Chapter XV: From Over the Water

Lucille, turning to go, made a little sign to Roy to follow her. Ivor opened the door, moving mechanically, as if his mind were far away; and Roy, with a show of reluctance, went in her rear.

“But, Mademoiselle, I want to know about them all at home. Molly most! And Den can tell me.”

“Yes; soon. But would you not leave Monsieur to read his letter in peace? Would not that be kind?”

“Are you more sorry for Den than for the rest of us?” demanded Roy, his frank grey eyes looking Lucille in the face somewhat laughingly. The question took her by surprise; and afterwards she recurred to it, wondering at the boy’s unconscious penetration. At the moment she met his glance readily enough.

“I do not know. I am sorry for you all. But Captain Ivor—yes, perhaps most. I am not sure. He is more changed by his imprisonment than any. Cannot you perceive? _Mais non_—you are a boy—you do not look.”

“I do, though,” protested the injured Roy. “That was why I wouldn’t go on playing chess. And then for you to say that I don’t _look_. But I can’t see that Den is changed—not a scrap. What do you mean? He’s the best old fellow that ever lived—just as he always was, you know.”

“Old!” repeated Lucille, with a lifting of her eyebrows.

“O, that’s only—that means nothing. At least, it means that I like him better than anybody else—except Molly. No, he isn’t old really, of course—he was twenty-five his last birthday.” Roy laughed to himself.

“Something that you find amusing, Roy!”

“It’s only the letter. Do you know, that’s from the girl he is going to marry some day. It’s from Polly.”

“Oui.” Lucille had already conjectured as much. “Mademoiselle Pol-ly. C’est un peu drôle, ce nom-là.”

“But ’tis not Mademoiselle Po-lee. ’Tis just Polly. You do say names so drolly—so French! Den says I’m not to cure you of talking as you do, because ’tis pretty. But her name really and truly isn’t Polly. She is Mary Keene—only no one ever calls her Mary.”

“Mademoiselle Marie Keene—ah, oui. And is this Mademoiselle Keene pretty—gentille?”

“I should just think she was. The prettiest girl that ever was,” declared Roy. “Though I like Molly best, you know, and she’s not pretty. But Polly’s nice, too. May I go back now? Den has had lots of time.”

“I would wait—ten minutes—why not? You have not yet unpacked for monsieur.”

Roy murmured one impatient “Bother! Plague take it!” and then his face cleared, and he complied. Ivor did not know how much he owed to Lucille, in being thus left to the undisturbed enjoyment of his letter.

He forgot all about both Lucille and Roy, when once he had it in possession. The very touch of that thick paper, with its red seals, did him good. As he unfolded it, the weight on his brain lessened, and sight became more clear. If Polly only wrote to say that she was growing tired of waiting and could not promise to wait indefinitely, still even that would be better than not hearing at all—even to know the worst at once would be better than absolute uncertainty. And meanwhile it was her own handwriting.

There was one sheet, square-shaped, written well over. Polly’s letter came first, and another from somebody else followed it. Ivor did not trouble himself as to the authorship of the second, till he had read through the first. He scarcely vouchsafed it a glance.

The early part of Polly’s effusion, which bore a date many weeks old, was written in a strain of studied archness and badinage, such as in those days was greatly affected by young ladies. Towards the end a little peep into Polly’s heart was permitted. She had apparently just received one of Ivor’s many epistles, the greater number of which never reached their destination.

Bath. November 7, 1803.

“MY DEAR CAPTAIN IVOR,—So you consider that I have been too slow
in writing to you, and you make complaint that I leave you too long
without Letters. But how know you that I have not sent at least
_one_ for every single one of yours to me? In truth, I cannot boast
of any vast correspondence on _your_ side, my dear Sir, since the
letter which is now arriv’d is but the second in——O in quite
an interminable length of time. And were it not that I have an
exceeding Aversion to the writing of Letters, as indeed you ought
to be aware, since I am sure I have told you as much, I _might_
feel Regrets at hearing so seldom—but that it means the less toil
on _my_ part, you understand. If it were not that in your last you
give a delicate hint that Silence on my part might be construed to
mean something of the Nature of Indifference, why even now I should
be greatly disposed to indulge my Dislike to driving the Quill, and
wait till another day.

“But since doubtless you will expect to hear, and since we never
may know which letters have gone astray, I will so far overcome my
inclinations—or my _dis_inclinations—as to sit down and endeavour
to entertain you with the best of Bath News.

“My letter which was writ from Sandgate you have, I trust, already
received, and thus you know all about the scare which took place,
when the French fleet was descried by somebody of not very good
sight—or so I suppose!—and when signals went wrong, and the
Soldiers and Sea-fencibles and Volunteers were all called out, and
when General Moore galloped the whole distance from Dungeness
Point to be in time, and when Mrs. Bryce’s heart failed her. But
not _Polly’s_, Captain Ivor—of that you may be sure! For _Polly_
is to be one day the wife of a soldier! And also Polly knew that,
if she were to be taken prisoner, as Mrs. Bryce dolefully foretold,
why—why—that might mean that she could hope to be sent to where
Somebody is, whom she would not be greatly sorry to see once again.

“Mrs. Bryce insisted on coming hither in hot haste, lest Napoleon
should please to land at Sandgate, where General Moore waited to
receive him; and now she is in doubt what to do next, since some
think London is the safer place to be in. But General Moore does
not now think that Napoleon will make any effort till spring, since
any day winter storms in the Channel may begin; and Jack scorns
the notion that, when he does come, he will ever advance beyond
the sea-beach. ’Tis said that, if Mr. Pitt comes into power again,
he will speedily _start_ some new ideas for our Preservation; and
my Grandmamma says, therefore, that we may not _start_ any new
expenses till we know to what length Taxation will allow us to run.
But for which I wanted much a new frock.

“Last week I was in Bristol for three days, with our Grandmother’s
old friends, Mr. and Mrs. Graham. I was asked to a dance with them,
and I went, but without the smallest idea of dancing, having been
assured that beaux were scarce, and strangers seldom asked. So I
determined to enjoy seeing others more fortunate, and to pass a
quiet stupid evening, meditating on an absent Somebody—can you by
any possibility guess Whom, my dear Sir?

“But matters turned out otherwise. I had entered the room only a
few minutes, when a most genteel handsome young Man advanced, and
with such sort of speeches as you all make solicited the honour of
my hand. To tell you the honest and plain truth, I had seen him
before, and I therefore graciously assented. I left the ladies that
accompanied me—Mrs. Graham and Mrs. Graham’s sister—to look out
for themselves; and I began thereupon to enjoy myself. Now, if you
want to know his name, you must wait till I choose to tell you. He
contributed to my passing a very agreeable evening; and so far I
am obliged to him, for he knew many who were present, and he took
good care that I should be in no lack of partners; but whether I
ever see him again does not seem to be of any sort of consequence.
Everyone was astonished at my great good luck in dancing, for
the Gentlemen were, as usual, idle. There were some sad Coxcombs
present, I regret to say, who found it too much exertion even
to come forward and shawl a lady, when she was departing. But I
forget—I am writing to one who knows not the meaning of the word
‘trouble,’ and who would never leave any woman, not if she were
the _least_ Bewitching of her Sex, to stand neglected, if he could
put matters right. So you see, my dear Sir, what my opinion of you
is.

“Having related thus much, I really am bound to go farther, and
to inform you that the young man’s name was Albert Peirce, that
he is a nephew of the good Admiral, that he is an officer in His
Majesty’s Army, and that I saw him at Sandgate, the evening before
our great scare about the Invasion. After all his civilities in the
way of getting me Partners, he also handed me down to the vastly
elegant Supper, which was provided; and by that time, there’s no
doubt, I needed it.

“You may perhaps be thinking that I do very well without you, on
the whole; yet I cannot say that I do not miss my absent friend.
Indeed I do, and my Spirits are lower since you went away. ’Tis
said too that my Roses are much diminished, and that I must e’en
take to the use of Painting and Cosmetics, if I would preserve
my charms; but this, I confess, I am loath to do. So come home
again, my dear Denham, I entreat of you, as soon as ever you may,
for in truth I am longing to see you again. Is there no Exchange
of Prisoners ever to be brought about by the two Governments? The
present state of things is sad and dolorous for so many. I think
of sending this letter to your old address in Paris, in a cover
addressed to M. de Bertrand, who so kindly took in Roy, when he
had the Small-pox. It appears that few letters which are posted,
arrive safely; and ’tis at least worth while to try this mode. And
now I must write no more, for my Grandmother craves a part of the
sheet for a letter on her own behalf, that she may give suitable
particulars about Molly, who begs me to send her Duty to her
Parents, and her Love to Roy. I have begged only that the Letter
may be writ to yourself, that so the whole sheet may be yours.

“So at present no more, from
“Yours faithfully and Till Death,
“POLLY KEENE.”

Denham held the signature to his lips. Would he ever again be tempted to doubt sweet Polly’s constancy?

The letter following, on the last page, was much shorter and different in style. Mrs. Fairbank wrote—

“MY DEAR CAPTAIN IVOR,—I am desirous to let Colonel Baron and his
wife know that Molly is in good health, and Behaves herself as she
ought. I have therefore requested the use of one page in Polly’s
letter, since she assures me that she has nought else to say that
is of great Importance. You will doutless kindly give my message to
Colonel and Mrs. Baron.

“I am greatly Indebted to Coonel Baron for the money which has
been sent to me by his Bankers regularly, in conformity with his
orders given many months ago. Expenses are increasingly heavy,
as Prices continue steadily to arise, in consequence of the
long-continued Wars; and I shou’d find it tru’ly difficult to
manage, as things are now, but for his Seasonable and generous
Help. I am thankful to have it in my power to do all that is needed
for Molly, and the help to myself is not small. Bread and every
necessary are rising.

“Molly has a Governess who comes in every day; and I am pleased
to be able to report that she makes good advance in her Study’s,
as much as one cou’d expect. The young Governess is of French
Extraction, her father having lost his life in the French
Revolution, and her mother having fled with this daughter to
England. She will therefore be able to impart to Molly the correct
Pronunciation of French terms, which few Britishers manage to
Acquire. Molly is growing fast, and though she will never be
handsome, she is gaining a Pleasing expression of countenance; her
manners are Genteel; and she behaves with Candour and Propriety.

“Serious fears have been Entertain’d of a French Invasion of this
Country, but I trust, thro’ the Mercy of God, that the danger is
averted for this autumn. Mr. and Mrs. Bryce have fled to Bath for
greater Safety, in accordance with my Advice; and indeed I was
heartily glad when Polly had left Sandgate. If the french Army
shou’d land, and shou’d advance to Lon^{n}, God forbid they shou’d
molest the good Citizens, who I hope will be enabled to drive the
french by thousands into old Thames.[1] People seem now, however,
greatly to relax in their fears.

“You will dou’tless be glad to hear that Polly is well, though she
has not quite her usual bloom. Indeed, I am convinc’d that she has
suffered greatly from your prolonged Absence, although, having a
high Spirit, she does not readily betray her feelings.

“Believe me, my dear Sir,
“Yours sincerely,
“C. FAIRBANK.”

“Den, is it from Polly?” cried Roy, bursting into the room.

“Yes. And Molly is quite well, and sends you her love. Come, we must tell your mother that I have heard.”

“I’ve done your unpacking. Mademoiselle wouldn’t let me stay. She said I ought to leave you to read your letter in peace.”

“Rather hard upon you, eh?” suggested Ivor. “Come along!” and Roy, forgetting all else, sent a shout in advance to prepare his mother for what was coming.

They had to make the most of this letter. None could guess how long a time might pass before they would hear again. Every detail was eagerly dwelt upon, and on the whole Polly’s report was counted satisfactory. Naturally it awoke fresh memories, fresh regrets, fresh longings; yet Denham at least seemed the better for his “medicine.” The look of weight and strain was gone from his face next morning, and he appeared to be in much his usual spirits, when he proposed a walk with Roy to explore the neighbourhood. He and the Colonel had just returned from _appel_; all détenus and prisoners having at stated intervals to report themselves at the _maison de ville_.

“Will you have to sign your names every day?” Mrs. Baron asked, on hearing particulars.

“At present, no. Den and I and a few others are excused from doing so more often than once in five days. But the greater number have to show themselves every day—unless they can send a medical certificate, forbidding them to go out, on account of illness.”

“Remedy worse than disease,” murmured Ivor.

“And if one stays away, without sending such a certificate, the gendarmes promptly make their appearance, expecting a fee for the trouble.”

“How much?”

“Three francs—so I am told.”

“What a shame!”

“General Roussel does not seem to be a bad sort of fellow. Civil enough. But they mean to be strict.”

“Good many escapes of late, sir.”

“Why, Den—escapes when they’ve given their parole!” cried Roy.

“No; only when they have not given their parole. That makes all the difference.”

“And may you and papa go wherever you like?”

“Within stiff limits. Five miles from the town—no more without leave.”

“I foresee that we shall have to pay pretty liberally for that leave,” added the Colonel.

“Did you see many friends there, George?”

“A good many coming and going. All of course who were at Fontainebleau are here, and numbers from Valenciennes and Brussels. We came across Mr. Kinsland, and General Cunningham and Welby, Greville, Franklyn and others.”

“Den, I say, do come along,” urged Roy, who had already been for a run, but who greatly preferred a companion.

“All right—if you don’t mind paying a call by the way.”

Roy declared himself ready for anything, and they went first toward the lower part of the town, on a level with the river. Roy, full as usual of ideas and talk, poured out for his companion’s edification some items of information, which he had gained from Mademoiselle de St. Roques.

“She says Verdun is an awfully old place—goes back to almost the days of Charlemagne. When _did_ Charlemagne live? And only a little while ago it was a French border town—frontier town, I mean—but it isn’t now, because Napoleon has conquered such a lot of Europe. And do you know, the Prussians took it from France only just a few years ago, after quite a short siege. And the French Governor killed himself.”

“Saved Napoleon the trouble, I suppose.”

“Does Napoleon kill his generals when they are beaten? Oh, let’s go up on the ramparts! Look, there are trees all along, just like a boulevard. Mademoiselle says the ramparts are three miles long. Are they, do you think? What is the business you have to do on the way? Are you going to see somebody?”

(_To be continued._)

FOOTNOTES:

[1] See footnote, p. 162.

SONG.

BY L. G. MOBERLY.

If only I might hear the larks again
Upon the downs in spring,
And linger in the copses, as of yore,
To hear the thrushes sing,

If I might see again the wide clear sky
That stoops to meet the hills,
And catch the golden gleam of sun that lies
Upon the daffodils,

And watch, just once again, the shadows pass
Across the uplands sweet,
And feel the springy sweetness of the grass
Growing beneath my feet;

I think that I could learn at last to bear
My life in this great town;
If I might feel Spring’s breath again—and hear
The larks—upon the down!

THE RULING PASSION.