenton. “Never you mind, sir, how I know it, but know it I do. It’s to take place before long, and it’s to be the Wye gate, down by the river at Llangarth.”
“By Gad! is it? Well, we’ll come out as strong as we can and be a match for the whole crew. You are a yeomanry man, aren’t you?”
“No, I am not. Though I have often thought——”
“Ah, but you’ll come out, surely Mr. Walters!” interrupted Harry, cutting the sentence short, “a man like you, with the Lord knows how many horses and men!”
“I should dearly like it,” answered Rhys, “but I am going to Abergavenny very soon, and I cannot tell when I may have to be off. It’s an urgent matter. It may just fall out that I’m at Abergavenny when I most want to be here; and I can’t put it off either, or go till I’m sent for.”
“What a monstrous pity!” There was vexation in Harry’s voice. Besides his zeal for law and order as exemplified by fighting and pursuing, he was strongly attracted by this man and longed to see more of him.
They had come down the side of a straggling thorn hedge, and now, at its angle, they halted by a gate.
“Now,” said Rhys, “this lane will take you down into Crishowell. There’s no mist below, if I know anything, and you’ll see your way to Waterchurch easily. So here we will part.”
The boy held out his hand.
“A thousand thanks for your company,” he said cordially. “And you won’t fail us if you can help it, will you?”
“If it’s possible to be there, I’ll be there somehow,” was the reply.
And in that Rhys Walters spoke truth.