The argument impressed Pomeroy; his grasp relaxed. 'The devil is in it,
then!' he muttered. 'For no one else could have set a carriage at that
gate at that minute! Anyway, I'll know. Come on!' he continued
recklessly snatching up the lanthorn, which had fallen on its side and
was not extinguished. 'We'll after her! By the Lord, we'll after her.
They don't trick me so easily!' The tutor ventured a terrified remonstrance, but Mr. Pomeroy, deaf to
his entreaties and arguments, bundled him over the fence, and, gripping
his arm, hurried him as fast as his feet would carry him across the
sward to the other gate. A carriage, its lamps burning brightly, stood
in the road. Mr. Pomeroy exchanged a few curt words with the driver,
thrust in the tutor, and followed himself. On the instant the vehicle
dashed away, the coachman cracking his whip and shouting oaths at
his horses.
The hedges flew by, pale glimmering walls in the lamplight; the mud flew
up and splashed Mr. Pomeroy's face; still he hung out of the window, his
hand on the fastening of the door, and a brace of pistols on the ledge
before him; while the tutor, shuddering at these preparations, hoping
against hope that they would overtake no one, cowered in the farther
corner. With every turn of the road or swerve of the horses Pomeroy
expected to see the fugitives' lights. Unaware or oblivious that the
carriage he was pursuing had the start of him by so much that at top
speed he could scarcely look to overtake it under the hour, his rage
increased with every disappointment. Although the pace at which they
travelled over a rough road was such as to fill the tutor with instant
terror and urgent thoughts of death--although first one lamp was
extinguished and then another, and the carriage swung so violently as
from moment to moment to threaten an overturn, Mr. Pomeroy never ceased
to hang out of the window, to yell at the horses and upbraid the driver.
And with all, the labour seemed to be wasted. With wrath and a volley of
curses he saw the lights of Chippenham appear in front, and still no
sign of the pursued. Five minutes later the carriage awoke the echoes in
the main street of the sleeping town, and Mr. Thomasson drew a deep
breath of relief as it came to a stand.
Not so Mr. Pomeroy. He dashed the door open and sprang out, prepared to
overwhelm the driver with reproaches. The man anticipated him. 'They are
here,' he said with a sulky gesture.
'Here? Where?' A man in a watchman's coat, and carrying a staff and lanthorn--of whom
the driver had already asked a question--came heavily round, from the
off-side of the carriage. 'There is a chaise and pair just come in from
the Melksham Road,' he said, 'and gone to the Angel, if that is what you
want, your honour.' 'A lady with them?' 'I saw none, but there might be.' 'How long ago?' 'Ten minutes.' 'We're right!' Mr. Pomeroy cried with a jubilant oath, and turning back
to the door of the carriage, slipped the pistols into his skirt pockets.
'Come,' he said to Thomasson. 'And do you,' he continued, addressing his
driver, who was no other than the respectable Tamplin, 'follow at a
walking pace. Have they ordered on?' he asked, slipping a crown into the
night-watchman's hand.