The chaise had stopped just short of a small cross-road, and the cause was instantly apparent. A sinister figure, with a mask over his face, and a voluminous cloak enveloping his frame, was covering the astonished post-boy with a silver-mounted pistol, and threatening, in alarmingly gruff accents, to blow his head off if he moved an eyelid. The apparition was bestriding a good-looking hack, and finding it a little difficult at one and the same time to keep this animal still and the pistol correctly levelled.
One comprehensive glance told Sir Gareth all he wished to know. His lips twitched, he looked round at Amanda, saying: ‘You little fiend!’ and then opened the door of the chaise, and sprang lightly down on to the road.
Mr Ross became flustered. Events were not turning out quite as he had expected. He had certainly found an excellent ambush in the little cross-road, and the post-boy had not hesitated to obey at least the first part of his command to stand and deliver. Unfortunately, Prince, also bidden savagely to stand, was not as docile. For one thing, he was unaccustomed to shouts being uttered just above his head, and, for another, he could tell that his master was strangely nervous. He began to fidget, backing, sidling, trying to get his head. The harassed Mr Ross knew that Amanda would find it very hard to mount him, and became more flustered. A quick look showed him that Amanda, instead of nipping out of the chaise by the off-side door, was having difficulty in opening it. And he had not bargained for Sir Gareth’s jumping down in such a reckless fashion. Everything, in fact, was going wrong. He dismounted swiftly, and ordered Sir Gareth to stand where he was, but as he dared not release Prince’s bridle, and had not had the forethought to dismount on the right instead of the left, he found himself in a most awkward fix, trying to keep Sir Gareth covered by the pistol gripped in his right hand while his left was being dragged across his chest by Prince’s efforts to back away.
‘Don’t brandish that pistol about, you young fool!’ Sir Gareth said.
‘Put up your hands!’ retorted Hildebrand. ‘If you move another step I shall fire!’
‘Nonsense! Come, now, enough of this folly! Give me the pistol at once!’
Hildebrand, seeing Sir Gareth advancing in the coolest fashion, took an involuntary step backwards. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that the post-boy had slid out of his saddle, and was preparing to attack him from the rear; he tried to shift his position so that he could keep both men covered; Prince, now thoroughly alarmed, cannoned into him; and the unexpected jolt caused his finger to tighten round the trigger of his pistol. There was a loud report; Amanda screamed; the post-boy made a dive for his startled horses’ heads; Prince reared up, snorting with fright; and Sir Gareth reeled back against the wheel of the chaise, a hand clapped to his left shoulder.
‘How could you? Oh, how could you?’ Amanda cried, almost tumbling out of the chaise. ‘You promised me you would not! Now see what you’ve done! Are you badly hurt, sir? Oh, I am so very sorry!’
Sir Gareth could not see her very clearly. The world was spinning before his eyes, and his limbs were turning to water. His senses were slipping away too, but he knew what had happened, and he managed, before he lost consciousness, to speak one word: ‘Accident…!’
Amanda was on her knees beside him. He had fallen on his left side, and she had seen that his hand had been pressed to that shoulder, and, exerting all her strength, she managed to pull him over on to his back. She then saw the charred rent in his coat, and, far more terrifying, the ominous stain that was rapidly spreading. She tried to pull the coat away from that shoulder, but Sir Gareth’s coats were all too well cut. She cried out: ‘Help me, one of you! Help me!’ and began with feverish haste to rip off Sir Gareth’s neckcloth. The post-boy hesitated. His horses, no fiery steeds, had quietened, but his eyes were fixed wrathfully on the supposed highwayman, and he seemed more than half inclined to go to him rather than to Amanda. She looked round, while her hands folded and refolded Sir Gareth’s neckcloth into a pad, and said furiously: ‘Help me, I said!’
‘Yes, miss, but – is he to be let make off?’ the post-boy said, taking a reluctant step towards her, but keeping his glowering eyes on Hildebrand.
‘No, no!’ Hildebrand uttered hoarsely. ‘I won’t – I wouldn’t – !’
‘Never mind, never mind, come here!’ Amanda commanded, thrusting her hand, with the pad held in it, inside Sir Gareth’s coat.
The post-boy went to her, but when he saw Sir Gareth’s pallor, and the blood-soaked coat, he thought he was dead, and muttered involuntarily: ‘Gawd, he’s snuffed it!’
‘Lift him!’ Amanda said, her teeth clenched to control their chattering. ‘Lift him, and get his coat off! I’ll help you as much as I am able, but I must keep my hand pressed to the wound!’
‘It ain’t no manner of use, miss!’
‘Do as I bid you!’ she said angrily. ‘He’s not dead! He is bleeding dreadfully, and I know he would not if he were dead! Oh, hurry!’
He cast her a look of compassion, but he obeyed her, raising Sir Gareth in his arms, and contriving, with a little assistance from her, to strip the coat off. She did her best to keep her determined little hand pressed hard over the wound, but the bright red blood welled up, dyeing her fingers scarlet, and dripping on to her light muslin skirt. Mr Ross, his horse at last under his control, turned to see what aid he could render, and beheld this horrid sight. With a shaking hand, he stripped off his improvised mask, and flung it down. Had either Amanda or the post-boy had leisure to look at him, they would have seen that his face was almost as white as his victim’s. His lips parted stickily, he swallowed convulsively, took one wavering step forward, and sank without a sound on to the dusty road.
The post-boy glanced up quickly, and his jaw dropped. ‘Well, I’ll be gormed!’ he ejaculated. ‘Lord love me, if he ain’t gone off in a swound! A fine rank-rider he is!’
‘Take his neckcloth off!’ Amanda said.‘Quick!’
The post-boy snorted. ‘Let him lay!’
‘Yes, yes, but bring me his neckcloth! This is not enough! Oh, hurry, hurry!’
He still thought that all her labour would be in vain, but he did as she bade him, only pausing beside Hildebrand’s inanimate form for long enough to wrench the second pistol out of the saddle-holster, and to thrust it into the bosom of his own tightly fitting jacket. Prince started uneasily, and flung up his head, but the placidity of the post-horses seemed to reassure him, and he remained standing by his master’s body.
Amanda had succeeded in reducing the flow of blood, but it was still welling up under the soaked pad. Panic gripped her. The post-boy was obedient, but slow to understand her orders, and he appeared to be incapable of acting on his own initiative; Hildebrand, who should have rushed to her aid, had fainted instead, and was only just beginning to show signs of recovery. Furious with them both, frightened out of her wits, she wanted more than anything to scream. Pride and obstinacy came to her rescue: she was the daughter of a soldier, and she meant to become the wife of a soldier; and own herself beaten she would not. She overcame her rising hysteria after a struggle that made her feel weak and rather sick, and forced her shocked mind to concentrate. Sir Gareth had been hit in the hollow of his shoulder, and a much larger pad than one made by folding a neckcloth must be bound tightly in place before she dared relax the pressure of her desperate little hands. She looked round helplessly, unable for a moment to think of anything; then she remembered that Sir Gareth’s portmanteaux were strapped on the back of the chaise, and she ordered the post-boy to unstrap them. ‘Shirts! Yes, shirts! There must be shirts! And more neckcloths to tie it in place – get them!’
The post-boy unstrapped the portmanteaux, but hesitated, saying: ‘They’ll be locked, surely!’
‘Break the locks, then!’ she said impatiently. ‘Oh, if there were only someone who could help me!’
By this time, Hildebrand had struggled up. He was sick, and dizz
y, and his legs shook under him, but Amanda’s anguished cry pulled him together. The blood rushed up into his face; he said thickly, engulfed in shame: ‘I’ll do it!’ and went unsteadily to where the post-boy had set one of the portmanteaux down on the road.
‘Ho, yes?’ said that individual, bristling. ‘You will, will you? And make off with the gentleman’s goods, I daresay!’
‘Idiot!’ The word burst from Amanda. ‘Can’t you see he’s not a highwayman? Let him get at that case! I – I command you!’
She sounded so fierce that the post-boy gave way instinctively. The portmanteau was not locked, and with trembling hands Hildebrand flung back the lid, and began to toss over Sir Gareth’s effects. He found shirts, and many neckcloths, and a large sponge, at sight of which Amanda exclaimed: ‘Oh, yes, yes! Tie that up in a shirt, tight, tight, and bring it to me! Oh, no, give it to the post-boy, and whatever you do, Hildebrand, don’t look this way, or you will go off again in a faint, and there is no time to waste in fainting!’
He was too much overcome to answer her, but although he dared not let his eyes stray towards her he could do what she asked, and could even knot several of the neckcloths together. Between them, Amanda and the post-boy contrived to bind the improvised swab tightly in place; and while they worked, Amanda demanded to be told where the nearest inn, or house could be found. The post-boy at first could think of nothing nearer than Bedford, which was some eight miles distant, but upon being adjured pretty sharply to find his wits he said that there was an inn at Little Staughton, a mile down the cross-road. He added that it wasn’t fit for the likes of Sir Gareth, upon which, Amanda, wrought up to a dangerous pitch of exasperation, told him he was a cloth-headed gapeseed, an unladylike utterance which was culled from her grandfather’s vocabulary, and which considerably startled the post-boy. She directed him to strap up the portmanteaux again; and while he was doing it, she turned her attention to Hildebrand, informing him that he must help to lift Sir Gareth into the chaise. ‘It is of no avail to tell me you can’t, because you must!’ she said severely. ‘And I forbid you to faint until Sir Gareth is safely bestowed! You may then do so, if you wish, but I can’t stay for you, so you must take care of yourself. And I shan’t have the least compunction in leaving you, for this is all your fault, and now, when we are in this fix, you become squeamish, which puts me out of all patience with you!’
The unhappy Hildebrand stammered: ‘Of course I will help to lift him! I don’t wish to faint: I can’t help but do so!’
‘You can do anything if only you will have a little resolution!’ she told him.
This bracing treatment had its effect upon him. He could not but shudder when his eyes fell on her bloodstained gown, but he quickly averted them, choked down his nausea, and silently prayed that he might not again disgrace himself. The prayer was answered. Sir Gareth was lifted as tenderly as was possible into the chaise, where Amanda received him, and Hildebrand was still on his feet. This unlooked-for triumph put a little heart into him, and he suddenly looked very much less hang-dog, and said that he would ride on ahead to warn them at the inn to prepare to house a badly wounded man.
Amanda warmly approved this suggestion, but the post-boy, who still felt that Hildebrand was a dangerous rogue, opposed it, even going to the length of pulling out the pistol from his jacket. Hildebrand, he said, would ride immediately in front of him, so that he could put a bullet through him if he tried to gallop away.
‘What a detestably stupid creature you are!’ exclaimed Amanda. ‘It was all a jest – a wager! Oh, I can’t explain it to you now, but Sir Gareth knew it was an accident! You heard him say so! Yes, and you don’t suppose he would call a real highwayman a young fool, do you? Doesn’t that show you that he knew him? And he won’t try to escape, because I assure you he is excessively fond of Sir Gareth. Go at once, Hildebrand! And get on your horse, and follow him, and oh, pray, pray drive carefully!’
‘Shoot me if you wish!’ Hildebrand said, seizing his horse’s bridle. ‘I don’t care! I’d rather that than be hanged, or transported!’
With these reckless words, he mounted Prince, clapped his heels to the horse’s flanks, and shot off down the lane.
The chaise followed at a very much more sober pace, but the lane was so narrow that the post-boy found it impossible to avoid the many pot-holes. The best he could do, whenever he saw a particular large one ahead, was to rein the horses in to a walk, lessening the jolt as much as he could. But nothing could avail to make the short journey anything but a very rough one. Amanda kept an anxious eye on her bandages, terrified that the pad might shift, and the bleeding start again. So tall a man could not be laid flat in a chaise, but Amanda had clasped her arms round Sir Gareth, supporting his head on her shoulder, and trying as best she might to ease the frequent bumps for him. Under her hand she fancied that she could feel his heart faintly beating, which brought such relief to her overcharged nerves that thankful tears sprang to her eyes, and rolled unheeded down her cheeks.
Finding that the bandages were holding, her most pressing anxiety abated, and she was able to consider all the other anxieties attached to her predicament. Chief amongst these was the stringent need to rescue Hildebrand from the consequences of his folly. She was not much given to self-blame, but there could be no doubt that she had been to some extent responsible for the accident. To be sure, she had extracted from Hildebrand a promise that he would not fire his pistols, but she now saw that she should have known better than to have placed the slightest reliance on his keeping his head in emergency. And although no one (or, at any rate, no one with the smallest sense of justice) could blame her for having accepted his proffered services, she did feel that she was very much to blame in having consented to any plan that could possibly put poor Sir Gareth in danger. If she had not blackened Sir Gareth’s character, Hildebrand would never have dreamt of holding up the chaise; and that she had blackened his character now filled her with unaccustomed remorse. It really seemed more dreadful than all the rest, for as soon as he had sunk lifeless to the ground, her resentment had vanished, and she had seen him, not as a cruel marplot, but as her kind and endlessly patient protector. But this, she owned, Hildebrand could not have guessed, from anything she had told him; and however stupid it was of him not to have known, only by looking at Sir Gareth, that he was in every respect an admirable person, it was not just that he should suffer a hideous penalty for his folly. Sir Gareth had not wished him to suffer. With what might prove to have been his last word on earth he had exonerated Hildebrand. The thought of this noble magnanimity affected her so much, that she exclaimed aloud: ‘Oh, I wish I had not told those lies about you! It was all my fault!’
But Sir Gareth could not hear her, so it was useless to tell him how sorry she was. And even if he had not been unconscious, she thought, her practical side reasserting itself, repentance would not mend matters. She dared not relax her arms from about him, so she could not wipe away her tears, but she stopped crying, and forced herself to think what she ought next to do. Her arms were aching almost unbearably, but that was unimportant. The important thing was to save Hildebrand from the clutches of the law. He was stupid, he lacked resolution, but she was going to need his services.
By the time the chaise reached the little village, she had herself well in hand, and knew just what must be done. Her face might be tearstained, but the landlord of the Bull Inn, horrified by the disjointed tale jerked out by a pallid young gentleman on the verge of nervous collapse, and expecting to receive a damsel in hysterics, very speedily learned that Amanda was made of sterner stuff than Hildebrand. She might look a child, but there was nothing childlike in the way in which she assumed command over the direction of affairs. Under her jealous supervision, the landlord and the post-boy bore Sir Gareth up the narrow stairs to a bedchamber under the eaves, and laid him upon the bed there; and while they were doing it she told Hildebrand, in a fierce whisper, not to say a word, but to
leave all to her; and demanded from the landlord’s wife the direction of the nearest doctor, and upon learning that that shocked dame knew of no doctor other than Dr Chantry, who attended the Squire, and lived at Eaton Socon, instantly ordered Hildebrand to jump on his horse again, and ride like the wind to summon this practitioner to Sir Gareth’s side.
‘Yes, of course!’ Hildebrand said eagerly. ‘But I don’t know how to get there, or – or where to find the doctor, or what to do if he should not be at home!’
‘Oh, do try not to be so helpless!’ cried Amanda. ‘This woman will tell you where he lives, and if he is gone out you will follow him – and do not dare to come back without him!’ She then turned on Mrs Chicklade, and said: ‘Tell him exactly where to go, for you can see how stupid he is!’
‘I am not stupid!’ retorted Hildebrand, stung to anger. ‘But I was never in this part of the country before, and I don’t even know in which direction I should ride!’
‘No!’ retorted Amanda, already halfway up the steep stairs. ‘I don’t know either, but I wouldn’t stand there looking like a gaby, and saying how – how – how!’
With that, she sped on her way, leaving him seething with indignation, but considerably stiffened by a determination to prove to her his worth.
Amanda found the landlord tightening the bandages round Sir Gareth’s torso, and directing the post-boy to fetch up some brandy from the tap. She was thankful to perceive that in this large, stolid man she had acquired a helper who could apparently act on his own initiative, and asked him anxiously if he thought Sir Gareth would live.
‘There’s no saying, miss,’ he replied unencouragingly. ‘He ain’t slipped his wind yet, but I’d say he’s lost a deal of claret. We’ll see if we can get a drop of brandy down his throat.’
But when the post-boy came back with this restorative, closely followed by Mrs Chicklade, it was found to be of no avail, for it ran out of the corners of Sir Gareth’s mouth. The landlord thought this a shocking waste of good liquor, and set the glass down, saying that there was nothing for it but to send for the doctor. When Amanda disclosed that Hildebrand had already sped forth on this errand, the post-boy was loud in his disapproval. He said that the young varmint would never be seen again, and at once launched into a graphic description of the hold-up.