Although his jaw ached prodigiously from the result of the blow inflicted upon it by Doctor Syn, and although he ached from head to foot from his fall and the manhandling he had afterwards received, the Squire of Iffley lost no time in planning his revenge. He decided that this could best be served by first striking at Doctor Syn through the beautiful Spanish girl. If he could kidnap both the mother and daughter from the house in St. Giles', and get them spirited away to his own mansion at Iffley, he felt that he could hold them prisoners until they consented to all his wishes.
He summoned the gate-keeper to whom he had given the blow and the guinea.
“I presume, Mister Cragg,” he whispered, as the gate-keeper stood before him at the dining-room table, “that you have had a full account of what happened this morning in St. Giles'? No doubt my carriage servants have given you the most graphic and, I dare swear, exaggerated version of the disadvantage I was put to, and in which they shared. Is that so?”
“I have heard that things did not go well with your honour,” replied the man. “In fact the state of your honour's coach told me that the cards must have fallen damned bad.”
“And so they did,” admitted the Squire, filling his glass with port. “But a gentleman of spirit should never get down-hearted at the continual falling of bad cards, for it always comes to your own deal at last.”
“With a good ace tucked up one's sleeve,” chuckled the man.
“And why not?” laughed the Squire. “Maybe I lost this morning, but it is my deal now, and those I play against will be astonished at the number of aces I shall have up my sleeve, and if by your help I win the game I mean to play, you shall have twenty guineas in your pocket. Now listen carefully, and I will tell you how I wish the cards to fall.” Whereupon the Squire unfolded his scheme.
Mister Cragg had no difficulty in watching White Friars, nor in recognizing his master's victims. There was Doctor Syn, whom he had met already, with his arm round the beautiful Spanish girl. There was the elder Spanish lady, her mother, and the other two at the open window he knew must be the lawyer and the lady he was wooing in the Woodstock Road. The crowded booths and stalls opposite the house lent him an easy concealment. As compensation for his weary wait, he watched the happiness upon the lovers' faces, and gloated over the contrasting emotions that were in store for them.
Earlier than he expected, he saw the whole party withdraw from the window, and began to congratulate himself that the gentlemen were so soon retiring. In this, however, he was doomed to disappointment, for it was only the lawyer and his lady who appeared at the front door, with Doctor Syn bidding them farewell.
But it was at parting that Cragg heard the lawyer say: “I shall be back within the hour, Christopher, and then we'll wend along together to the Chancellor.
He sits up late enough, the old rascal, and will welcome us to drink his port.”
“Well, Tony,” laughed Doctor Syn, “linger if you will upon the way, but hurry all you can upon your return, for, as you know, the Se—ora likes to retire to bed in good time.”
“Within the hour without fail,” replied Tony Cobtree, taking the hand of his lady and placing it under his arm, as they threaded their way through the packed merry-makers in St. Giles'.
So Mister Cragg had to exert his patience for yet another hour. However, Tony Cobtree was as good as his word, and better, for in half an hour he was back, and Cragg had no more waiting, for the two men immediately left the house on their way to the Chancellor's.
Although he knew their destination, Cragg followed them to make sure. He knew that they were not returning that night to White Friars, for he had heard Doctor Syn say to the Spanish girl, “I will be round for breakfast in the morning.” So when he saw them both disappear into the Chancellor's house he knew that it was safe, as far as they were concerned, to put the plot in motion.
But he lingered on the way back so that dusk should give place to night. Having seen that the carriage was ready outside St. Giles', in order to avoid the crowds, he leisurely walked towards White Friars. There he waited until the candles in the upper parlour were extinguished. He saw the light of bedroom candles being carried into another room, and then he rang the bell vigorously. The housekeeper, after some delay, opened the door on the chain, and he handed in a note, saying that the matter was very urgent and he would wait instructions. A few minutes later he was admitted into the hall, and found, just as the Squire had hoped, that the Spanish girl had readily fallen into the trap. Although her manner was calm, her eyes were bathed in tears, as she asked Cragg whether he had seen the accident. He told her, “No,” but he had seen the unfortunate gentlemen afterwards and had helped his master to lift him into a carriage, which was now waiting to convey her to the house, which was on the outskirts of the town.
“I will just go up and hasten my mother,” she said, “and we will start immediately. Where is the carriage you mention?” Cragg told her it was beyond the crowd, some two hundred yards distant, and that he would escort them to it.
Five minutes later Cragg was escorting them through the crowds, and the carriage was reached. Seeing that they were so full of the calamity, that no suspicion of foul play had entered their heads, Cragg decided to climb on to the box rather than ride inside with the ladies, which he thought they would resent.
Once the horses were off, he knew there would be no stopping, for at such a time the roads would be free.
Only once, and towards the end of the journey, did the girl put her head out of the carriage window and ask how much farther.
“We are nearly there, madame,” answered Cragg, giving the driver a jocular nudge in his ribs.
A few minutes later they turned through the gates, which, to save trouble and delay, he had left open, and were sweeping up the drive at a gallop. The hall door was open for their reception, and the butler ushered them in. He led them into the dining-room, after closing the heavy hall door, and said that if they would wait there a minute he would inform his master, who was now consulting with the physician in the sick man's room.
It was then that Imogene heard two noises which puzzled her for the moment. The sound of the carriage driving away, and the bolting and chaining of the hall door. But before any suspicion had time to take root in her mind the butler returned with an explanation. He reported that if the sufferer could be kept alive through the night, he had hopes for his recovery. At the moment he had drifted into unconsciousness, but directly he revived to his senses the young lady would be permitted to see him. Two visitors the doctor could not allow, but as the reverend gentleman kept asking for Imogene, the sight of her would perhaps bring him a little peace. Since the case was desperate, the servants had orders to accommodate the ladies in a bedroom adjoining, in case they were needed in the night. The butler said he had been told to ask them if they would accept this hospitality, and whether they would care for a glass of wine before proceeding upstairs. This they both declined. Imogene saying that she would see her mother to the room, and hoped they were not causing too much inconvenience, and she added that if the lady of the house was at liberty she would like to thank her for all they were doing.
“My lady will visit you in a few moments in the bedroom,” replied the butler. “At the moment she is helping the doctor with the reverend gentleman's bandages. I will give instructions for the lady's-maid to wait upon you and to see that you have all that you require. Will you follow me, please?” He led them upstairs, across a wide landing to an open bedroom door. They went in and found it old-fashioned and comfortable.
“I will inform my lady,” said the butler as he closed the door. In a minute he was back again and whispered: “The reverend gentleman has recovered consciousness. Will the young lady come at once, please?”
“Yes, go, my dear,” whispered her mother. “I will wait for you here. I hope he is better.” Imogene noticed as she passed through the bedroom door that the key was in the outside of the lock, but as all her thoughts were set on comforting her lover, she saw nothing suspicious in that. She closed the door herself, and followed the butler down a short flight of stairs, along a corridor with a door at the far end. This the butler opened, and signed for her to go through.
“Thank you,” she whispered, and went in on tiptoe.
Her first view of the room, which was brilliantly lighted with candles, astonished her, for instead of the bedroom she had expected she found herself in a spacious oak-panelled sitting-room with a great round card-table in the centre. Before she had recovered from her surprise, she heard the door close behind her, and turning saw not the butler, who had gone, but a richly dressed gentleman locking the door on the inside and putting the key in his pocket.
“What is the meaning of this, sir?” she asked. “And where is Doctor Syn?” The Squire of Iffley turned and faced her with a chuckle. Instantly she recognized him, and gasped with terror.
“Quite right, my dear girl,” he said. “You are trapped. Your mother is locked in her room, so if you scream you will but add to her alarm. Since Doctor Syn, who is back in Oxford all the time, thought fit to make you scorn my hospitality, I have been forced to go my own way to work. You are now at Iffley in my Manor, and here you will stay till you have consented to all my demands.”
“And what are they, sir?” she asked haughtily.
“First that you will discontinue this absurd love affair with Doctor Syn,” he answered.
“In order that you may force me to marry your nephew, sir?” she demanded.
“Spit me, no,” he laughed. “There is no love lost between us, I assure you, and why should I help him to what I most desire for myself? I would rather leave my money and estate to our children, my dear, than to that fool of a nephew who has failed to carry you off.”
“Our children?” repeated the girl in horror. “How dare you even think of such a thing?”
“For the same reason that I shall accomplish it. I want you for my wife, and willynilly you shall marry me. Of that I am so certain that I urge you for your own sake not to fight against it. Many a woman would envy you. I am a bachelor, and rich. I am not without accomplishments. No man in the country rides harder, fights harder, or drinks harder. I can hold my own with much younger men. And although I have never married, women admire me because of my settled determination. Whatever I want, I get. So school your mind, little Miss, to forget this young parson, and accept my wooing.”
“I shall do nothing of the sort,” replied Imogene.
“Oh yes, you will, because I shall force you to it. I have the means here to compel your obedience. That is why I have kidnapped your mother. You will not care to see her starved and tortured, while I surround you with every luxury? If you refuse to be sensible, I shall strike at you through her. We will talk now for an hour or so, and then unless you relent, her persecution will commence, and I warrant her screams will move you.”
“Doctor Syn will suspect you,” said Imogene coldly. “He will come and free me when he finds that we have gone from White Friars. He will know that the story of his accident was a base lie.”
“Of course he will,” laughed the Squire. “He'll know it tonight. I have written him a letter to his Chambers. The servant who brought you your letter is now on his way to deliver another to the parson. In it I have stated that you have changed your mind, and have, with your mother's consent, arranged for yourself a happier match than to become a parson's wife. Of course he may believe this.
If he does we shall not be troubled with him.”
“He will not believe it,” replied Imogene. “How can you think it?”
“To be quite frank, I never did,” said the Squire, with a smile. “I think— nay, I hope—he will come up here. And when he does he will not leave here alive. Unless, of course, you so convince him that my letter is the truth. In that case I will spare him, and you will have the satisfaction of saving his life. I confess that my words will sound conceited, but I could not help crowing a good deal over the success of my revenge. Now will you drink a glass of wine?”
“Nothing,” she answered coldly.
“Will you come and sit beside me on this comfortable settee?”
“Very well,” he went on in his bantering tone, “you may stand there while I sit and drink. I am perfectly content to gloat upon you for an hour. Then you will not only be willing to sit, but you will sit upon my knee and sip the wine from my glass.”
“I shall do nothing of the kind, you conceited devil,” she said.
“Oh yes, you will. In an hour. In one hour precisely. Do you know why.”
“And yet it is my duty to tell you,” he replied pleasantly. “I must save my future wife from shock. And in one hour you will hear your mother's first scream of pain and terror. I have servants here who are very expert at that kind of treatment. There is a clock. Watch it. One hour.” And he sipped his wine and watched her standing there.
