Revelation,
or,
A Death at Delaford

[Chapters 1-3] [Chapters 4-5] [Chapters 6-7] [Chapters 8-9] [Chapters 10-11] [Chapters 12-13] [Chapters 16-17]

Chapter Fourteen

Brandon's agitation had steadily increased during the course of the day, despite all his efforts to enforce within himself a state resembling composure. Presented with such evidence as had been uncovered, in the place of Lord Melgrove and Mr. Wilverton he would agree to bail an accused prisoner of general good character such as himself, there being a very good chance that a grand jury would not now indict. Of Wilverton's agreement he was almost certain, but he could not discount the influence upon Lord Melgrove of Mr. Humphries, who might well be disinclined to accept the word of a servant, possessing as he did the not uncommon contempt of the rising classes toward those beneath them, a contempt often found in reverse proportion to the length of time such persons had felt secure in their new rank. Under Humphries's unsubtle direction, Melgrove might insist on waiting until Parker and Masters discovered some evidence corroborating Tim's story, might even insist on the matter being brought before the assizes. If the grand jury were then to indict, Brandon thought it very probable that the trial jury would not convict--and yet juries were made up of men, who were not only fallible but also unpredictable. Without the actual apprehension of the guilty man, his ordeal might well be far from over, his vindication far from certain.

Thus his thoughts had gone round and round, from new confidence to familiar dread. He could not read, or write, or be still. He paced about the cell until its walls oppressed him, then walked through the yards until the thought of remaining confined within them, which felt a greater insult now for his having contemplated the real possibility of imminent release, drove him back into the cell again. He missed Tim, with whom he had become accustomed to talk about their respective reading, and who would frequently, copying Sarah's example of trying to cheer him a little, relate a humorous tale he had heard at an inn or in Mr. Henley's kitchen. So poor was his concentration that he could not absorb the facts of a case presented to him by a new prisoner desirous of his help, and was forced to send the fellow away with the promise of a hearing at another time.

To this general perturbation of his mind and spirit had been added a growing particular alarm, which gradually overshadowed any consideration of his own situation: he had not yet that day received a letter from Marianne. She was always very quick to reply to his of the mornings, and sometimes wrote again before the day was done. It was possible, even probable, that the express rider from Delaford had simply been slowed by a fall or a lame horse, and that a letter would be brought to him any moment; but he could not suppress a worry that there had been some trouble at home. His earlier letter rejecting her plea to visit him might have offended her to the extent that her reply had been delayed while she deliberated how she should respond. But the news of Tim's evidence conveyed by Masters, followed so quickly by his own plea that she should come after all, surely would have extinguished any possible vexation. No, he could not but believe that some emergency had prevented her writing, and what else could that be but a recurrence of his daughter's illness? At about four o'clock he had sent an anxious note begging for prompt news or reassurance, this time directing it to Mrs. Baynes, in the event that an unrelated crisis--a fire in the village, perhaps, or some disaster at Norland--had called all the family away; but he had not yet received a reply.

It was now nearly seven, and dusk was gathering. He had been served his dinner by Samuel, but had eaten so little that it had hardly been worth the poor fellow's trouble to set the table and carry the several trays back and forth; a plate of cold meat and a loaf would have been more than he could stomach. He did not trouble to light his candles, as no poem or essay would make sense to him in his present state, no caricature would ease his frown, and alternately paced or lay on his cot while the shadows deepened around him.

A knock sounded at the door and he lunged forward, hoping for an express to be put into his hand; but Samuel had only an invitation to offer, from Mr. Henley, who wished to see him at once. The servant could not tell him why, and Brandon followed in curiosity and trepidation: had Henley received some awful news from Delaford, with a request to relay it in person? It was not a very probable circumstance, but in his present state of uneasiness the most devastating possibilities seemed the most likely.

When he walked into the keeper's office, he saw Henley at his desk, busily perusing some papers; three other men were with him. One was Mr. Haydock, who stood over Henley's shoulder and now and then pointed out some passage or other; he smiled delightedly at Brandon's entrance. The second stood slightly apart and half turned away, lightly slapping his hat against his thigh; but Brandon hardly noticed him upon seeing that the third man was Mr. Humphries. The shock, the burst of hope, upon seeing him and Haydock's smile together, consumed his entire attention. "Haydock, I hardly expected to see you again so soon--and Mr. Humphries, I did not expect to see you at all. May I assume-- Does your coming indicate that the discovery of the morning has at last swayed Lord Melgrove's opinion in my favor?"

Several things then happened in quick succession. Humphries and Haydock gave Brandon an odd look, which he was attempting to decipher when the second man began to turn, the movement catching his eye; and Humphries was just saying sourly, "It was rather more persuasive that the gentleman you had such an indisputable motive for killing has turned out not to be dead," when Brandon realized that the man across the room, frowning at him in obvious puzzlement, was John Willoughby himself.

Willoughby was speaking, but Brandon could neither hear nor understand, and stared rather stupidly at all four of them. Only momentarily, however, was his brain stunned into inaction. Willoughby--alive! It was a matter of seconds to leap ahead to the happy consequences of such a timely and miraculous turn of events. It was explanation, it was exoneration--for there was very little danger of his being suspected of killing a stranger, the mystery of the button being now solved. Willoughby alive! He really could not decide whether to embrace the rogue or strangle him--from an immediate conviction of Willoughby's somehow bearing responsibility for every evil that had befallen him. "Mr.--Willoughby--," he said slowly, "--I never once thought that I would at any time in my life be pleased to see you." He found it suddenly necessary to reach for a chair. "You will excuse me if I sit--"

At last what Willoughby was saying penetrated his consciousness. "Please, Colonel--bestir yourself-- Do you mean to say that you did not know until this moment--?" He looked toward the door as if expecting to see an additional person there. "Has not Mar--Mrs. Brandon arrived?"

"Marianne? She knows about--you?" (with a weak nod and a vague wave of the hand in Willoughby's direction).

"Yes--she visited Allenham earlier today, discovered me and heard my accounting, and planned to come here after a brief stop at Delaford."

"Marianne coming here? She visited Allenham, you say?"

With some impatience, Willoughby related what had occurred--though it might be confidently assumed that, safe from Marianne's amendments, he accentuated the facts of his reappearance and coming forward rather than the delay attending both. Despite his continuing amazement, Brandon was fully conscious of the heavy irony of his being dependent upon the same man for both peril and rescue. He thought that Willoughby looked very hale for one who professed to have just risen from his sickbed, and also that it was a remarkable coincidence that Marianne should happen to journey to Allenham on the very day that Willoughby was about to journey to Dorchester for the purpose of saving him; but so charitably disposed was he toward the young man simply for his not being deceased, that he could for the moment set aside any present suspicion, as well as any former desire of altering that state.

"He arrived at Melgrove Lodge with his letter of identity and his version of events very soon after Mr. Wilverton and myself," Haydock said. "His lordship himself took his deposition, and when it was seen that his description of the probable murderer matched Tim's description of the man to whom he sold your coat, his lordship and Mr. Wilverton readily agreed to bail you at once, with the final settling of the details to be completed in the coming week. Of course we will not know beyond doubt the identity of the murdered man until we exhume the body, but of its being Mr. Brownlow I believe we can be reasonably assured. Mr. Willoughby insisted that we bring the order immediately, and you can imagine that I also lent my voice to his urgings; but he was in such haste that Humphries's coachman and my own could hardly keep up with him. We can now provide Constable Parker and Sergeant Masters, if he is still disposed to assist in a search, with not only a face but a name--a name which Mr. Havers, incidentally, was unable--or unwilling--to supply."

"The name he gave Mr. Willoughby was Bill Robb," said Henley, "and I see you recognize it as well as I, sir--an alias of our friend William Roberts, old Wrecker Bill himself. The description matches, too. We might get him for good this time. And you will not object, I think, to paying your fifty pounds to the man who was presumed dead!"

"Oh no, Mr. Henley," Willoughby demurred, "I would not accept Colonel Brandon's money--I am glad to do what I can, especially as I did in a way cause his predicament." This pretty speech made all of them but one think what a modest and generous young gentleman he was. "You can give thanks for my resurrection later, Colonel--now will you please tell me whether you have had any communication from your wife?"--hoping, even as he expressed genuine concern for Marianne, that Brandon's own worry would distract him from an effort to discern the true particulars of the story he had been told.

Though Willoughby's information did serve to relieve Brandon's anxiety as to the health of his daughter, for Marianne would never have left Delaford had Joy been ill--and in fact had herself departed before ever receiving either of his letters--at the same time it only increased his anxiety for the safety of his wife, for something had certainly delayed her arrival in Dorchester. Again he thought first of accident, though the delay could just as easily be explained by a carriage wheel needing repair or by a section of road so deteriorated by the recent rains that she had been forced to travel by an alternate route. She might also have reached Delaford at a late enough hour that she had thought it imprudent to proceed, and had already sent him a note informing him of her intention to arrive on the morrow. But as the possibility of her being in danger, and the reason for it, sank into his awareness, all his previous benevolent feeling toward Willoughby vanished as if it had never been.

"No, I have not." His legs having recovered their strength, he rose from the chair and advanced. Willoughby took an involuntary step backward, but he was not swift enough to prevent Brandon's hands from gripping his lapels. "Be assured, Mr. Willoughby, that having today escaped an unjust fate I shall not court a just one. Your life is secure; indeed, only briefly have I ever regretted sparing it when it was in my hands. But if harm has come to my wife because of anything you have done or neglected to do, I swear I will give you a caning you will never forget."

"You--you would not dare to cane a gentleman!" Willoughby sputtered.

"You are correct. I would not cane a gentleman. But I would with pleasure cane you."

Standing so close to him, Brandon could see the nervous tremors about Willoughby's eyes and mouth, the perspiration on his upper lip. Satisfied that the knave was properly cowed, he was about to release him--when a flicker of surprise on Willoughby's face, a drawn breath, as at the sight of something over Brandon's shoulder, and a cry of "Mis-ter Padgett!" from Henley behind him, gave him warning.

Padgett's stick descended toward his skull with all the willfully vicious force its owner, an animal growl emitting from his throat, could give it. Brandon flung up his left forearm in time to shield his head, and felt the impact of the blow through his flesh and bone all the way to his shoulder. His right hand still clutching Willoughby's lapel, in staggering backward he pulled Willoughby slightly around, so that Willoughby's body was interposed between himself and Padgett. Willoughby in his turn trying to recover his balance, and Padgett hesitating so as not to strike him, Brandon was granted the necessary seconds to get his feet beneath him, shove Willoughby out of his way, and spring forward, his right fist aiming squarely for Padgett's stomach. With the obstruction of Willoughby removed, Padgett was able to bring up his stick again, but before he could land a second blow Brandon's own jab, driven by long-repressed rage as well as present anger at this gratuitous attack, struck solidly, and Padgett doubled over with a satisfying grunt.

Into this pause both Willoughby and Henley inserted themselves, Henley with a frantic admonition to Padgett as to why he should restrain himself from breaking Brandon's head, Willoughby perhaps from the automatic indignation of a gentleman at seeing one of his class set upon by a rowdy.

"Well, I didn't know he was to be let go, did I?" Padgett shouted in a defensive fury, clutching at his stomach. "I sees him about to thrash a gentleman who I took to be a visitor, didn't I?" But he backed away as his erstwhile victim, quickly recovering his breath and carefully holding his arm motionless against his waist, started toward him.

Brandon halted with his face only inches from that of his nemesis. "Daniel Padgett, I hereby charge you with assault, and commit you to this gaol to await trial." His good hand closed around Padgett's stick and wrested it from his grasp. "Mr. Haydock, will you prepare the order, and the recognizances to bind these gentlemen over to appear as witnesses?"

"At once, sir," Haydock said, with enthusiasm. Padgett's face was livid as Henley, having no other choice in response to a commitment order from a magistrate, summoned the second turnkey to take him into custody.

"Shall I call the surgeon, Colonel?" Henley then inquired, somewhat timorously. "Your arm--"

"No--it is not broken, only bruised." Trembling a little now with reaction, and with the knowledge of how near he had come to losing his life when just on the point of having it restored to him, he sank again into the chair he had so recently vacated. "I must start for Delaford immediately."

"My carriage is yours," Willoughby said, an instant before Brandon would have demanded it; one could not be hired in less than an hour.

It required but another signature here or there, and Brandon--so suddenly after such long uncertainty and apprehension--was a free man. "I will keep your belongings safe until you can send a servant for them--under lock and key, as it were, ahem--" Henley was jabbering as Brandon exited the office and started through the entry lodge, Willoughby at his heels. The turnkey could not get the gate open quickly enough for him, but once outside he halted a moment, feeling the blessed open space all around him, breathing in the freshness of the air, and looked back at the long high walls disappearing into the evening gloom, at the shadowed rooftop on which he might have died. And then he stepped into the carriage, his own ordeal all but forgotten in his new fear for Marianne.

Willoughby had ordered his coachman to make all possible speed, and while Brandon had no wish to request otherwise, so tender was his arm that though he cradled it against his midriff, every bump in the road was as a fresh blow. He could not completely conceal his distress, and after a time Willoughby said, "Do you want laudanum? I always carry it in a travelling kit--"

"No--I will need my wits about me."

Willoughby seemed to take his remark as a kind of accusation. Tense and self-conscious at finding himself alone with Brandon without the possibly ameliorating influence of Marianne, he began to talk in a quick, breathless fashion. "Colonel, you must believe I never meant to hurt Marianne--Mrs. Brandon. If anything has happened to her--or to Miss Dashwood--"

Brandon's head snapped up. "Margaret as well?"

"Yes, I saw her as they drove away."

"Dear God-- Mr. Willoughby, your progress through the world is littered with unintentional harm. Did you never mean to hurt Miss Eliza Williams?"

"This has nothing to do with Eliza!"

"Any relations between us, Mr. Willoughby, have everything to do with Eliza. Do you not see--have you not yet learned--that it is your very lack of forethought that causes such grave difficulties for others? Had you come forward at once--so you did delay; I see it in your face--it would not have been necessary for Mrs. Brandon to visit Allenham and she would therefore not be in her current apparent danger. It is true that it was my wife's own--selfless decision--" (with a slight breaking of his voice) "--to pursue such a line of inquiry, but it is also true that she would have had no reason to do so were it not for your own selfish desire to lash out at me. To say nothing of the thoughtless risk you took in gaming in a place that would admit such a vile specimen as William Roberts. And you thought to bring Marianne into that world!"

"You cannot blame me for the actions of William Roberts twenty miles from where I encountered him. And do you really believe that I would have continued in that world had I not lost Marianne?"

"Lost?" Brandon said harshly.

"All right, then! Gave her up, cast her aside-- Is that what you wish to hear?"

"It is the truth."

"I shall not beg your forgiveness, Colonel, for I know you will never give it me, and rightly so. But I do ask you to accept my pledge that I shall do all in my power to find Marianne and bring her home safely." After a moment Willoughby added, with a bitterness that might have moved any other man, or even his present companion at any other time, "Home to you. I congratulate you on having gained that love I cast aside."

The current pessimistic tendencies of Brandon's imagination made Willoughby's words a lance through his heart. "Do not speak to me further, Mr. Willoughby, of my wife or any other subject."

"You believe I have no feeling at all--!"

"Do not speak to me," Brandon said again, more quietly, and there was that in his face and voice that rendered Willoughby, perhaps contemplating the dark, lonely road, and the degree of loyalty of his coachman and groom, mute for the remainder of the journey.

********************

Their arrival at Delaford occasioned the greatest commotion that that fine old house had ever known. The servants had never seen Willoughby and paid him no more regard than they would any guest--rather less, in fact, due to their being so disconcerted by their master's unexpected arrival. It was, in fact, Mrs. Baynes's astonished "Colonel Brandon, sir!" that brought Mrs. Dashwood, Elinor--who with Rosalind was spending the evening with her mother while Edward at his dinner was missing more events of interest than he had ever envisioned--and Jonah Masters rushing from the parlor into the foyer, where they had not time to ask the first question before beholding Willoughby standing just inside the door. They were all three then overcome in their separate ways, Mrs. Dashwood being in danger of a swoon, Elinor in danger of never again moving her limbs or making a sound, and Masters in danger of uttering a very shocking volley of oaths.

Willoughby was startled and not a little dismayed to find himself in the presence of the man who had discovered his deceit, but he possessed sufficient poise to bow to Elinor with a conscious smile and show concern for Mrs. Dashwood--though in Brandon's house he was hesitant to put himself forward to offer aid, particularly under the cold, penetrating glare of Sergeant Masters. Colonel Brandon, being neither overcome nor hesitant, was the quickest to help Mrs. Dashwood to a chair, to obtain salts from Mrs. Baynes, to see her supported into the parlor by the housekeeper and Polly. He then turned to Elinor.

"Are your sisters here?"--though by their not having appeared to investigate all the noise, he had already been given his answer.

Elinor had to exert herself to turn her eyes away from Willoughby and to recover her speech, but her brother's need of information from her was a welcome stimulus, for she would not have wanted to remain dumb and rooted as a post for any longer than was absolutely necessary. "No, they have not arrived. We received your inquiry and sent an immediate, though incomplete, explanation that Marianne had been out all day and had not yet read your earlier letter--probably you passed the rider within the last hour. We had expected Marianne to leave Margaret here on her way to Dorchester, but assumed she had been unable to spare the time. They did not come to you, then?" Her own concern growing every second, she grasped his arms, and though her grip had not been very forceful, he jerked the left away with a gasp of pain. "Colonel!--are you hurt?"

Hearing this, Masters suspended his wordless persecution of Willoughby and stepped to his friend's side. "What happened?"

Brandon had ample reason to regret his sudden motion; the fiery throbbing of his arm travelled throughout his body, and black spots danced before his eyes. "Padgett," he said through gritted teeth.

"I knew you'd run afoul of him--or he of you. I hope you did equal damage to him. Is it broken?"

"No--that is, I do not think so. The hand and fingers move as they ought, though with some difficulty and discomfort."

"The surgeon did not examine it? Let me have a look, then."

"We haven't time--"

"If it's broken it must be set before the muscles spasm. Besides, they have to change the horses and affix more lamps to the carriage." With a glance Masters indicated that Willoughby should see to these tasks; the latter complied without protest, but not without a strong display of indignation at being thus ordered about, to which Masters paid no attention.

The sergeant helped Brandon off with his coat, the sleeve being very tight over the injured arm, and when the shirt sleeve was pushed up it was seen that the arm was badly swollen and a dozen awful shades of purple and red. "You're lucky that wasn't your head."

"It was intended to be," Brandon replied tersely, and Elinor shuddered. "Mr. Padgett will not stand straight for several days, and will not see the outside of Dorset Gaol for very much longer than that--and he will never be employed within another if I can prevent it. I do regret, however, that if I had to be so uncivilized as to brawl with him, I was not given a few more seconds in which to smash his nose. I beg your pardon, Mrs. Ferrars." Elinor, having heard a comment or two about Padgett from both Masters and Sarah Marchbanks, granted it readily.

Masters's thorough prodding, which Brandon endured wordlessly though the color drained from his face and he breathed very hard, determined to the relief of all that the bones were intact. The sergeant--who had clearly gained some medical knowledge during the course of his army career--hoped for ice, but the ice house had given up the last of its store the previous month, and he therefore contented himself with the sheets and strips of bandaging that Elinor brought for the fashioning of a protective wrapping and sling.

"All we can do," Brandon said, fretting at being deprived of mobility during their treatment, "is proceed toward Allenham and hope to meet them, or at the least obtain a report at a turnpike gate or an inn. Jonah, may I ask--"

"Of course I'll come, sir."

"Shall we expect the Marchbankses tomorrow?" Elinor asked, calculating whether Mrs. Baynes should make up more beds.

"Good God--Sarah! I neglected to inform them--"

"I will send a message. Do not worry--they will understand."

He pressed her hand in thanks. "Bless you, Mrs. Ferrars--now they will not arrive as usual tomorrow morning and think I have been taken to the gallows prematurely."

While the torchlit bustle continued in the sweep and a rumble of thunder could be heard overhead, Brandon led Masters into his study; when they returned each carried a sword, pistols, and rifle. Elinor's eyes widened, and he hastened to reassure her. "No doubt I am overcautious, but we do not know what we shall find, and I will not be unprepared."

"Will you go up to see Joy before you go? She is asleep, but--"

"I cannot. I cannot risk any contamination until I have bathed and changed my clothing, and there is not time when every hour might be critical to the safety of her mother." He looked up in the direction of the nursery, wondering whether his family would be complete once more within hours, or whether he now faced a new grief. "Will you--kiss her for me?"

The misery on his face, the roughness of his voice, affected Elinor very much. "My dear Colonel, of course I will."

Minutes later, Willoughby came in to inform them that the carriage was ready, and paled to see that he would be forced to ride with two enemies so impressively armed. With promises to exercise careful haste and to send word if they should be kept overnight, they were gone, leaving Elinor and her mother, now recovered, and all the servants to exclaim and wonder and be uneasy together.

********************

The light from the carriage lamps made rivulets of gold on the rain-spattered windows, the patterns playing over the faces of the three silent men within. Brandon stared out into the darkness, unable to find the slightest enjoyment in his reinstated ability to ride about the country, for what was freedom, what was life, without Marianne?

Masters stared at Willoughby, who shifted constantly on his seat and did not know what to stare at, Brandon making him guilty and Masters making him timid, and both together making him resentful. Finally he demanded, "Why do you examine me in that manner?"

"If truth be told," Masters answered easily, "I'm thinking how long it's been since I had occasion to flog a man."

Brandon was well aware that Masters never approached that grim duty with anything but revulsion, but could not persuade himself that Willoughby deserved to be similarly informed.

Willoughby gave a weak laugh. "You will have to wait until I have recuperated from my caning," he said, in the obvious hope that a self-deprecating humor might appease.

"Are you going to cane him?" (to Brandon).

"I threatened it."

"That's all right, then; I'm a patient man."

In the darkness, Willoughby could not very well see their faces, could not divine whether they seriously meant to administer these tortures. Boldly he declared, "You would both be court-martialled--!"

"Only if witnesses could be found," Masters replied, and Willoughby said nothing more for quite some time.

They had stopped at the Leighton farm to separate Tim from his family yet again, not knowing how many men might be useful in the management of a disabled carriage and four possibly frightened or escaped horses, and he and Willoughby's groom, Joseph, were employed in dashing through the rain to inns and turnpike tollhouses seeking reports of any accident. As the negative responses mounted, Brandon could not keep his thoughts from turning to the several old bridges on their route and the cold streams and canals they crossed--as well as the possibility that Marianne and Margaret had for some reason taken another route entirely and had met their unknown mishap God knew where.

"She's quite safe, Colonel, I assure you," Willoughby said desperately after one of these fruitless halts, unnerved by Brandon's weighty silence. "It is only a broken wheel or axle, with no post office in easy reach. Delaford would have received word in the morning--"

Brandon did not move, only shifted his gaze; he was very tired and in considerable pain, and wished to conserve as much of his strength as he could in case it should be needed. "I envy you your confidence, Mr. Willoughby--if you truly feel it." He looked out again at the night.

At last, at about eleven o'clock, they received vital information at the Markham gate. They halted, and Tim and Joseph hopped down and splashed toward the tollhouse. A few moments later they knocked at the carriage door and presented the gatekeeper, who said, "You won't get far the way you're headed, gentlemen. I'm to warn all travellers that there's a bread riot up ahead, in Pimmerton. You must go round by way of Milton Grange if you're set on getting through tonight."

Brandon thanked him and gave him sixpence for being made to stand in the rain; and once the toll was paid and the gate raised they started forward again, only to take the first turning to the right. "That is what has held her up, then," said Willoughby, much relieved on Marianne's account and his own. "She could not progress farther, and has taken rooms for the night. An express rider would have been diverted as well, and is perhaps even now pounding at Delaford's door."

"I grant you that a carriage accident seems less probable," Brandon replied, "but you talk as if what has apparently befallen them does not cause you the least concern! Two ladies alone at night, possibly beset by a mob, with only a coachman and groom to protect them--and you are not alarmed?" His fingers flexed as if taking hold of a cane.

"Good God, Brandon--you cannot blame me for a bread riot as well!"

"No, but I do blame you for the behavior that might have put my wife and sister in the thick of it."

"Upon my oath, I have never met such a worrier as you. They are perfectly safe!"

"You had better pray that you are right."

********************

Chapter Fifteen

During the early part of their journey, Marianne and Margaret had set a fine pace, though a rising wind buffeted the carriage and a sullen sky promised a storm before morning. Only let me reach Dorchester, Marianne thought, and the whole county may be flooded before I will mind it. She put her trust in George, and lost herself in weary reflection.

By the time she had emerged from the house the astonishing news had already reached Margaret, for which Marianne was grateful, as it allowed her to escape the immediate reporting of what had occurred. She could not, however, escape her sister's excited narration of how she had been informed. "You were within for such a long time that I had got out to walk about and pet the horses and talk to George and Ned and Ezra--that is the postilion, and he has worked in almost every county in England!--when a carriage was brought out from the stables. I asked George to find out from the coachman whose it was, for knowing that Mrs. Smith never stirs from home I could not imagine who in this house would possess a carriage so fine. And the coachman said that Mr. Willoughby had ordered it! How he did laugh at the looks on our faces! I craned my neck to see within when the door was opened to let you out, but I did not espy him. Is it true, Marianne, that Willoughby is alive? Did you see him?"

"Yes, he is alive. I saw him, and talked with him."

"What did he look like? What did he say? What did you say? I was trembling with the thought of what must be occurring within! Is it true that he has been back for two days? How I wish you had let me come! I could have told him how I loathe him--even if I am glad for Colonel Brandon's sake that he is not dead, for the colonel will now be freed, will not he? I heard Ned ask George if he thought you would shoot Willoughby! If I had my workbag I could prick him with a very large needle-- Marianne, what is the matter?"--for tears were coursing down her sister's cheeks.

"Margaret, please do not ask me for explanations just now. I am exhausted--and--and bewildered--"

She felt battered by one extreme emotion after another. Relief and joy were mingled with anger and sorrow, as were the love of one man and the hatred of another, so that there was very little difference in degree between her agitation now and that she had felt at the commencement of this long ordeal. But at last she could convince herself that her meeting with Willoughby had not existed only in her imagination, as the product of her urgent need to help her husband, and she was able to give Margaret as full a report, of what had been said on all sides and what she herself had thought and observed and surmised, as she could have wished.

"How much of this will you tell Colonel Brandon?" her sister asked, considerably calmer now herself, though still wishing very much for her needles.

"I do not know. He is entitled to be told what portion of his sufferings have been due to Willoughby's deliberate inaction. At the same time, however, I want only that this horrible situation should end. But when Christopher is made aware how grievously Willoughby has wronged him again--"

Gone was Margaret's earlier romantic excitement; she was all gravity now. "Would he challenge him a second time, do you think?"

"Oh, I do not know! The risk would be tremendous-- But were I in his place, I believe I should certainly be inclined to retaliate in some manner or other--"

Further upsetting speculation was prevented by the sudden deceleration of the carriage. When they did not at once resume their former speed, Marianne opened the panel and asked George why he had slowed.

"We've come upon a prodigious lot of traffic, ma'am, all bunched together," was his reply. "Something brewing up ahead--though maybe it's only a fair has closed down for the night, for it'll be dark soon. I've sent Ned to see."

"Am I not to reach Dorchester tonight after all?" Marianne cried. "To be delayed now, when I am on my way to him--!" All she asked for in the world was to throw her arms about her husband and pour out her love to him; to be denied a wish so profoundly simple and generous would be intolerable. "Oh, why must there be a fair just here today?"

But it was not a fair, as they learned when Ned returned out of the twilight half an hour later with the report that a crowd was gathering in the village of Pimmerton just ahead, to protest the hoarding of grain by some local farmers with the intention of sending it to London where it would fetch a higher price. "It an't right for folk to go hungry when we've finally had a good harvest, they say." Ned delivered his information through the window Marianne had opened, easily keeping pace with the crawling carriage. "They're talking of breaking into the store-house, and some want to see the farmers swing--"

"Ned!" George barked.

"Beg your pardon, ma'am--but that's what they're saying. Only some, though."

"How far to the crossroads?" George asked. "Maybe we can go around."

"About a mile, but they're t'other side of the village--we'll never get through. There's another way, though, a fellow told me, if we can take the turning by the mill."

"With your leave, ma'am, we'll do that. Hop up, Ned!"

Marianne had no choice but to rely upon the judgment of her coachman, and summoned what little patience she could as they crept along, ever more slowly due to the other travellers around them following the same plan as their own and creating a lengthening congestion, the side-road being narrow and rutted and generally inadequate to such heavy use. George grumbled continually about the danger of a complete halt should two carriages become ensnarled and block the way, and Marianne envied the horsemen who could ride along the verge or even over the fields; had they been within five miles of Dorchester she would happily have completed the distance on her own two feet, if necessary disdaining the roads entirely.

George's dire prognostications were proven accurate; in a very little while they found themselves at a standstill. The ladies heard shouted conversation among George, Ned, and the postilion, and the carriage shook as Ned climbed down. Marianne was about to open the window again, despite the dust stirred up by feet and hooves and wheels and blown about by the wind, when George raised the panel. "That's torn it. There are three chaises all blundered together up ahead--horses plunging about, grooms and postilions hanging on for dear life. We're stuck here for a while, ma'am."

"Can we not turn around?"

"No, ma'am--we're hemmed in. Several gentlemen have sent their servants back along the road to warn folk to cut away earlier, so maybe we won't have too many more crowding up behind us. When the stream of folk heading for the village thins a bit, the rest of us ought to be able to back out one by one."

But the stream of angry humanity did not thin; rather it swelled and surged, dozens growing into hundreds, so that many carriages, including their own, were shoved gradually forward and packed more and more tightly together. Marianne and Margaret clasped each other's hands in alarm but at the same time gave a strange kind of thanks for the jam of vehicles around them; the solid wheels and bodies shielded them from the mob, and though they were jostled repeatedly they could be certain they would not be overturned, for there simply was not the space to allow it.

Bellowed conversation ensued between George and Ned and the neighboring coachmen and grooms, from whom but a few feet of space separated them, all of them trying to subdue their nervous, snorting horses and protect their irritated passengers in a mêlée that showed no indication of imminent subsidence. Though the ladies felt blind and trapped, it required but one glance out the window, at the numbers of men and women threading their way amongst the carriages even at the risk of being crushed, to see that they themselves were far safer where they were than they should be if they tried to make their way to the side of the road, even with George and Ned to breast a way for them--and as they would hardly be safe then unless they could take shelter, and the only shelter nearby was in the very village that was in an uproar, there seemed no sense in such an endeavor.

Suddenly the shouts of the coachmen and grooms reached a new pitch, and the carriage shook violently as if George were jumping about. "Good heaven!" Marianne exclaimed, and was about to inquire when George slapped open the panel.

"Some ruffians are cutting loose every horse they can reach! They've got both our leaders and several from the carriages nearest us. Ezra and Ned have gone after them, but what hope they have in this crowd I don't know. Confound it, ma'am, I'm that sorry--but it's fair certain now that we won't get even to Delaford tonight, let alone Dorchester."

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This state of paralysis continued for more than two hours. Ezra and Ned rejoined them safely but empty-handed, the postilion far more concerned about his failure to recover the horses than his several bruises and badly scraped cheek. He wondered whether he ought not escape into the army rather than return only two animals to his employer instead of the four with which he had been sent out; but he was heartened upon receiving Marianne's assurances that she would verify his explanation of their loss. The throng continued to expand, so that by ten o'clock George was estimating that above eight hundred folk had squeezed themselves into tiny Pimmerton, with another fifty carriages with their irate passengers and scurrying servants piled behind--"and that's only at this end of the village." Shouts rose, and answering threats, the center of the disturbance seeming to be a confrontation between a group of men wielding pitchforks and axes, and another group, unarmed, standing their ground before the store-house doors. Ned wished very much to move closer, but George ordered him to remain with his mistress. Comforted by distance and having faith that her husband's men would ensure the safety of herself and her sister, Marianne was far more vexed than frightened, and Margaret could not be entirely displeased that she had not been deprived of all the excitement of the day.

Sufficient torches had been kindled that progress could be seen in the disentangling of carriages to the rear of the jam. "Another hour or two might free us, ma'am," George was saying, "though we'll be slow with only two horses--" when the sudden cry of "Fire!" was raised--and the crowd began to surge back the way it had come and the carriages were compressed together from the opposite direction even closer than before. Over the sea of heads, bright orange tongues of flame could be seen licking at the roof line of a row of shops. Amidst shrieks and yells and the frantic neighs of horses terrified by the bite of smoke at their nostrils, some in the crowd managed to form bucket brigades from the mill pond. "Don't worry, Mrs. Brandon, Miss Dashwood," George said, while Ezra and Ned jumped down to try to calm their remaining pair of horses, "if it starts to spread this way, we'll get you ladies out somehow."

That he should feel it necessary to reassure them filled Marianne with a sudden chill. "Oh Margaret, I am so sorry I brought you--"

"You could hardly have foreseen a riot!" her sister pointed out reasonably, though her voice did quaver. "All will be well, you will see."

The wind had continued to strengthen, and though it blew showers of sparks about it was more welcomed than feared, the sparks being easily smothered or stamped out and the coming rain promising to save Pimmerton from conflagration. Heavy clouds scudded across the sky and obscured the moon, and finally broke apart to drench the multitude. "Might serve to cool off a few warm heads," George commented hopefully, pulling oil-cloths from his box for himself and Ned and Ezra, and indeed there did seem to be some desertion at the fringes of the crowd, on the part of those who had not felt sufficiently compelled by outrage or interest to force their way forward. Sheets of water extinguished torches and hissed on the blazing roof, and there was general optimism all around--until the adjacent building, in the direction approaching the Brandon carriage, was seen to be in flames.

Remembering all too clearly his master's express order that he should take care of his mistress, poor George was tormented with greater agonies than he would ever allow that mistress to observe. He was faced with the awful choice of waiting to determine whether the villagers could put out the fire before it spread to the carriages, all the while hoping he did not wait too long, or assisting Mrs. Brandon and Miss Dashwood into the much more certain peril of muddy footing amidst shifting carriage wheels and panicked horses. He peered through the panel time and again, relieved to see that they were not hysterical as were some of the ladies in the carriages nearby, and told himself that it was not necessary to decide just yet. He watched in horror as one gentleman, attempting to convey his wife to safety, carrying her so as to protect her feet in their dainty slippers, was caught between two carriage wheels; the man cried out, the lady screamed, and when he was freed by the wheels jerking in the opposite direction, a large stain of red showed above his boot as he hobbled on. "Oh God, Ned," George cried, looking all about and seeing no pathway open, "I don't know what I should do--"

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Some while later George began to shout again, and though Marianne could not distinguish the words, it seemed to her that he was calling out to someone. "He sounds very pleased--perhaps they are able to maneuver us free at last," she was saying, when the carriage door opened and her husband held out his hand to her.

"Christopher!"--"Colonel Brandon!"--were the cries that greeted his appearance, and Marianne, clumsy because she could not see through the sudden welling of her tears, threw herself into his arms. Because of his injury he could not catch her properly, and they swayed a little until he braced his shoulders against the side of the carriage. Though it was very far from being prudent, for a few blissful seconds they allowed the world to fall away around them, clinging to each other heedless of rain, mud, or decorum. She stroked his damp hair, sobbing endearments but also smiling through her tears, and his heart swelled in response to the force of her greeting even as he ascribed it to fright and relief; he did his utmost to soothe her, though he himself trembled with the easing of his own terror.

So tight was Marianne's embrace that she could feel against her own breast the pounding of his heart and its gradual slowing. "You are free," she said again and again, "you are free and returned to me!" She knew they must not linger, but for this moment she simply could not let him go.

"Yes, I am free--but more important, you are safe. I cannot describe the fear that coursed through me when we saw the flames, or the thanks I gave to see George against the light-- My Marianne--" He kissed her forehead, her nose, her lips. "But--we must go, my love--"

"Yes--yes--I know--" She was drowning in her love for him, as if the shocks of the day had intensified the feeling she had so recently--only that morning!--recognized; but she could not tell him here and now, in a hurried shout over the surrounding bedlam. She could, however, look her love, and for an instant something like wonder took hold of his expression, as if he had read something new in hers.

Their unspoken communication was interrupted, however, by Willoughby. He had taken charge of Margaret, who could hardly stand for gaping at him, while Masters and Ned and Tim kept a little space clear around them all. "Good evening, Mrs. Brandon, Miss Dashwood," he said with apparent cheer but a strange tautness to his voice, which might not be entirely attributable to haste. "You see I have brought you an army of rescuers."

Marianne turned to him with a beaming smile, having hitherto scarcely noticed him (or any of the others) but realizing now that he had done what he had said he would do--he had saved her husband--and so grateful was she in that moment that she almost loved him again. She clasped his hand, and he seemed grateful in his turn for this open expression of her thanks; but Brandon was spared any misinterpretation of her gesture by the snugness of the arm that remained around him, by the pressure of her body against his own.

"I didn't know how we would get through with just two of us to protect the ladies," George was saying, "and that's if Ezra would stay with the carriage. Nor where we could take them out of the way of harm if we did. I'm that glad to see you, sir."

"It was not an easy feat to get through with five," Brandon told him. He handed up a guinea or two. "Defend the carriage if you can, but do not give limb or life for it. That will hire another team when the crowd disperses, and buy you lodgings for a night if necessary. Divide what is left among you."

"Thank you, sir. You watch your own horses, Mr. Willoughby--there's a gang here very quick with a knife at the harness. We'll see you at Delaford, Colonel, as soon as ever may be!"

They started through the crowd in a tightly knit group, the men forcing the way with Tim, the burliest of them, in the lead. Employing his right arm in shoving aside those who would impede their progress, Brandon had no choice but to support Marianne with his left, and black spots danced again before his eyes. Now and then Marianne heard him exhale sharply, as if in pain, but in that hazardous tangle she could not question him. The rain had eased somewhat but water yet ran into their eyes, their clothing was saturated, and the ladies' shoes and hems were a ruin; all of them slipped now and then in the mud, and clutched at each other for balance. They made for the edge of the crowd, where Willoughby's carriage was under the protection of his coachman and groom, who brandished whip and stick to ward off thieves. As they came nearer, the bedraggled party could hear the two men urging them to hurry, Willoughby's carriage, too, in impending danger of being engulfed.

But they reached it in safety, the men blowing hard and sweating, Margaret staring even more amazedly at Willoughby in the direct light of the carriage lamps; and in a moment the ladies were handed inside, Willoughby followed, and Masters joined the coachman upon his box. While they wrapped themselves in the blankets Willoughby always carried, Brandon stood on the step, holding fast to the rack, trying to see through the haze of rain and steam whether there were any magistrate or constable reading the Riot Act and attempting to pacify the crowd. He saw none, and though his sense of duty urged him to make the effort himself, his judgment of the circumstances told him it was hopeless. Such assemblages as this were usually well known before-hand; how the local magistrates, with whom he was acquainted, could have permitted such an explosion of hostility in a rare time of plenty, he could not fathom. But this was hardly the time to meditate upon magisterial competence; he must get Marianne and Margaret home. He prepared to swing down.

He was holding on with his strong right hand, so that when the panicked horse careered toward him out of the darkness and the mob, he had only the injured left arm to thrust out to protect himself. The impact of the animal slammed him back against the carriage, for he had been leaning out a little so as to see better; his head struck sharply, but the agony that shot through his arm as it was crushed against the frame was such that he thought he must now know how it felt to have one's limb blown off by a cannon. The horse plunged away. Brandon's fingers went slack, and he fell.

Marianne cried out his name. Masters, having seen the horse and anticipated the collision too late to shout a warning--though a warning would have done little good--was yet able to lunge forward and catch hold of Brandon's shirt and waistcoat, so that he might retard his friend's fall enough that Willoughby, alerted by Marianne's cry, could leap out and help to ease him down. Masters in his turn then jumped down from the box, and the two men together lifted Brandon, stunned but conscious, into the carriage. He was bleeding badly from a gash behind his left ear, and Masters produced a handkerchief and instructed Marianne to press firmly on the wound. He said her name and fumbled for her hand, and she cradled him against her. She had noted that he was not wearing a coat but only now saw the bandage on his arm, though she did not at that moment trouble Masters for an explanation.

This delay had allowed the seething crowd to move nearer, and a shout from the coachman was their indication that some toughs had in fact laid hands on the horses. Willoughby, wild-eyed with alarm but determined that his horses should not be stolen and that Marianne should not be stranded in a mob overnight, grabbed one of Brandon's pistols and aimed it at the nearest thief, who upon seeing his peril yelled an order, and with his minions vanished into the crowd. Panting with agitation, Willoughby slammed the door and climbed up onto the box, Masters having appropriated his place within the carriage and showing no sign of voluntarily giving it up. They started swiftly away, Willoughby at first keeping the pistol at hand; but at last they were free of any outlying disturbance, and he set it aside and took the reins himself.

They retraced their route through Milton Grange, even in the darkness making fair speed without the necessity of stopping every mile to make inquiries. Within the carriage Marianne, heedless of the others' presence, told her husband how much she had missed him, and how glad their little Joy would be to see her dear papa. Brandon was able to murmur replies and clasp her hand, though his grip was weak in the right hand and he could not move his left at all, and he sagged against her from not being able to hold himself upright. She applied Masters's handkerchief to the gash until it was soaked through, and then exchanged it for the strips of linen that Margaret had torn from a petticoat, tears of renewed fright falling all the while. In the mottled moonlight he looked terribly pale. As they neared Delaford village his speech became slurred, and by the time they pulled up at the manor house he was insensible in her arms.

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Continue to Chapters 16-17

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