Chapter IX: Part 9

"That is enough.--Mr. Cardonnel, make out at once an order pardoning the man--what is his name?--and discharging him from the army.--The man whose lungs saved the Lord Treasurer has decidedly a claim to indulgence. But I fear, Mr. Rochester, you are late. These little matters are usually determined by eight o'clock in the morning. It is near five: 'twill be some little time before I can despatch an orderly, and there are fifty odd miles to ride."

"With your leave, my lord, I will go myself."

"So be it. Mr. Cardonnel will give you the pardon and discharge. It rests with you. I hope you will be in time. Don't spare your horses."

"I thank you, my lord, from the bottom of my heart."

"There, no more: get to horse. Yet one moment: did I not--I seem to remember it--did I not promise to do something for you?"

"'Twas not a promise, my lord."

Marlborough smiled, and looked at the boy with approval.

"But I intended it as such. I wrote your name, I recollect; papers have a trick of losing themselves: I should have done something for you but for sheer forgetfulness.--Mr. Cardonnel, will you please make a note? Mr.--your full name, sir!"

"Henry Winterborne Rochester."

"Mr. Henry Winterborne Rochester for an ensigncy.--I had heard of the ruse at the Comtesse de Vaudrey's: naturally I did not connect it with you. You are with Grootz the contractor, I believe?"

"I was, my lord, but I have just been commissioned cornet in the Anspach dragoons."

Marlborough and the group of officers laughed outright.

"Begad, my lord, you're behind the fair," cried Colonel Cadogan, a big burly Irishman of twenty-eight, Marlborough's quartermaster-general.

"Ay, indeed, an angel has stirred the pool. But I am delaying you, Mr. Rochester; you must ride hard. Good-bye!"

Harry had been itching to get away. Every moment was of importance. Bowing himself out, he hurried to the inn where Fanshawe had promised to stable a horse. It was there ready saddled, in charge of a trooper of Fanshawe's regiment, who said that Harry's own charger Orange was awaiting him half-way to Breda. Harry leapt to the saddle, flung a coin to the man, and in less than two minutes was making his way at a sharp trot among the press of villagers and soldiers thronging the street. Clear of the village he went at a canter through the camp, where all was bustle in preparation for the day's march: then, gaining the free highroad, he set his steed to the gallop. Some minutes later he heard a village clock strike five.

Two hours after Harry started on his ride, Godfrey Fanshawe left his tent in company with Lieutenant Tettefall, and mounted his horse to ride into Breda. He had passed a sleepless and anxious night, his mind haunted by the impending fate of Sherebiah, with whom he had spent many a pleasant day on the banks of the Avon, or in the coverts of his father's estate. The execution had been fixed for eight by the clock of the Hervormde Kerk near the market-place, Marlborough's despatch confirming the sentence having arrived late on the previous evening. Fanshawe had seen the major in command, explaining that Harry had gone to see the duke with a view to a remission of the sentence. The major had laughed at the idea, swearing that he would not delay the execution a moment.

Galloping into Breda, Fanshawe's first care was to enquire whether Harry had arrived, or whether any message had come from Marlborough countermanding the execution. But nothing had been heard of the one or the other. Fanshawe made a last appeal to the major, but Robins had that officer's ear, and had convinced him that the condemned prisoner was a rascal of whom the army would be well rid.

At a quarter after seven the regiment was paraded and marched to the castle park, where the execution was to take place. Fanshawe meanwhile paced moodily up and down, watching the inexorable clock. Suddenly, as he looked at its face for the tenth time, he remembered a legend of the Civil War, which his father had told him: the story of a Royalist trooper who, condemned to die at the ringing of the curfew, had been saved by the heroism of his sweetheart, who climbed the belfry tower, caught the clapper of the bell, and with her delicate hands had prevented the fatal sound. His recollection suggested an idea. There was still forty minutes to spare.

At the park gate a knot of idlers had gathered to see the condemned man pass to his doom. Singling out from among these a likely youth, Fanshawe held with him a rapid conversation in whispers; and the two hurried away.

They went straight to the sacristan of the Hervormde Kerk, whose cottage was known to the Dutch youth. By the aid of this interpreter Fanshawe explained to the old man that, being much interested in church clocks, he would like to climb the tower and see the mechanism, at the same time slipping a coin into the man's hand. The sacristan was a feeble, tottering old fellow, and was persuaded without difficulty to hand over the key of the tower, on the promise of the English officer to return it within an hour. Armed with the key, Fanshawe then hurried under the boy's guidance to the chief clock-maker's in the town. His shop was not yet open for business, but when he learnt that a clock was in urgent need of attention he agreed to send a young apprentice to oblige the Englishman. At twenty minutes to eight Fanshawe with the young clock-maker ascended the church tower. The boy remained at the door.

The clock chimed the three-quarters.

"Pray God Harry arrive in time!" was Fanshawe's thought as he returned to the park gate.

The clock was too far off for any movement of the hands to be noted. Had it been nearer, a close observer comparing with his own watch might have seen that from this time the long hand of the clock advanced one minute for every two.

It still marked ten minutes to eight when Sherebiah, with bound wrists, came up under guard. He smiled serenely when, entering the park, he saw Fanshawe, whose pale anxious looks betrayed his suffering.

"Don't 'ee take on, now, Master Godfrey," he said. "Let 'em aim well and ha' done wi't. Bless 'ee, I bean't afeard. But, Master Godfrey, where be Master Harry? To say good-bye, I mean."

"He--he couldn't come, Sherry."

"Ah! Well, 'tis no sight for a man o' peace, and he ha'n't donned the breastplate yet. Gi' un my love and respect, an 'ee please, sir; and axe un to remember the old gaffer." Fanshawe gripped his hand, and he passed into the park. "Nay, I won't ha' my eyes tied up," he said to one of the firing squad who approached to bandage him. "Must, must I? Well, I'm not one to go agen the law at the last. Got a clean firelock, mate? Ah! there's the bell a-dingen. Tell Robins--nay, I was gwine to forgive un, but I won't; I'll leave that for Them above."

By this time he was standing, with eyes bandaged, against the wall. He ceased to speak; the last stroke of eight had already sounded from several steeples; but the clock of the Hervormde Kerk still wanted seven minutes of the hour. Fanshawe's eyes were riveted on the hands; the soldiers stood at ease, waiting.

Meanwhile, what of Harry?

The road through Turnhout to Breda passes through a wide moorland region and crosses the river Merk. It was a somewhat heavy road at the best, and the recent passage of troops and baggage wagons had made it rutty and uneven. Harry had started at a stiff gallop; his horse was fresh, and seemed to catch the infection of his eagerness. On he went, scarcely varying his pace, his head low, his ears bent back for his rider's encouraging words. At that hour the road was free; Harry met with no obstruction. He dashed through Turnhout, crossed the river to Hoogstraaten, and there found his own black charger awaiting him. He was not quite half-way to Breda.

"Orange, my beauty, you must go as you never went before," he cried, as he set the animal at a gallop. The horse pricked his ears in response. He galloped on for mile after mile, scattering dust around him, getting many a stare of wonderment from the peasants at work in the fields. As the miles slipped by, Harry anxiously watched his gallant steed. Great flakes of foam fell from the animal's quivering lips; his nostrils were distended wide; his white eye-sockets were rimmed with red; and still he galloped, panting, striving nobly to respond to the caressing pats and cheering words of his master.

"Twenty minutes more, old fellow!" whispered Harry in the beast's ear. "Twenty minutes; if you can only hold out!"

He was nearing the end of his ride, but the poor horse was in distress. Spots of blood crimsoned the white foam; Harry fancied that he saw despair in the animal's starting eyes; and when, still a mile on the wrong side of Ginneken, he heard the little church clock strike eight, his heart sank within him. He dared not press the horse further; he might urge it to a short spurt, but the effort would probably be its last; and he had still three miles to go!

"Well done, Orange, my beauty!" he cried, patting its ear. "Good horse! Near home now; a few minutes more, old fellow, and then----"

Thus he rode on, inspiriting words on his lips, black despair at his elbow. He knew what military punctuality meant; his ears were strained to catch the sharp rattle of musketry. How far could a volley be heard? He could not pause to speculate on the question; all he could hear was the ringing of his flagging steed's hoofs.

He was a mile from Breda. He saw the whole of the little town before him, smoke rising from the chimneys; he overtook a few carts slowly wending towards the market, and heard the wondering exclamations of the wagoners as his blood-flecked steed flashed by. His eyes were straining towards the church tower; pray God the Ginneken clock was fast! But he was too far away to see the hands. On he rode; he came to the open gate; the sentry challenged him, but he was gone before the man had finished the phrase. Now he dug his spurs into the horse's heaving flanks for a last spurt; he clattered through the ill-paved street, shouting to the pedestrians to make way; into the busy little market-place, cumbered with the stalls of apple-women, poulterers, and other purveyors. Boys scurried like rabbits out of his path; women raised shrill cries as stalls were thrown down and apples rolled wide; dogs barked and girls shrieked; but he was past; the church clock said one minute to eight! Out of the market-square, round the corner,--and there was Tettefall, hastening to meet him.

"To the park!" cried the lieutenant.

Harry shouted in the horse's ear. In half a minute he was in at the park gate, and saw as in a mist the red uniforms of the firing-party, the solitary figure of the condemned man, and the officer in advance of the line with his eyes on the clock.

"Saved!" he cried, flinging the duke's order into the air. In a moment he was off the horse, which sank a trembling, heaving heap upon the ground.

"Just in time--thank God!" gasped Harry, as he sat with the horse's head between his knees.

And upon his dazed ear there fell the first chimes of the beneficent clock, mingled with the loud curt tones of the officer in command as he gave his squad the order to march.

*CHAPTER XV*

*The Water of Affliction*

The New Cornet--A Visit to Lindendaal--Fanshawe is Presented--The Family Skeleton--Madame Protests--Mademoiselle Insists--Mynheer is Mysterious--A Silent House--The Law Allows It--Not in the Bond--In the Canal--Sherebiah Owns Up

By his famous ride from Thielen to Breda Harry became doubly a popular hero. Neither citizens nor soldiers, Dutch or English, felt any particular concern with Sherebiah; but Harry's feat, coming before the memory of his former exploit at Lindendaal had died out, raised him to a pitch of estimation that might well have made him vain, but which in truth he found only embarrassing. Fanshawe, on the other hand, whose ready device with the clock had, as Harry was the first to acknowledge, really been the means of saving Sherebiah, was regarded with cold unfriendliness and even dislike by the townsfolk. To tamper with the town clock they regarded as a monstrous and unpardonable offence, and there was some talk of laying a formal complaint before the Duke of Marlborough. The proposal was warmly debated in the borough council, and the burgomaster had to exercise all his tact to prevent the hotter heads from carrying the day.

As for Sherebiah, he was a different man. By his formal discharge from the army the cloud that had pressed upon him for nearly nine years was dissolved; and now that he had become by official licence, as it were, a man of peace in good earnest, he developed, not merely an unexpected lightness of spirits, but a surprising partiality for the company of soldiers. Every leisure moment he now spent in camp or barrack, retailing endless anecdotes of his former experiences as a man of war, and basing on these a right to criticise and instruct which younger men admitted with humility, to the immense disgust and chagrin of Robins.

A few days after the incident, Harry's regiment marched into quarters at Breda, and General van Santen himself paid a flying visit to the town in order to introduce the new cornet to his messmates. Harry was welcomed with open arms, less through the general's sponsorship than through the fame of his own exploits and the proof he had given of courage and daring. One little fact also, which leaked out in course of time, did much to consolidate Harry's reputation as a thoroughly good fellow. He made it his business to find out the relatives of the man who had been killed during the night ride from Lillo. The poor fellow had left a wife and six children, the eldest a boy of sixteen--a slow, earnest, dogged youth who was overcome with shyness when Harry, at the interview with his tearful mother, asked to see him. Harry liked the look of the boy, and offered to apprentice him to an armourer. The mother gladly accepted; and Mynheer Grootz further undertook, at Harry's persuasion, to provide employment for the widow and those of her children who were of age to work. This solicitude of Harry for the family of a man who after all had only been killed by the fortune of war, and had no claim upon him, made an impression on the officers of his regiment; and though it was never mentioned in his presence at mess, it doubtless accounted in large measure for his popularity with officers and men.

For some weeks Harry was fully occupied in learning his new duties, practising with sword and rapier, and improving his knowledge of Dutch: Sherebiah's command of the language was of course no longer a mystery. Schomberg's Horse, to which Fanshawe belonged, being likewise quartered outside Breda, Harry often had opportunities of conversation with his friend. Naturally Fanshawe was amazed to hear of the strange enmity of Mr. Berkeley, and shrewdly guessed that the soldier of fortune who had informed on Sherebiah was Captain Aglionby.

"And mark my words," he said, "'twas another move against you. Sherry seems to have been a sort of watchdog to you; him out of the way, so much the less difficulty in aiming at you. Though what cause the squire has to wish you ill it passes my wit to divine."

"And mine too. 'Tis a desperate revenge on me for being my father's son."

"Have a care, Harry. Having gone so far they will not easily be baulked, and in these cut-and-thrust times a blow in the dark, eh?--exit Harry Rochester."

"I'll be on my guard, never fear; and I still have Sherry."

Harry had not forgotten his friends at Lindendaal. He rode over one free afternoon some three weeks after joining his regiment, and found that the ladies had heard of his promotion, and of his ride, from Mynheer Grootz. Madame de Vaudrey was ecstatic in her congratulations, and only deplored that his new coat was not more brilliant.

"It suits you well, mon ami," she said, "but for myself I should like better the red than the blue."

"Indeed, Madame," replied Harry with a laugh, "I hadn't given it a thought. There's one advantage in a dull garb: it presents a less conspicuous mark to the enemy."

"A point, Monsieur, to which also you had not given a thought till this moment," said Adele.

Harry laughed; then, changing the subject, he added: "Have you heard or seen anything more of Monsieur de Polignac and his friend?"

"Nothing, Monsieur Harry," said the comtesse. "And indeed we do not wish to. I only fear lest his silence augurs no good for us. As for his friend, that odious captain----prrrut!"

Madame's indignation was too great for articulate expression. The idea of Aglionby daring to pay his addresses to her was too monstrous. As was her wont in this mood, she prattled away about her late husband, Harry listening sympathetically and wondering at the half-smile on Adele's face. When taking his leave, he said:

"An old friend of mine, an English officer, is in camp at Breda. May I bring him, Madame, to call on you one day?"

"I shall be charmed, mon cher ami."

"Fanshawe speaks little French, I fear, but----"

"Ah bah!" interrupted the lady, "that matters nothing at all. Adele shall teach him."

"I shall be charmed, as Mamma says," said Adele.

Harry smiled; nevertheless the suggestion set him thinking as he rode back, and he felt a shade of annoyance when Fanshawe, to whom he mentioned the circumstance, laughed heartily and quoted:

"'Amo, amas, I love a lass'. Is she pretty, Harry? By George! I like the notion."

The two rode out together in the following week; Fanshawe made a good impression on Madame de Vaudrey, and his stammering French and good-humoured laughter at his own mistakes appeared to form a bond of union between him and Adele, for she was soon chatting and smiling with a friendliness and freedom quite different from her reserved attitude towards Harry. Fanshawe talked and laughed gaily all the way back; Harry on the contrary was decidedly glum; and when Sherebiah came to him at night as usual for orders his master's unaccustomed moodiness did not escape him.

"What med be the meanen o' this?" he muttered as he went away.

"'Yanker didee dudel down
Dida dudel launter----'

I must ride out-along to Lindendaal one o' these fine days, and putt a question to Katrinka--ay sure."

One afternoon in the second week of September Harry, having finished his duties for the day, paid a visit by himself to Madame de Vaudrey. He found the good lady in tears, and Adele with very pale cheeks and a suspicious redness about her eyes.

"Oh, Monsieur Harry!" cried the comtesse as he was shown in, "how glad I am to see you! This is a moment when I need a friend. Look at this letter from that odious Monsieur de Polignac. My poor dear husband! I am glad--it is horrible to say it--but yes, I am glad he did not live to see this terrible day. Read it, cher ami."

Harry looked at the letter. It was a curt and formal note from Polignac intimating that, failing compliance with his suit, he was resolved to foreclose his mortgage on the estate one month from the date of the letter, as the terms of the deed provided. He still offered Mademoiselle his hand and heart; did she accept him as a husband he would immediately destroy the mortgage; he gave her a week to decide.

"The villain!" ejaculated Harry.

"He is within his right, Monsieur," said Adele.

"Right! Legal right, yes; no doubt it is so; but who but a villain would put the matter in this way!"

"What I do not understand," said Madame de Vaudrey, "is his motive. If Adele were a great heiress, I can understand that he should press his suit; but she is not; this poor little estate would not tempt an ambitious man; and as for herself, she has shown her aversion so plainly----"

"I hate him!" cried the girl, with a vehemence that surprised Harry, so unlike was it to her usual cold self-contained air.

"It is wrong to hate," said her mother; "but the dear girl has no liking for him, and how should a man desire for a wife one to whom he is so indifferent?"

"Tell me," said Harry, "is the mortgage for a large sum?"

"Alas! yes, for several thousand guilders; that is for the estate alone: the house is separately mortgaged, and the mortgagee in that case is content to receive his interest."

"Have you no relatives who would advance the money?"

"Not one. We are poor exiles, and have not, I believe, one relative in the wide world."

Harry was greatly distressed. It was clear that Adele would never consent to marry Polignac, even if her mother wished it; and there was no escape from the dilemma save by raising the money.

"Are you quite sure you are so fully in the man's power?" he asked.

"I know it too well. There is no flaw in the documents; my dear husband's lawyer is a good man; we have no way of escape."

"Of course you have consulted him?"

"Yes; he can do nothing. It is law, he tells me; we have no other property the sale of which might pay off the mortgage; I have nothing but my jewels, the gifts of my dear comte, and they would not bring one-tenth of the sum we need. The income from the estate would enable us to pay off the mortgage in ten years if we were given time."

A ray of light struck suddenly upon Harry.

"Does Mynheer Grootz know?" he asked.

"Oh no! Mynheer Grootz is indeed a friend, but he could do nothing--nothing."

"I am not sure of that. I think he should be told. It is a matter of business; he is a shrewd man of business; he may be able to see a way out of the difficulty that we are ignorant of; with your leave I will put the case to him."

"No, Monsieur Harry, I forbid it. I prefer that Mynheer Grootz should not know. He has enough to do, I am sure, without being troubled with a poor woman's affairs. I do not say he has not a good heart; he has; he knows how fond I am of rare tulips, and has so kindly given me bulbs; but no, I could not seek other favours from him, I could not indeed. Besides, the lawyer has said, nothing can be done; Mynheer Grootz can do nothing against the law."

"True, Madame; and yet--it is a chance; it can surely do no harm----"

"You do not understand, Monsieur; it may do the very greatest harm."

Harry was mystified, especially as he fancied he detected the glimmer of a smile on Adele's face.

"I do not understand----" he began.

"Mother cannot explain," said Adele quietly. "I do not agree with her; I think she is quite mistaken; certainly Mynheer Grootz should be told."

"Adele, you are a child; one cannot expect you to understand."

"Maman cherie, do you think so? You are a goose, petite Maman. Monsieur, believe me, it will be the very best thing in the world to consult Mynheer Grootz."

"Adele!"

"It will, Mamma. It is a poor chance, I fear, but ought we to neglect even the least? and you do not wish me to marry Monsieur de Polignac?"

"Mon Dieu, non! A thousand times no! The odious man!"

"Then, Madame," said Harry, "I will venture to see Mynheer Grootz as soon as I can,--or perhaps write to him."

"Eh bien! it is against my will. I protest; I can do no more. You will tell him I protested?"

"Certainly, I shall not forget. I will let you know what he says; perhaps he will come himself. Madame, have a good heart; why, if all else fails, there is my man Sherry; you remember how he embraced the gentlemen?"

Adele laughed, but the comtesse was too much distressed to see any humour in the situation. Harry was surprised at the flutter into which his simple suggestion had thrown her, and rode away feeling puzzled at the strange ways of women.

He was spared the necessity of writing to Mynheer Grootz, for on reaching his quarters he learnt that the merchant had called during the evening, and had left word that he might be seen next afternoon after his business with the commissary was concluded. He heard Harry's story quietly.

"Leave it to me, Harry," he said, his little eyes twinkling. "I will promise dis Monsieur de Polignac a little surprise. He is a noble; zo I guess by de name. Dey are all de same, dese nobles; and I promise Monsieur de Polignac zall be made to know dat dis is Holland, not France, and moreover dat one honest Dutchman is match for a score of rascal French. Dis man dink he have only a woman to deal wid; well, he zall be undeceive."

"Will you see Madame de Vaudrey, then, or write to her?"

"No, neider will I zee her, nor write to her. But you--you will tell her by no means to answer dis Monsieur de Polignac. He will foreclose in a month, you zay? Very well. He zall meet wid a surprise. Now tell me one ding. Madame la Comtesse--did she ask you to come to me?"

"Quite the contrary, Mynheer; she did not wish it, I did not understand why; the reasons she gave were somewhat lame."

Then for the first time in Harry's knowledge of the Dutch merchant he saw him excited.

"By den donder!" he exclaimed, slapping his thigh. Noting Harry's glance of astonishment he chuckled again, adding: "I tell you dis; you alzo zall zee someding." He wagged his forefinger knowingly.

"You have told me nothing," said Harry with a smile.

"No, dat is true. In good time. You do not yet know me, Jan Grootz."

Harry gave Madame de Vaudrey the Dutchman's message, and after that found only one opportunity of visiting her for nearly a month. On that occasion she showed him a final letter from Polignac, announcing that on a specified day he would attend at the house to receive payment of his mortgage, or, in default, possession of the property. The comtesse had heard nothing from Grootz, and was in great distress, refusing to be comforted when Harry assured her that all would be well. On his return to Breda he wrote to Grootz informing him of Polignac's letter, and next day received a reply asking him to arrange if possible to keep the day named free.

Early on the morning of that September day, Grootz with Harry, Sherebiah, and two men with large bags slung at their saddles, rode out from Breda to Lindendaal. When the door was opened by old Jean, and they had entered, Grootz bade him close it and slip one of the bolts half-way into its socket. After a short conversation with the servant he went into the reception-room, had the bags laid on the table, threw himself into the biggest chair, and calmly lit his pipe.

"Madame abhors tobacco, Mynheer," Harry ventured to say.

"Huh! Zo I now remember. It is a pity; I must put out my pipe, even though she be not here."

"She is gone from home, then? I fancied so by the manner of your entering."

"Ja! At dis moment she and de juffrouw are, as I suppose, fast asleep in Breda. Dey come dere last night."

"Oh! And we receive Monsieur de Polignac?"

"Dat is zo; we receive Monsieur de Polignac."

Deprived of the solace of his pipe, Grootz settled himself to sleep in his chair. An hour or more later he was wakened by Harry.

"Here they are, Mynheer!"

"Zo!"

He was up in a moment, and from the window saw Polignac, accompanied by Aglionby and two sturdy henchmen, walking up the drive towards the house.

"Zooks!" exclaimed Sherebiah, "here be Rafe Aglionby again. 'Twill be no cuddle this time if I lay hands on him. No thanks to he I be not a dead corpse to-day."

"Sherebiah, it is my turn," said Grootz solemnly.

"Zackly, Mynheer, all fair and no favour."

The four men came to the door, and the bell gave forth a resounding clang. All was silent within the house, and Jean at Grootz's orders paid no heed to the appeal. Again the bell sounded; again there was no response. Then Aglionby with an oath began to hammer on the door with his riding-whip. Even this noisy summons being disregarded, after a moment's consultation Polignac ordered one of his men to burst in the door. It yielded easily to his force, and the four trooped in--to find themselves confronted by Grootz, with Harry and Sherebiah behind him. At the same moment six of the men about the estate came quietly from behind the house and arranged themselves in two parties on both sides of the entrance, outside, and out of view from within. Jean had fulfilled his instructions.

Polignac halted in some embarrassment when he saw Grootz, and Aglionby looked far from comfortable at this unexpected meeting with the two men he had injured.

"Messieurs, I ask you," began Grootz in slow, halting French, "what is the meaning of this forcible entry?"

"Pardon, Monsieur," replied Polignac, recovering his sang-froid instantly. "I have not the pleasure. I came to see Madame la Comtesse de Vaudrey."

"Zo? And permit me to ask, what is your business with Madame la Comtesse de Vaudrey?"

"Before I reply, permit me to ask by what right you question me, and what you are doing here?"

"Decidedly, Monsieur. My name is Jan Grootz; I am here by the power of attorney I hold from Madame de Vaudrey. I beg you see it is in due form."

He exhibited a roll of parchment which Polignac glanced at; he was patently annoyed; his mouth twitched towards his left ear. Aglionby meanwhile had edged towards him, evidently with the intention of whispering something; but Sherebiah noted the movement and exclaimed:

"Keep a still tongue, Rafe Aglionby, 'ee were best, I tell 'ee."

"You are aware, then, Monsieur," said Polignac, "that I come according to due notice as required by law to demand payment of a bond, or possession of this estate, as provided in the deed?"

"Yes; I know it; what is the amount payable under the bond?"

"Fourteen thousand guilders, Monsieur."

Grootz pointed through the open doorway of the reception-room to the bags upon the table.

"There is the money, Monsieur. You will please to count it, and give me a quittance, and hand the bond to me to be destroyed."

With disappointment and rage written upon his face, Polignac proceeded to count the money with Aglionby's assistance. It was a longish process, and neither of the men felt quite at ease under the gaze of the onlookers. At last it was finished; Polignac wrote a receipt, and gave the cancelled bond to Grootz. Not a word was spoken while these formalities were complied with. Harry noticed that Sherebiah had placed himself between Aglionby and the door.

"Zo!" said Grootz. "Wait one minute, Monsieur." He unrolled the deed, ran his eye over it, then looked up and said with deliberate gravity: "Permit me to draw your attention to the fact that the property named in this document is the land belonging to the estate. It does not include the house and its appurtenances. Wherefore it appears, Monsieur, that you, with a band of ruffian hirelings, have violently broken into the private house of a lady who enjoys the protection of the Dutch flag. That is, permit me to observe, Monsieur, a breach of the law, and subjects you to a penalty--heavy, no doubt; I do not know the law. But for the present, since the law moves somewhat slowly, it would not surprise me if the servants of Madame la Comtesse, who are devoted to their mistress, should prefer to anticipate the sentence. They may be disposed to do what every honest and indignant Hollander would certainly do in the circumstances."

At a signal the half-dozen Dutch servants moved to the door and blocked the entrance.

"Men," said Grootz to them, "these gentlemen, who are not Hollanders, have broken into your mistress's house. I do not give you any advice; but for myself I do not think it would be a breach of the law if you should throw these gentlemen into the canal yonder.--Do not be alarmed, gentlemen; it is cold, I fear, and dirty, but as honest Hollanders Madame de Vaudrey's servants will not allow you to drown, for all their indignation."

Half-way through this speech Polignac and Aglionby had both made to draw their swords; but the six Hollanders seized upon them; in a trice they were overpowered. Their two men looked on, trembling. Polignac, white to the lips, held his peace; but Aglionby, after wriggling vainly in the hands of his captors, turned his head towards Sherebiah and cried:

"Zounds, Sherry, you will not stand by and see your own cousin so misused. 'Tis a vile plot. I have done nothing; what are the ladies to me? what is Polignac to me? Sherry, unhand these boors; I shall catch my death of cold; Sherry, I say, blood is thicker than water----"

"Ay sure, but it bean't so cold."

"Od rat you!" shouted the enraged captain as he was hauled with Polignac out of the house. He kept up his clamorous entreaties and oaths until the very moment when, with a sounding splash, he was heaved into the canal, and with spluttering breathlessness struck out with Polignac for the other side. A moment's observation sufficed to show the Hollanders that their victims could swim; they watched the scene with Dutch stolidity, Grootz placidly smoking his long-deferred pipe.

"Ay, 'tis the water of affliction, as the Book says," remarked Sherebiah sententiously as he watched the swimmers gain the farther bank, clamber up, and slink away, Aglionby obviously pouring out the vials of his wrath upon the miserable Frenchman. "'Tis the fust time for many a day cold water have gone down Rafe's throat, and mebbe he's changed his mind by now about blood bein' thicker 'n this water."

"I admire your strategy, Mynheer," said Harry to Grootz.

"Zo! We must send dis money to Polignac; his house is near at hand. Dere is one ding to zay: de house is mine, after all. I paid off de mortgage last week--let us zay, for a friend. Dat is all dat Madame need know: Grootz has paid de bonds--both bonds, house and land--for a friend: a matter of business; you understand."

"Very well, Mynheer; I will be diplomatic if she asks for more information."

But Harry was as much puzzled by Grootz's attitude as he had been by the lady's.

"So Captain Aglionby is your cousin?" he said to Sherebiah later in the day.

"Ay, to be sure: old feyther's sister's son. A fine loven feller for a coz, bean't he, sir?"

"He has got off too lightly, Sherry."

"Mebbe, but he'll come to his reckonen some day. You mind seein' me trounce un the day arter I shouted for the noble lord?"

"Yes, and you would not tell me the reason."

"Nay, I was 'shamed for my blood. Folks thowt 'twas Rafe as loosed John Simmons. 'Twarn't him; 'twas me."

"You!"

"Ay. I knowed as the highway business were a trick o' Rafe's, and I knowed as how Simmons would split on un. Fat'll be in fire then, thinks I. Rafe'll go to hangman, and poor old feyther o' mine'll die o' shame at such a kicken end for his own sister's child. I couldn't stand that, sir, so when Willum Nokes was a-snoren I took down keys from the nail and had Simmons out in a twink."

"But that doesn't explain why you fought the captain."

"Ay, but it do. Here was I, goen agen the law, diddlen Sir Godfrey and other high justices, cheaten hangman and all--and what for, I axe 'ee? 'Cos Minshull blood was cussed wi' mixen wi' Aglionby's. Aglionby blood had got to pay, someways, and so it did, to be sure, for I took a half-pint or so out of Rafe that mornen."

*CHAPTER XVI*

*Knaves all Three*

Labour Lost--Elegant Extracts--Hard Hit--A New Departure--Fishing--County Families--Sack

Captain Aglionby sanded the paper he had just written upon, and leant back in his chair with a sigh of satisfaction. He heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs.

"Here, Mynheer," said the voice of his landlord.

With an instinctive movement he covered the letter, and turned on his chair, in time to see the door open and a visitor enter. He stared for a moment in speechless amazement; then, attempting clumsily to shove the letter entirely out of sight beneath a plate containing the crumbs of a fish pate, he got up and said:

"Why, Mr. Berkeley; adzooks! 'tis the last man I could have expected to see, the last man--though a pleasant surprise, an uncommonly pleasant surprise."

"Humph!" grunted the old man, with a glance round the mean room. "I feared you would resent my too abrupt entry. After what I had learnt in your letters about your magnificent, expensive, modish apartment, I could not suppose I was walking straight into your parlour--h'm! study; h'm! bedroom and--pantry, h'm!"

"No apologies, my friend, I beg. You take me at a disadvantage, having but just consumed my modest repast----"

"Fish! My nose informs me. 'Tis the fortieth smell that has offended my senses within a quarter of an hour. 'Twas somewhat difficult to discover your--mansion. You are not, it appears, so well known at the Hague as you give out; and when I named you at my inn, with your address, I was advised to bring an escort. I came alone----"

"Ah! Nicolas Berkeley knows how to take care of himself--eh, Squire?"

"But had I known to what an ordeal, to what a series of ordeals, my nostrils would be exposed, I doubt I could not have plucked up the courage."

"'Twas ill done to come upon me so suddenly. The smells--hang me, Squire, I have smelt worse when I was the guest of the Czar of Muscovy. But had you given me a week's, a day's notice, I would have made ready an entertainment worthy of you, my old friend."

"No doubt, no doubt----"

"And indeed I was on the point of writing you when you entered."

"Ay, on the point of; you write to me twice a day, do you? for unless I mistake, you have already writ once to-day. Under the plate, Captain Aglionby--surely I see writ on the paper there some semblance of my name."

"'Tis so; what eyes you have for your age, Squire! I was just trying a new pen, and so full were my thoughts of my generous friend and patron that the pen ran of its own accord, mark you, into the familiar curves. And as I know how you abhor a letter, I will e'en tear up the paper and----"

"Stay!" cried the old man, taking a sudden step forward; "knowing the pains you take in writing, 'tis pity they should be wasted. I set out designing to conduct my son to the army: I find I am embarked on a voyage of discovery; give me the paper."

The command was uttered in a tone that broke down Aglionby's bravado. He drew the letter from below the plate, and handed it in sullen silence to the squire. The old man pressed his lips grimly together as he unfolded the yet unsealed paper. Aglionby stuck out his legs wide apart, thrust his hands into his breeches pockets, and hung his head in moody dudgeon.

"'Tis excellent pen-work; your hand grows fluent. '_I thank you for the hundred guineas received_'"--Mr. Berkeley read aloud with deliberation and a dry emphasis that made Aglionby wince--"'_and trust the two hundred for which I beseeched you in my last will not tarry._' To pay your landlord, I take it, for this--magnificent apartment."

"A man must live," said the captain sullenly.

"Ay, eat and drink, and sponge upon his betters for his cakes and ale."

"Oons! Squire, 'tis rum."

"A foul-smelling liquor.--What is this?--'_do violence to natural affection in the service of a munificent patron--inform on a cousin--Sherebiah Minshull condemned to be shot--my lord Marlborough--young Mr. Rochester--rid up in the nick of time._'"--Mr. Berkeley's brow darkened as he read.--"Let me come to the end of it. '_A visit to the Comtesse de Vaudrey in the interest of my patron--violent assault--in the mellay stumbled into a canal--costume totally ruined and cannot be replaced under ten guineas_'--I observe 'tis shrunk at the sleeve; I thought maybe you had grown, to match your magnificent apartment! Now, sirrah, how much of this precious epistle do you expect me to believe? A fine story, in truth, of the ills you suffer in your constant zeal for your 'munificent patron': is it all of a piece with your 'magnificent apartment'? What have you done with, and for, my hundred guineas?--what, sirrah, your answer!"

Aglionby felt that he was being wronged; he had, in fact, done all in his power; it was not his fault that failure had dogged him. Undoubtedly appearances were against him, and the biting emphasis of the old man's delivery, the cold sneer that lurked in every repetition of his pet phrases, robbed him of speech. He writhed under the lash. Standing over him, the squire gave rein to his temper.

"You take me for a fool, do you, with your cock-and-bull stories!--you flam me off, rat me! with your 'magnificent apartment', your 'munificent patron', your 'constant zeal', which I--I, you swashbuckling villain--am to pay for! Where are the two hundred guineas paid to the captain of the _Merry Maid_?--the fifty guineas to your footpad friends in Wapping?--the hundred sent you but a few weeks past? How has your zeal furthered my interest? Zeal, forsooth! there's a many of your cut-throat gossips would sink you as a disgrace to the craft, for at least they hold to their bargains and are not swindlers as well as----"

"Fire and fury!" shouted Aglionby, springing to his feet and drawing his sword. "'Tis not to be borne! Clap a bridle on your canting tongue or I'll run your bloodless carcass through!--as I've done with many a better man. D'ye hear, you old Pharisee! Your white hairs under your wig sha'n't preserve you if Rafe Aglionby is roused. And where would you be, rot you--Squire Berkeley of Winton Hall--you and your guineas--if I told what I know?"

Mr. Berkeley had drawn at the same moment, and the two stood glaring at each other over the chair. The old man, his face livid with passion, was in nowise daunted by the other's threats; Aglionby's cheeks were purple, and the veins on his brow stood up like whipcord. For some moments both stood tense, each leaning towards the other; then the squire dropped his sword back into the sheath, gulped, and said:

"Well, well, maybe I was hasty. But you have a great deal to explain, Aglionby--a very great deal to explain."

"As I could have done, had you but given me time instead of treating me as you would a common pickpocket. By George! Mr. Berkeley, Rafe Aglionby is not the man to stand that mode of dealing, as you well know, for all the luck has been against me these late years. Who could have supposed that young Rochester, sink him! would escape from the _Merry Maid_? Was that my fault, pray? By what I can make out he jumped overboard off Gravesend and got aboard a Dutch brig, and the rascally Hollander--one Grootz, a smug corn-dealer--refused to give him up. Could I help that? Then, when I had my snivelling cousin Sherebiah fast in the net, could I prevent my lord Marlborough from signing his discharge and undoing all my work? Could I? I've had the worst of luck all through; and foul words won't mend matters. And, beshrew me, you were not over successful yourself with the cockerel's father, for all your guineas. The youngster's a chip of the old block, and a precious hard chip too, rot him! But I've vowed to carry the thing through; besides your affair, I've now one or two private accounts to square with him; and if you have patience and a trifle more courtesy--by George! you'll have no cause to complain of Rafe Aglionby."

The words came from him in a torrent. He felt that he had a real grievance, and, as often with rogues, the possession of a grievance lent him words if not eloquence. But the squire still looking doubtful, Aglionby picked up a stained copy of the _Amsterdam Courier_ that lay on a chair, and pointed to a paragraph giving in French an account, somewhat distorted but substantially accurate, of Harry's exploit on behalf of Sherebiah. As the old man read it he pressed his thin lips together in vindictive rage.

"There for you!" pursued the captain. "'Tis the talk of the town. The youngster is making friends on all sides; he owns a commission in the Dutch army----"

"What!"

"'Tis true; a booby general got him the commission, and the lubber Grootz pays. 'Tis becoming more and more difficult to get at him; but I have a scheme--a pretty scheme, egad!--that can scarcely fail this time. All I need is a small sum to go on with--rat me, Squire, will you still sneer? On my soul, I----"

"Tut, Captain, your skin is surely thinner than it was."

"And yours would be thin had ye not your guineas to line it with. Hang me, Berkeley, a word from me----"

"Come, come," said the squire quickly, "'tis not for old friends to fall out. You were talking of your scheme."

"I was saying that all I need is a small sum in advance--the rest may wait till the thing is done."

"And what is your scheme? You do not expect me--no offence, Aglionby--to buy a pig in a poke this time."

"'Twere better, maybe----" Aglionby was beginning, but just then a footstep was heard on the stairs. He evidently recognized it. Hesitating for a second he lowered his voice and continued hurriedly: "'Tis one of the men engaged in the job. I will call on you later at your inn. 'Twould be amiss were he to know you had any concern in it."

Berkeley looked suspiciously at the captain, but, unable to fathom his embarrassment, he picked up his hat and slowly moved towards the door. It opened in his face, and Polignac appeared. He stepped back courteously to allow the older man to pass. They bowed to each other, with a mutual glance of keen scrutiny. The squire bade Aglionby good-day, refusing his attendance; and as he passed down the stairs Polignac entered the room.

"Who is your visitor, captain?" he asked. "An English milord, by his appearance."

"Yes; a friend from England--an old friend of my family: a neighbour: in fact, our estates join--or all but, for 'tis but a narrow trout-stream divides 'em."

Aglionby's manner was still a little flurried. His mind was not very quick, and took time to adjust itself. Polignac threw his hat upon the table, sat astride of a chair, and went on with admirable gravity:

"And the fishing--it is often, without doubt, what we Frenchmen call an apple of discord. I have known so many disputes."

"The fishing! oh!--yes!--well, that arranges itself. It is quite simple: we take one day, he takes the next."

"Tour a tour. Admirable! You English are the people for transactions! I must make the acquaintance of your so accommodating friend and neighbour. Is he--how shall I say it?--one of us?"

"No. He takes no part in affairs. He cultivates his estate. His call now is merely in way of friendship."

"Ah! that is indeed amiable. Parbleu, he has the look! And what is he doing in this country?"

Aglionby was growing restive under the cross-examination. He had the air of a witness who fears that he may be enticed into an admission against his will. But he had not the wit to fence with his visitor.

"Nothing," he replied curtly. "He comes with his son, that is in the army, and now joins his regiment."

"He has a son in the army? My dear friend, certainly you shall present me. I desire of all things to extend my acquaintance among your countrymen--in furtherance, it is understood, of my cause--of our cause, pardon me."

"I fear you will find little encouragement with him. He hates your countrymen as one hates a toad."

"The amiable man!"

Aglionby's constrained manner had betrayed him to his astute visitor, whose curiosity was now effectually aroused.

"Then, my good captain," he continued, "it shall be my pleasing task to convert him. Indeed, you must present me. He shall be a recruit--a little aged, perhaps, but what matters that? In truth, it is an advantage, if his estates are as large as you say."

"I did not say his estates were large."

"But they march with your family's--is it not so? And unless I deceive myself, the D'Aglionbys are--how do you say it?--milords of the manor of half the comte of Viltshire. You remark, my dear captain, what a memory I have, even for your barbarous English geography."

The captain, more and more restive, fidgeted on his chair.

"Parbleu, monsieur," he said doggedly, "you must allow me to be the judge who among my friends is likely to be of use to us. This one, I say, is not; you must be content with that."

Polignac, seeing that nothing was to be gained by pressing the matter in the captain's present mood, adroitly changed the conversation.

"Eh bien! As you will, my good captain. You know my zeal in the cause, and Tout fait nombre, as we say in France. Now, my friend, how goes our affair--yours and mine, I mean?"

Aglionby's face cleared. He was now on surer ground.

"Admirably, admirably, monsieur. Look you, I have arranged with some six stout fellows--every one to be depended on. Nothing remains but to choose the hour and the place. And besides, I have set Simmons on the watch: he comes here to report at five o'clock."

"And it is now half-past two. If it pleases you, mon brave,--there is time--we will have in a bottle of sack and drink success to our enterprise."

"If it pleases me! Parbleu, Polignac, I've drunk nothing but rum since Berk----since the last remittance from my agent was spent. A bottle of sack! Many I've emptied with the Czar of Muscovy, whose head, mark you, is not as strong as mine. Certainly, a bottle of sack--the money, my friend?"

Some two hours later, Aglionby left the inn at which Mr. Berkeley was putting up. His mood and mien were jovial; his rubicund cheeks even more ruddy than usual. He was too old and tough a campaigner, and too well seasoned by his experiences in Russia, to allow himself to be overtaken in liquor; but he was certainly in an unusually buoyant humour, and trod the street with a confident swing. As he passed along, he jingled the money in his pocket, and appeared to take an uncommon pleasure in the sound. His brow was clear, his eye bright, and he held half-audible communion with his thoughts.

"'Tis a hard world, Rafe my boy; odso, 'tis a hard world. 'Tis not often a man gets paid for doing what he would gladly do for nothing. Ay, and 'tis less often he gets paid twice, begad! Rafe, my bully boy, you're in luck. Stap me, we'll break another bottle of sack and drink to your success. Nay, nay; hold a little: business before pleasure. A draft from our Hebrew friend--egad, they're the one good thing I know in Amsterdam; that is easily got; then a letter to the Elector's chamberlain; oons! 'tis more difficult, but to be faced; I'm no scholard, hang it, but I can pay some poor scrivener that is, whether 'tis to be Latin or French; and to be Captain Rafe once more's worth a dollar or two for pen-work. Then for a bottle at the Goudenhoof'd. And to-morrow, my friend Rochester and my excellent coz with the scripture name--to-morrow, by the lord Harry, our final reckoning!"

*CHAPTER XVII*

*In the Dusk*

Katrinka--Filial--Fine Feathers--A Practical Joke--Up a Tree--A Trap--In Waiting--The Last Minute--A Bolt from the Blue--Ad Misericordiam--A Theory--With Thanks