Chapter XV: Part 15

"One thing I heard plain, sir," said Simmons in conclusion, "and that was that the cap'n was to get a good bit o' gold when the Frenchman married the lady, and a good bit more when he came into the estates."

"What estates?"

"That I can't tell you, sir; 'the estates' was all I heard--_terres_ was the word as was used."

"Oh! And why do you betray your master?"

"Well, sir, he've led me a dog's life for years; holds over me that hangin' business on the old road; and then after I'd served him faithful leaves me to shift for myself with a bullet in my arm. I don't owe him no thanks."

Harry stood in thought for a few moments.

"You're a Londoner, I think, Simmons?" he said at length.

"Ay, sir."

"What trade were you bred to?"

"A joiner, sir."

"Well, if you'll promise me to go straight back to London and work at your trade, I'll contrive to send you down the Rhine with the prisoners, and give you a little money to start you."

"Thank 'ee kindly, sir!"

"Very well. Sherebiah shall take you to Hanau and see you safely lodged. Remember, you've your character to build up afresh. If you stick to your trade, and keep out of the way of folk who want to use you for dirty work, you may become a decent citizen yet."

"On my soul I'll try, sir. 'Tisn't every one would give a poor fellow a chance, and I thank 'ee true, sir."

Harry dismissed the man in Sherebiah's care. He was greatly disturbed by his news. It was clear that Polignac, having failed to win Mademoiselle de Vaudrey by fair means, and by the attempt to bring pressure to bear, so happily frustrated by Mynheer Grootz, was now determined to resort to desperate measures. Something must be done at once to put Madame de Vaudrey on her guard. He would have liked to convey the warning himself, but felt the impossibility of asking from Prince Eugene leave of absence for so long a journey until the campaign was ended. The only other means open to him was to write. Couriers were constantly going backwards and forwards between the armies and the Hague and other towns; he might avail himself of one of these to send his urgent message.

Harry lost no time in putting his decision into effect. He wrote both to Madame de Vaudrey and to Mynheer Grootz, telling them that Aglionby and Polignac were scheming to abduct Mademoiselle, and also that they were in league with the Jacobites in France and England. This latter fact would give Grootz a free hand in dealing with them, even if he detected them in no overt act against Mademoiselle de Vaudrey. It was two days before Harry could send off his letters, which for greater safety he entrusted to an official despatch-rider, by permission of Prince Eugene. The post would take several days; it would be towards the end of the first week in October before a reply could be expected.

Time passed away, and Harry was anxiously waiting, when, two days before the earliest date on which a letter could be received from Grootz, he was unexpectedly sent by Prince Eugene on an urgent private errand to Vienna. He was accompanied by Sherebiah, now again his constant companion. They made as much speed as possible, but nearly a month elapsed before Harry was able to report the success of his mission to the Prince, then in the confederate camp before Landau. As soon as he had seen the prince, he enquired whether a letter had arrived for him during his absence, and felt a great sense of relief when a packet was given him addressed in Grootz's big business hand.

But his feeling was changed to the keenest anxiety when he found that the letter, though written more than a week after the date at which Grootz might reasonably be supposed to have received his letter, made no reference to the news he had sent, and had clearly been despatched in entire ignorance of the threatening danger. Long afterwards he learnt that the courier had been accidentally drowned in crossing a river at night, and his letters had been lost. He dreaded to think what might have happened in the interval. He wrote another urgent letter to Mynheer Grootz, and despatched it by a special messenger; but the bare possibility of a mishap alarmed him, and he could never put the subject from his thoughts. He woke at night under the pressure of his anxiety; if only he could himself go to Lindendaal to see that all was safe! But while the siege was still being prosecuted, and the prince had constant need of his services, he could not bring himself to ask for leave.

His difficulty was solved for him by the prince himself. His evident preoccupation, and a slight mistake he made in noting down a message, attracted that astute gentleman's attention. He spoke to Harry on the matter; by this time they were on such terms that Harry felt no difficulty in opening his mind; and he explained that having become aware of a plot likely to injure some friends of his, and fearing that his letter of warning had miscarried, he was in considerable anxiety on their behalf.

"Naturally," said the prince. "Who are these friends of yours?"

"A French refugee lady and her daughter, Monseigneur, who live near Breda."

"Ah! What is their name?"

"De Vaudrey, Monseigneur."

"Are they relatives of yours?"

"No, Monseigneur."

"A mere matter of friendship, eh?" The prince's eyes twinkled. "Now, my boy, confess: you are in love."

"No, indeed, Monseigneur."

"Well, the symptoms are not unusual. You ought to know best, of course; but in any case you had better get the matter off your mind. This weary siege cannot last more than a few days longer; we hear that the enemy are on the point of surrender; we shall go into winter quarters immediately, I suppose, and I shall be able to dispense with your services until the spring. Pack off to Breda and see your--friends, holding yourself in readiness, of course, to come back to me when summoned."

Harry was too much pleased at the opportunity of assuring himself that all was well to think it necessary to make any protestation about his motives. Thanking the prince, he finished off one or two small duties and went to arrange with Sherebiah for their journey. Before he left he came across Fanshawe in camp, and, without disclosing his reasons, told him where he was going.

"Then will you do something for me?" asked Fanshawe eagerly. "Will you carry a letter for me? I love that girl, Harry. I can't get over it. I made a mistake last time. I ought to have known that our English ways would not answer with French ladies. I spoke to Adele herself; I ought to have spoken to her mother. If you will take it, I will write a letter to Madame de Vaudrey asking permission to pay my addresses to her daughter; that may give me a chance; don't you think so, Harry?"

"I don't know," said Harry. He felt strangely unsympathetic with Fanshawe at that moment. "I will take your letter if you are not long about it: I ride for Maintz to-night."

"Thanks, old fellow! Wait till you're in love; then you'll know how a fellow feels; I shall have no peace of mind till I know my fate."

A few hours after this, Harry left the camp with Sherebiah, carrying the letter on which Fanshawe's fate depended. To save time he had decided to take boat at Maintz, and sail night and day down the Rhine. Ten hours later he had bought a big boat, engaged a man who knew the river, and begun his journey. With the aid of the stream and oars, and proceeding continuously, he could save a day or two on the land journey. His plan was to engage fresh crews at every important stopping-place, so as to have relays of sturdy oarsmen and to get out of them all the work of which they were capable. The Germans were naturally not so eager as himself, and grumbled a good deal at the exertions demanded of them. "Unerhoert! unerhoert!" was the exclamation he frequently heard from their lips. But he never relaxed his determination, and found liberal pay a ready stimulus.

Thus, without mitigation of pace, the boat rushed down the river. As one after another the river-side towns were passed, Harry felt a satisfaction mingled with an impatience too great to allow of his taking much interest in the scenes. The ugly, dirty garrison town of St. Goar, the fortress of Hesse-Rheinfels, the famous Rat tower of the Hatto legend, Coblentz, Cologne, Duesseldorf, were only so many stages of his uneventful journey.

*CHAPTER XXIV*

*The Wages of Sin*

Promenade a Berlin--A Sudden Stop--Grootz Chuckles--Place aux Dames--The Last Two Miles--Polignac Pays the Penalty--Zo!

About four o'clock on a November afternoon, fine for the time of year, two horsemen rode up to the inn at Eyndhoven. Huge clouds of steam rose from their horses into the cold air; the panting of the beasts told of a forced pace. Dismounting, the riders called for refreshment and a change of horses: they were anxious to push on at once.

When their hasty meal was finished, while the master was paying the bill, the man went into the inn yard and tried to enter into conversation with a servant standing there in charge of a large empty travelling carriage.

"Whose carriage is that?" he asked.

"Monsieur de Polignac's," was the surly answer.

The man started slightly, but no one would have suspected anything but pure curiosity from the tone of his next question.

"Who is it waiting for?"

"Monsieur de Polignac."

The reply was still more surly.

"The roads will be heavy for travelling. Bad enough for horsemen, worse for coaches. Maybe the gentleman is not going far?"

"Maybe not."

"The Breda road?"

"What is that to you?"

"No offence, comrade. A man may ask a question, to pass the time. Bid you good-day!"

Seeing that he was unlikely to get any further information he sauntered off, but disappeared as quickly as possible into the inn.

"Mounseer's coach is in yard, sir," he said quietly, "and a-waiten for Mounseer."

"Ah! Are we in time, Sherry? Call the ostler."

When the man appeared, Harry slipt a coin into his hand.

"Monsieur de Polignac is making a journey. Tell me all you know about it."

The man replied that the coach had been sent to the inn two days before. Monsieur de Polignac was expected at any moment. He had recently sold his estate and was leaving for Germany. It was thought that he wished to take his departure quietly, for he had always been unpopular with his tenants, and he ran the risk of a hostile demonstration if the time of his setting out were known. He probably intended to slip secretly away from his house and make his real start from Eyndhoven. A large quantity of his baggage had passed through the town a few days before; but, strangely enough, a carter coming in had reported that Monsieur's wagons were going south, which was certainly not towards Berlin, the alleged destination. On the road they had taken there was great danger of their falling into the hands of the French, for it was not more than five or six leagues from Marshal Villeroy's lines, and Monsieur as a Huguenot refugee would meet with scant consideration from his countrymen.

"Has Monsieur de Polignac himself been to Eyndhoven lately?" asked Harry.

"No, Mynheer; the arrangements were made for him by an English officer who fought at Blenheim, where the great duke gave the French such a drubbing a few months back. He was a masterful man; gave orders that the horses were to be ready at a moment's notice and to be kept in good condition. Only this morning a messenger came with instructions for the coach to be ready by eight o'clock to-night, with a stock of wine and provisions which Monsieur will take with him."

Harry was perturbed at this news. It was clear that Polignac intended to depart in haste; but whether on political grounds, having found his character as spy detected, or in pursuance of the plot hinted at by Simmons, it was impossible to know. If the latter, there was certainly not a moment to lose, and it behoved to push on with all speed to Lindendaal. Fresh horses had been waiting for some minutes. Harry and Sherebiah were soon in the saddle, and set off at a gallop along the miry road, into the gathering night.

Some hours previously a traveller approaching Lindendaal from the opposite direction had passed through Breda. He had found it impossible there to get a change of team for his coach; all the horses in the town were out, conveying to their homes the gentry of the countryside who had come into Breda for a grand ball given the night before by the officers of the garrison, the finale of a week of entertainments. Not even Mynheer Grootz's liberal offers sufficed to secure a team at once. The motive of his journey was clearly urgent, for instead of waiting a few hours until some of the hacks returned, he pushed on at once with his tired animals to Tilburg, four leagues farther on the road. There he succeeded in hiring fresh horses, and without delay continued his journey.

He was himself very much fatigued, having risen from a sick bed on receiving the letter sent him by Harry from Landau. As he drew out of Oerschot, where the team was again changed, he pulled up the wooden slat blinds, and settled himself in the corner of his seat for a short nap. So much exhausted was he that he was still sound asleep when, nearly two hours later, the coach reached the end of the park wall of Lindendaal.

It was now growing dark. All at once Grootz was roused from sleep by the stopping of the coach. In his half-awake condition he thought that he was at his journey's end, and was rising to lower the blinds when there was a shout and the report of a pistol-shot. Wide-awake in an instant he groped in the darkness for his own pistol. But just as he laid his hand upon it the coach jolted on again, throwing him back into his seat. It was rattling and swaying from side to side, the horses being urged to their utmost speed. His first impulse was to let down the blinds and endeavour to get a shot at one of the men who had waylaid him. Then he hesitated; a sudden thought had occurred to him; he gave a quiet chuckle, and peeped through the slats of the blinds, first on one side, then on the other. He could just see that a horseman was riding at each side of the carriage, and through the small window at the back he saw a third following. He smiled grimly, and, holding his pistol ready, waited for what he suspected must happen before long.

His own postilion, he guessed, had been killed or wounded by the pistol-shot he had heard, and the coach was now driven by a stranger. He was thus one against four. He might shoot one of them, but would clearly be at the mercy of the three others. It was a lonely road; there was nothing for the present to be gained by resistance, and besides, he had a further reason for biding his time. Delay would not worsen his own situation; while if his suspicions were correct the longer he remained passive the better his purpose would be served.

After a headlong, rattling, bumping flight of about two miles, as it seemed to Grootz, he heard the horseman on his right shout an order to the postilion. The coach was pulled up; the horseman threw himself from the saddle, and wrenching open the door peered in.

"I regret, Madame, the necessity----"

He started back, for in the waning light he had just become aware that there was but one figure in the carriage, and that clearly the figure of a man.

"Triche, morbleu!" he cried in fury. "Someone shall pay for this. Come out, or I will empty this pistol into you!"

The only answer was the click of a pistol within the coach, and a flash from the corner. Grootz's weapon had missed fire. Whipping his own pistol from his belt Polignac fired; and the Dutchman fell back, hit in the shoulder. With a cry to his companions Polignac sprang on his horse, and galloped furiously back along the road he had come, the other two horsemen hard at his heels. Immediately afterwards the postilion cut the traces and set off in haste after his employer, leaving Grootz, the coach, and one horse to themselves.

Five minutes later, from the Eyndhoven direction, up rode two horsemen at speed. It was now almost totally dark; the coach could barely be discerned in the middle of the road, and Harry, who was foremost, pulled up only just in time to save his horse's knees. In a moment he was out of the saddle; Sherebiah was by his side, and while the man held the horses, Harry, anxiety tearing at his heart, looked into the coach. There was a huddled heap upon the floor.

"Steel and tinder!" he cried to Sherebiah.

A light was struck.

"Good heavens! it is Mynheer Grootz."

He bent down and touched the wounded man's hand, fearing he might be already dead. The touch revived Grootz from his swoon.

"On to Lindendaal!" he said faintly and brokenly. "Leave me! Ladies in danger. Take care. Desperate men: four; at once!"

Loth as Harry was to leave his friend in so ill a plight, the imminence of the peril to which the ladies were exposed was predominant.

"I will send a man back to you, Mynheer," he said. "Sherebiah, we must hasten."

The short halt had given the horses time to recover their wind. They had not travelled far, nor had they far to go. The two sprang to their saddles, and as they rode off into the darkness there was a look on Harry's face that boded ill for Polignac or any of his party. Never before, even when carried bound on board the _Merry Maid_, even when his own life had been attempted, had he felt the overmastering desire for vengeance that burnt within him now. The sight of his friend and benefactor wounded and helpless had quickened his indignation with Polignac and his crew into a fury of resentment, and at the back of his consciousness there was another and a subtler feeling which he did not pause to analyse. With eyes staring into the distance, ears strained to catch the slightest sound, every sense on the alert, he led the way over the heavy miry road, Sherebiah a short length behind. If anyone could have seen the riders' faces he would have been struck by the contrast between their expressions. Harry's was grim and tense with white rage; Sherebiah's round cheeks wore their settled look of cheerful placidity--the unruffled carelessness of a man of peace.

It was a furious gallop, over the two miles from the halted coach to the gates of Lindendaal. Harry's eager eyes at length caught a twinkle of light ahead to the right of the road. A moment later the faint sound of a shout came down the wind, then the crack of a pistol-shot. Digging his spurs into his steed's heaving flanks he drew his sword; it was a matter of seconds now. He flew past the ruined barn, standing bare and black on the right; and there, before him on the road, shone a light, from a carriage lamp as he supposed. Now mingled with shouts and oaths he heard the clash of steel; in a moment there loomed up before him at the entrance to the balustraded avenue a dark still mass, and in the yellow glare of the lamp he perceived two men on foot fighting desperately. He was still some yards away when he saw the man farthest from him shorten his sword and run his opponent through the body, then with lightning speed prepare to meet the horseman, whether friend or foe, whose coming the ring of hoofs had announced. As he dashed forward, Harry recognized in the sinister features and the wry mouth the evil face of Polignac. Leaning low over his horse's neck he made a sweeping blow with his heavy cavalry sabre that would have cut the Frenchman's spare frame into halves had he not with rare presence of mind sunk on one knee and allowed the blade to swish harmlessly over his head.

Harry was carried on for some yards before he could check the impetus of his horse, and then he found himself in the thick of a fight in which he could distinguish neither friend nor foe. A fierce oath on his right, however, proclaimed the identity of one of the group, and, turning, he saw the bulky form of Captain Aglionby on horseback outlined against the light from the distant house. Leaving Polignac for the moment Harry made straight for his elder enemy, who was wheeling to deal with the new-comer. It was no moment for nice sword-play on either side; cut and thrust, lunge and parry--thus the two engaged in the dark. Blade clashed on blade, horse pressed against horse, their hoofs struck sparks; nothing to choose between the combatants except that Aglionby was between Harry and the light.

Suddenly the captain made a supreme effort to quell his assailant by main force for good and all. Rising in his saddle, he brought his sword down with the full weight of his arm. But, thanks to the friendly light from Lindendaal, Harry saw the movement in time. Parrying the swashing blow with ease, he replied with a thrust that tumbled the captain groaning from his saddle. The horse plunged and galloped madly into the night. Harry did not wait to discover the full effect of his blow, but wheeled round to find Polignac, the duel on his left having terminated in the flight of one of the parties and pursuit by the other.

At the moment of wheeling he heard the voice of Sherebiah at his elbow.

"Hold, sir! 'Tis done. Mounseer ha' paid his score."

"You have killed him?"

"My sword went through un. He be on ground: no risin' for he."

"Then secure Aglionby. He fell from his horse a few yards up the road."

He himself sprang from the saddle and ran to the door of the coach. Wrenching it open, he saw by the light of the lamp Adele de Vaudrey erect on the seat, supporting the unconscious form of her mother. The girl's cheeks were the colour of death; her lips were ashen; upon her face was the fixed look of resigned despair.

"Mademoiselle," cried Harry breathlessly, "all is well. You are safe."

A sob broke from the girl's dry lips; tears welled in her eyes.

"Mother has swooned," she said in a whisper.

Harry darted to the canal side, stuck his handkerchief on the point of his sword and let it down to the water, returning with it dripping wet to the coach. Bathing the lady's temples they revived her, and Adele whispered the news that they were safe. Madame's nerves were quite unstrung; incapable of heeding what was said to her she wept and laughed alternately, to Harry's great alarm.

"We must get her home," said Adele.

"Yes; I will find a man to lead the coach. You will not mind my going: Mynheer Grootz is wounded two miles away."

"Oh, Monsieur Harry, go then at once. I can take care of Mother."

Harry ran back to the road to find Sherebiah, who in his absence had made an examination of the ground with the aid of the carriage lamp. Polignac was stone dead; his body lay at the very brink of the canal. There was no sign of Aglionby or of the other two men, though traces of blood were found on the spot where the captain had fallen. Of the house party two men were badly wounded; these Harry despatched to the house for ministration while himself with Sherebiah hurried back at full speed to Mynheer Grootz. The coach stood undisturbed where they had left it. Grootz lay on the seat, conscious but very weak.

"Well?" he said, as they appeared.

"Well, thank God!" replied Harry. "The ladies are safe, Polignac is dead, Aglionby and the rest have fled."

"Zo!"

Quite content, the merchant said no more. He was taken at a walking pace to Lindendaal.

*CHAPTER XXV*

*A Bundle of Letters*

Jealousy--Hard Facts--A Special Plea--Family History--Brother and Sister--Marriage Lines--A Fair Claimant--Air Castles

Some hours later, when Madame de Vaudrey had been composed to sleep, and the three patients made as comfortable as possible pending the arrival of the doctor, who had been summoned from the village, Adele left her mother's bed-side and joined Harry in the dining-room.

"I must thank you," she said, advancing to him with outstretched hands. "We have always to thank you. It seems to be fated that you should save us from that bad man."

"He will trouble you no more, Mademoiselle."

Adele looked a question.

"Yes, he is dead."

The girl shuddered, and looked involuntarily towards the sword at Harry's side.

"No, it was not I; it was my man."

There was a look of relief in Adele's face.

"How thankful to God we must be that you came in time, Monsieur!"

"Did Madame not get my letter?"

"Did you write a letter?"

"Yes; I learnt some time ago that this plot was hatching, and I wrote twice. The first letter, I know, must have miscarried, but the second--it should have reached you, for I am sure Mynheer Grootz must have received a letter written at the same time. That is why he is here now."

"We have been away from home: stay, Monsieur, I will enquire."

She soon returned with the letter unopened.

"It came three days ago," she said. "We have been for a week in Breda; there were festivities given by the officers of the garrison, and the servants did not think to send the letter, knowing that we should soon return. M. de----he must have found out the time of our departure, and so planned to waylay us. But we were late in starting; Mother was fatigued; and I see how it happened. Mynheer Grootz's coach was taken for ours; when the--the man found that it was not, he thought it had been sent on in front to deceive him. Oh, Monsieur Harry, but for your letter to Mynheer Grootz, and your coming so soon yourself----"

"Think no more of it, Mademoiselle. I cannot say how glad I am that I happened to be able to serve you. Forgive me; you are worn out; it will not do to have another invalid, you know----"

Adele smiled in answer.

"Yes, I will go to bed," she said, "and I do thank you for Mother and myself."

She clasped his hands again, then ran from the room. Harry had never seen her so much moved. Hitherto she had always been so cold, so reserved, seeming to grudge the few words that courtesy demanded. Even when something claimed her active help, as in the stratagem by which Lindendaal had been saved from the raiders nearly eighteen months before, she had acted, indeed, with decision and courage, as a good comrade, but had at once relapsed into her former attitude of aloofness, almost disdain. With Fanshawe, on the contrary, she had been frank and gay, ready with quip and jest, gently correcting his French, merrily laughing at her own attempts to speak English, never wearying of accompanying on the harpsichord his west-country songs, which she quickly picked up by ear. Fanshawe was thoroughly in love with her--and Harry remembered with a pang that he bore a letter from Fanshawe to her mother, once more urging his suit.

"Confound him!" he thought, and, his hands tight clasped behind him, he strode up and down the room with compressed lips and lowering brow.

He had no doubt now of the relationship in which he stood to Fanshawe; he was both his rival and friend. He tried to face the situation calmly. Fanshawe was a good fellow, an officer in the English army, and heir to a baronetcy and a fine estate. He could sell out at any moment, and doubtless enjoy by the liberality of his father an income sufficient to maintain a wife in something more than comfort. It gave Harry a pang to contrast his own position. He had no property, no family influence, nothing beyond his pay and the income so generously allowed by Mynheer Grootz. True, he was now in the service of Prince Eugene, and the circumstances in which he had joined the Austrian service gave him a good prospect of ultimate advancement; but it might be many years before he could venture to ask a lady to share his fortunes. Besides, if Mademoiselle de Vaudrey was indeed heiress to an estate, as Simmons had reported, a poor man could not seek her hand without incurring the suspicion of being a fortune-hunter: the mere suggestion brought a hot flush to Harry's cheeks. No; he could but stand aside. Fanshawe had failed once; he might yet succeed; and if it should so turn out, Harry could but wish his friend joy and go his way.

"Heigh ho! Some fellows are lucky!" he thought, and, heaving a tremendous sigh, he went to bed.

A good night's rest, and the knowledge that Polignac could never disturb her again, cured Madame de Vaudrey's hysteria, and she came down next morning somewhat pale, but in her usual health. After breakfast Harry took the first opportunity of finding his hostess alone, to deliver Fanshawe's letter. She smiled as she took it and noticed the handwriting.

"From that dear Monsieur Fanshawe, is it not?" she said.

"Yes, Madame."

"What can he have to write about, I wonder? Do you know, Harry?"

"Fanshawe told me, and--well, he asked me--that is, I promised to put in a word for him."

"Vraiment! Then I think I guess the subject of his letter. Come, mon ami, what have you to say for him, then?"

The comtesse watched Harry with a twinkle of enjoyment. Her mother's eye had penetrated the state of the case.

"Godfrey is a good fellow, Madame; amiable--you know that; he will be rich some day; he--sings a good song; he--in short, Madame, he is very fond of Mademoiselle, and--and----"

"And would make a good husband, you think? Well, my dear Harry, I shall tell Adele that he has written to me, and repeat what you have said in his behalf; but you know her: she has a mind of her own; and I can only give her my advice."

And she left Harry in a tormenting perplexity as to what her advice would be.

It was a week or two before Mynheer Grootz was well enough to leave his room, and during those days his kind attendants were careful to avoid all but the most necessary references to what had happened. He was told that Polignac was dead and the hue and cry was out after Aglionby, and his convalescence was not retarded by any fears on the ladies' behalf. One morning, when the doctor allowed him to come downstairs, he sent Harry to find Madame de Vaudrey. It was time, he said, that the motive of Polignac's recent attempt should be seriously considered.

"Madame," he said in French, when with Harry they were closeted in the reception-room, "it has not yet been told you, but we have reason to believe that Polignac urged his suit upon Adele because he had information that she is heiress to some estates."

"As she is--heiress to Lindendaal."

"Yes, but the estates in question must be of greater value. Your little estate here is not of so much worth as to account for Polignac promising large sums to Aglionby, first on his marriage with Adele, secondly on her succession to her property. Tell me, Madame, know you of anything that could give colour to the beliefs of these wretches?"

"Nothing, my friend. My husband, as you know well, was a refugee, an exile: his family estates in France were confiscated long ago. As for me, I had nothing but my poor little dowry. No relatives of mine are owners of estates."

"But on Monsieur le Comte's side: his mother: she was an Englishwoman, I believe?"

"Yes. I know little of her; she died very soon after the birth of her only child, my dear husband."

"What was her name?"

"I do not remember. Certainly I have heard it, but it is many years ago, and English names are so difficult to keep in mind."

"But Monsieur le Comte--had he not some souvenir of his mother?--some portrait, or heirloom, or family papers?"

"I never saw any. But I have upstairs a box in which I treasure many little things that were his: perhaps you would like to see it?"

"Certainly. It would be as well."

Madame de Vaudrey sent a servant to a private room in the turret, whence he returned presently with a leather-covered brass-studded box. After some search the key was discovered, the box was opened, and the comtesse took out, one after another, various memorials of her dead husband. Among them was a bundle of papers tied up with ribbon; this she laid with trembling hands before her friend.

"You permit me, Madame?" he said.

She nodded through her tears.

Grootz untied the ribbon, and unfolded the topmost paper. A cursory glance showed that it threw no light on the subject all had at heart. Several other papers were examined with a like result; then, nearly at the bottom of the bundle, Grootz came upon a smaller packet separately tied. The outer wrapper bore, in a faded, delicate handwriting, the words: "Dernieres letters de la famille de feu ma chere femme". Harry got up and leant towards him in some excitement.

"Wait, my son," said Grootz; "let us proceed with quietness."

He opened the topmost letter, and read it slowly through.

"It tells us nothing," he said. "It begins 'My dear sister', and ends 'Eustace'. We go to the next."

Unfolding this, he saw at the top the date June 12, 1659, and an address in London.

"This is in the same hand," he said. "It is cramped; Harry, your eyes are young; read it, my boy, aloud."

Harry took the letter and read:

"MY DEARE SISTER,

"It will please you to heare the Affaire goes according to our hopes. The people are well dispos'd to the Gentleman you wot of, & the rule of the Saintes is abhorr'd of the moste. But businesse of State holds lesse in your Estimation than the fortunes of your brother, and I have a peece of Newes that will put your gentle heart all in a Flutter. What do 'ee think, sweete? You never had a sister: will you thanke me if I give you one? There! not to keepe you on tenterhooks, I designe--now is yr heart going pit-a-pat--to wed: ay, Mary, your brother has met his fate. This daye weeke the Knot is to be ty'd. I knowe the questions that at this Newes flocke into your mind: is she black or faire, tall or short, of court or cottage? I am not carefull to answer; you shall love her, my sweet; 'tis the fairest, dearest ladie lucky man ever wonne, yonge, freshe, winsome as you could wishe. I dare not, as you may beleeve, wed in my owne name; 'tis too perilous as yet, my Businesse being what it is; indeede, Lucy herselfe knows not of my family, for being so yonge and simple, she might let fall in an unwatch'd moment what might bring me to the block. She shall knowe all in due season. I have not open'd my Designe to our brother, for in truthe I find no reason to truste him; his warm professions of Zeale for us seeme to me but Flams. I feare he has play'd throughout a Double Game. He stands exceeding well with the Godly Partie, & having been at Paines to enquire thro' a sure friend I can heare of nothing done in our behalfe, but rather of endeavors to feather his owne nest. But enough of that; if our hopes are crown'd, as praye God they may be speedilie, Nicolas will have----"

Harry paused as he read the name.

----"Nicolas will have no choice but to quitte the Hall, and make what Profitte he may of his owne farmes. Ask in yr prayers that the Happie Daie be hasten'd. And now no more from your righte loving Brother EUSTACE."

Harry laid the letter down, and looked at Mynheer Grootz.

"Why did you pause?" asked the Dutchman.

"'Twas a thought I had, Mynheer. It may be vain. Before I say more, will you look at the next paper?"

"He!" exclaimed Madame de Vaudrey, "I am becoming curious."

Mynheer Grootz with the same imperturbable calm unfolded the next paper of the bundle.

"This," he said, scanning it over his spectacles, "is not a letter; it is a document. It records the marriage, in the Huguenot church in Paris, on May 2, 1658, of Louis Marie Honore, Comte de Vaudrey, aged 34, with Mary Berkeley,"--he pronounced the name in three syllables, foreign fashion--"aged 22, daughter of John Berkeley Esquire of Winton Hall, in the county of Wiltshire, England."

"'Tis found!" cried Harry, springing up in excitement. "We call the name Barkley in England; Madame, Monsieur le Comte was the son of Mr. Berkeley's sister; he is the squire of my own village Winton St. Mary; without a doubt it is his estates to which Mademoiselle is heiress. What a discovery we have made!"

"Stay, Harry," said Mynheer Grootz quietly; "did you not tell me that your squire has a son?"

"Yes, yes, but now I remember: at home I have heard it said that Mr. Berkeley was lord of the manor only by default of other heirs: yes, it comes back to me now: the villagers did not like him; they grudged him his estate; he was stepson of the former squire, and step-brother of the lady who became Comtesse de Vaudrey."

"Still I do not understand. The lady had a brother--the gentleman whose name was Eustace; being employed in state business, to do with the restoration of your King Charles, I think, he was doubtless the elder of the two: he would be his father's heir, and his children after him. The letter, you see, announces his approaching marriage."

"You are right, Mynheer. I heard him talked of, too; he was killed in a fray with highwaymen on the Dover road, when he was returning from France, after King Charles came back, to claim his estates. Yes, the squire's family history is well known in the village; but I never heard of a Mistress Eustace Berkeley; perhaps the marriage did not take place after all."

"It would seem so."

"It must be so," cried Harry. "Do you not now see Captain Aglionby's part? When he stayed with you, Madame, six years ago, he must have discovered Monsieur le Comte's relationship with Mr. Berkeley; that explains his hold over the squire; it explains also the scheme arranged between him and Monsieur de Polignac. Indeed, it is clear as daylight: the captain bled Mr. Berkeley on pretence of keeping his secret; and he sold that secret to Polignac."

"The odious man!" exclaimed Madame de Vaudrey, who sat in a state of perfect amazement as link after link was added to the chain.

"A very villain!" said Grootz, smiting the table. "Madame, it appears that Adele is indeed the rightful owner of the estates now held by this miscreant Berkeley, and I, Jan Grootz, will make it my business, as soon as I am recovered, to see that right is done."

"And it is to Harry that we owe it all! Oh, my dear Harry, Adele shall thank you! If only my dear husband could have lived to bless you too!"

"Zo!" exclaimed Grootz. "But, Madame, I have a thing to say. Adele shall thank Harry; yes; but I say tell her nothing until I have been to London, and with the aid of English law have overthrown the villain Berkeley. It will be best; yes, it will be best."

"Very well, my friend. Dear Adele! to think of her as lady of an English manor! She has thought much of her English grandmother: she will love to live in England; I have no English blood in me, and I dread the sea; but I must live with her, of course I must."

Grootz compressed his lips.

"Il ne faut pas vendre la peau de l'ours avant de l'avoir tue," he said sententiously.

*CHAPTER XXVI*

*The New Squire*

Jonahs--Step-brothers--Whose Gain?--The Female Line--The End of the Story--Treason--The Fleet--In Italy with Eugene--Home--Adele Studies Geography--Lady Bountiful--Minshull Remembers--A Warning from Mr. Tape--Mr. Tape at Hungerford--Exit Harry Rochester--At the Gate--A Royal Feast--What's in a Name?--A Rustic Moralist--Wedding Bells

Giles Appleyard, giving a flick to the off leader, scraped his well-rasped chin over the stiff collar of his coat and addressed the outside passenger who had just mounted his coach at Basingstoke.

"Why, Willum Nokes," he said, "'tis many a long day since I set eyes on your noble frame. How's the wicked world sarven 'ee, Willum?"

"Fairish, Giles coachman, on'y fairish. A've never bin the same man since that tarrible day when John Simmons gi' me the go-by. Ay, I were constable then, a-sarven the Queen and Sir Godfrey, and wi' the bodies of all the souls in Winton Simmary under me. Now I be on'y parish beadle at Basingstoke, sarvant to pa'son, and rulen over none but the misbehaven childer in church."

He sighed and shook his head.

"Ay, and th' on'y thing as keeps me above ground is a journey once a year to th' old place, where I wanders round a-thinken deep things o' the noble line o' life as used to be."

"Ay, poor soul, 'ee did truly make a gashly fool o' yerself that day, Willum. Well, better a live fool than a dead 'oss, as you med say."

"An' yerself, Giles--you looks hale an' hearty as ever I seed 'ee."

"Ay, Willum, I goos up an' down the world rain or shine, merry as a grig."

"'Ee must see a powerful deal o' life, Giles; all sarts an' perditions o' men, as pa'son sings in church. Who med be your insides to-day, if I med axe so homely a quest'on?"

"Only two to-day, Willum. There be little travellen for a week or two arter Christmas. One on 'em be a Dutch skipper; I mind I carried un once afore; ay, 'twas the same day as young pa'son Rochester and Sherry Minshull rode a-top, all agwine to Lun'on. Young pa'son be now a sojer, so 'tis said, an' hob-a-nob wi' the mighty o' the earth. The way o' the world, Willum; some goos up, like young pa'son; some goos down, like Willum Nokes; some goos steady, like Giles Appleyard; eh, soul?"

"Ay, 'tis constables goos down, a' b'lieve. But who be your other inside, coachman?"

"Why, no one an't telled me, but I'd take my affidavy afore any justice o' peace 'tis a limb o' the law. I knows they sart. They ought to pay double; for why? 'cause bean't safe to carry; last time I carried a lawyer fore off wheel broke as we trundled through Winterslow. When I seed this chap at Angel and Crown this marnen, says I to myself, 'Zooks!' says I, 'what poor mortal soul be agwine to suffer now?'"

For the rest of the journey coachman and passenger exchanged gossip on their common acquaintances. William Nokes alighted at the Queen's Head, at Winton St. Mary, and shook his head in sympathy with Mistress Joplady when he saw the two inside passengers descend from the coach and enter the inn.

"One a furrener, t'other a lawyer!" he muttered. "Ah! what tarrible things some poor souls ha' got to putt up wi'!"

Mistress Joplady, however, welcomed both her guests with her wonted heartiness, and with her own hands plied the warming-pan for their beds.

At ten o'clock next morning the two strangers left the inn together. One of them carried a small portfolio. They went through the village, across the common, and, entering the park gates of Winton Hall, walked up the long drive to the porch and asked whether Mr. Berkeley was at home. After a few minutes' delay they were invited to step in, and conducted to a little room in the turret, where they found the squire in cassock and skull-cap, warming his withered hands at the fire.

"Mr. Berkeley?" said the elder of the two.

"That is my name. What is your business?"

"My name, sir, Jan Grootz. My friend Mr. Swettenham Tape, of Lincoln's Inn."

"Well?"

"You will permit me to take a chair; dank you! And my friend Mr. Tape; dank you!"

At the mention of his name, Mr. Berkeley flashed a shrewd glance under his bushy white eyebrows at the Dutchman, then gripped the arms of his chair, and waited.

"Mr. Berkeley, my business will not hold you long. You will pardon if I begin at de beginning and tell you a little history?"

The squire kept his eyes fixed on his visitor, but said nothing. Taking his silence as permission to proceed, Grootz settled himself in his chair, with his plump right hand ready to punctuate his sentences.

"Dis history dat I tell you, sir, I hope you will find it interesting. It is ver much about yourself; you are old man, but of dose old men, pardon me, who regard demselves as de most interesting subjeck in de world; zo! De history begin long ago; zixty-vive year indeed, when your shadow first zink over dis place." Grootz's hand made a comprehensive sweep. "You were den Nicolas Heller, an eleven-year boy; your moder, a widow, she had married Mr. John Berkeley, a widower, wid two children, one"--here the forefinger wagged--"Eustace Berkeley, a nine-year boy; de oder, Mary, a child four year. On your moder Mr. Berkeley settle de farms of--of----"

"Winton Chase and Odbury," said Mr. Swettenham Tape, speaking for the first time.

"Zo; de farms of Winton Chase and Odbury; you took de name Berkeley, and after your moder dese farms should become yours. Dree years go, your moder die; Mr. John Berkeley is again a widower, and never marry no more. War had broke out, he take part wid de king and fight in de vield, your step-broder alzo whenever he is of age to bear arms. But Nicolas, poor boy! is not strong, he is always at home to care for de estates; besides, he do not love de king; no, Nicolas never love nobody--nobody but himself."

Grootz paused and bent a little forward in his chair; the squire had not moved a muscle.

"De king is killed, Oliver Cromwell is ruler in de land, and after de battle of Worcester, Mr. John Berkeley, his son and daughter, go for safety to France. But Nicolas--he find dat he is a Puritan, a saint in heart; he give money--it was not his to give--to de Parliament side, and he speak of his stepfader--of de man, mark you, to whom he owe everyding--as a traitor, a malignant. At same time he write letters to de traitor in France telling how he work to keep his estate for him, if chance come he zall return and enjoy his own. How kind is Nicolas! zo!

"Time flows; de chance come; King Charles wears his fader's crown, but Mr. John Berkeley is not alive to return alzo. In 1658 he die. But his son, Nicolas' stepbroder Eustace, what of him? In June 1660 he come back to claim his inheritance, but he never see his home. No, on de road he is set upon and murdered."

Still the old man sat rigid in grim silence.

"De murder of Eustace Berkeley, whom do it profit? De men who killed him?--not zo; dey stay not to empty his pockets. It profit nobody but Nicolas Berkeley. Dink you not dat is singular? To me it is very singular. Zo!"

The Dutchman spoke always with the same careful deliberation. His tone now became stern.

"I come now, Mr. Berkeley, to someding dat interest you more. Mr. John Berkeley had, not only a son, but alzo a daughter." The keen-eyed Dutchman noticed a slight twitching of the squire's brow. "Ah, I thought dat would interest you! De daughter, Mary, marry in Paris de Comte de Vaudrey, a nobleman, a Huguenot; dat is not long before King Charles come back. Her broder Eustace risk his life to come to England on service for his sovereign; he write letters to his sister; interesting letters; I take leave to read you someding he said."

He took the portfolio from the lawyer's hands, selected a paper from it, and read the following passage:--

"'I feare he has play'd throughout a Double Game. He stands exceeding well with the Godly Partie, & having been at Paines to enquire thro' a sure friend I can heare of nothing done in our behalfe, but rather of endeavors to feather his owne nest. But enough of that; if our hopes are crown'd, as praye God they may be speedilie, Nicolas will have no choice but to quitte the Hall, and make what Profitte he may of his owne farmes.'

"Zo! dis letter, and oders, was received by Madame la Comtesse de Vaudrey--dat is, Mary Berkeley--when her husband was absent from Paris. He return; de poor lady is dying; she leave a little boy. He write to Eustace from Paris; he get no reply; he write again, dree times in all; still no reply, and he dink his wife's friends English and care not any more. As for him, he has pride and keep silence, and believe Eustace Berkeley is now lord of Winton Hall.

"Zo time pass. Den come trouble to de Huguenots in France, and de Comte de Vaudrey take refuge wid his son in Holland. He read no English; but he keep dings dat belong to his wife, among dem de letters of Eustace. His son Louis marry in Holland a Huguenot lady. Fader, son, both are dead, but"--he wagged his forefinger impressively--"but Louis Comte de Vaudrey leave a daughter, Adele, and it is on behalf of Mademoiselle Adele de Vaudrey I wait upon you to-day. I know well dese dings are not new to you; I know dat. It is now some years when Captain Aglionby--an adventurer, a cut-droat--discover how Mademoiselle Adele is related to de house of Berkeley. Already he know someding of you; he have an uncle Minshull dat live on your estate. He see a chance to feader his very bare nest, and he take it. You are de squire, he dink; a rich man; you will pay well to keep de secret. He come to you; you do pay well; you become his generous patron, and he do your dirty work. But sometimes you lose temper, and give him hard words and close your purse. Perhaps, dink he, he may find yet anoder rich man who will buy de secret. Such a man is Monsieur de Polignac. Your Aglionby take money from you, and bargain wid Polignac to get more money when he become by marriage owner of dis estate and turn you out. But de plan is found out; we have settle with Polignac; he is dead; we search for Aglionby; he hide himself; and now, Mr. Berkeley, it is your turn. I come to you to demand, on behalf of Mademoiselle Adele de Vaudrey, possession of her property in seven days from dis present day. My friend Mr. Tape of Lincoln's Inn have copies of all de papers; he will show dem, at proper time, to your lawyer. De history is now at end, Mr. Berkeley. I dank you for your zo-patient hearing. It is now to you; zo!"

Mr. Berkeley had spoken never a word. For a few moments he remained motionless in his chair; then, lengthening his arm, he pulled a bell-rope at his side. A servant entered.

"Thomas," said the squire in his thin hard voice, "show these gentlemen to the door."

Grootz and the lawyer glanced at each other. The latter gave a slight shrug and began to tie up his portfolio. Grootz rose.

"I have de honour, Mr. Berkeley, to wish you good-day."

And with his companion he left the room.

An hour later the village was startled by the news that the squire had had a stroke. A man had ridden to Salisbury for the physician, and the gossips at the Queen's Head were already discussing the expected succession of "young squire" to the estates. But in the afternoon the report was contradicted. The squire had merely been seized with a fainting fit; he had recovered and was to all appearance his usual self.