The chase had begun. More than that, Mr. Fishwick was beginning to feel
the excitement of it; the ring of the horses' shoes on the hard road,
the rush of the night air past his ears exhilarated him. He began to
feel confidence in his leader, and confidence breeds courage. Bristol?
Then Bristol let it be. And then on top of this, his spirits being more
composed, came a rush of rage and indignation at thought of the girl.
The lawyer clutched his whip, and, reckless of consequences, dug his
heels into his horse, and for the moment, in the heat of his wrath,
longed to be up with the villains, to strike a blow at them. If his
courage lasted, Mr. Fishwick might show them a man yet--when the
time came!
Trot-trot, trot-trot through the darkness under the stars, the trees
black masses that shot up beside the road and vanished as soon as seen,
the downs grey misty outlines that continually fenced them in and went
with them; and always in the van Sir George, a grim silent shape with
face set immovably forward. They worked up Fyfield hill, and thence,
looking back, bade farewell to the faint light that hung above
Marlborough. Dropping into the bottom they cluntered over the wooden
bridge and by Overton steeple--a dim outline on the left--and cantering
up Avebury hill eased their horses through Little Kennet. Gathering
speed again they swept through Beckhampton village, where the Bath road
falls off to the left, and breasting the high downs towards Yatesbury,
they trotted on to Cheril.
Here on the hills the sky hung low overhead, and the wind sweeping chill
and drear across the upland was full of a melancholy soughing. The
world, it seemed to one of them, was uncreate, gone, and non-existent;
only this remained--the shadowy downs stretching on every side to
infinity, and three shadowy riders plodding across them; all shadowy,
all unreal until a bell-wether got up under the horses' heads, and with
a confused rush and scurry of feet a hundred Southdowns scampered into
the grey unknown.
Mr. Fishwick found it terrible, rugged, wild, a night foray. His heart
began to sink again. He was sore too, sweating, and fit to drop from his
saddle with the unwonted exertion.
And what of Sir George, hurled suddenly out of his age and world--the
age des philosophes, and the smooth world of White's and Lord
March--into this quagmire of feeling, this night of struggle upon the
Wiltshire downs? A few hours earlier he had ridden the same road, and
the prize he now stood in danger of losing had seemed--God forgive
him!--of doubtful value. Now, as he thought of her, his heart melted in
a fire of love and pity: of love that conjured up a thousand pictures of
her eyes, her lips, her smile, her shape--all presently dashed by night
and reality; of pity that swelled his breast to bursting, set his eyes
burning and his brain throbbing--a pity near akin to rage.