Roy

"I say, hadn't you better give me that little thing to hold?"

"Why—Roy!"

The voice, too, had a worn-out intonation, but the smile was not to be mistaken.

"DEN!—you don't mean to say it's you!"

Their hands met in a prolonged grip.

"You've come back! I am glad!"

"Yes. How are you all?"

"Den—I say—what's wrong with you?"

A man came limping up, in appearance a respectable artisan. He took the child from Ivor's arms. "Sir, no words o' mine can say what me and mine owe to you," he muttered, not noticing Roy. "But sure, sir, God'll reward you."

"I shall be at Colonel Baron's. Come and see me some day—tell me how you're getting on."

"I will, sir—and thank you kindly for everything."

Ivor remained in the same position, and a hand touched Roy. He turned to find himself facing the young artist, Hugh Curtis.

"You back too! That's good. And your wife?"

"Wife and baby coming. Didn't you know I had a little one? Well, I have. Jolly little thing too. They're in a cart with others—thanks to Captain Ivor—" in a lower tone. "Never mind about us. Get him home—" with a glance towards Denham. "I've got to find rooms for ourselves, after I've been to the citadel. Must report myself there first. And then I shall have to meet my wife."

Roy moved two or three paces away with him.

"I say, tell me—what's been the matter with him? He just looks as if—"

"Hasn't been well for some time, and he was ill a few weeks ago. He has walked the whole way here from Valenciennes. Got a horse for himself, and at the last gave it up to young Carey—a poor consumptive young fellow. Said Carey needed it most. Just like him, you know. And then, carrying that child for hours yesterday and to-day!"

"What for?"

"Child's father hurt his foot, and could barely get along. And the little thing cried with everybody except Ivor. You know his way with children. But he's about used up now. Get him home, and make him rest."

Curtis went on, and Roy touched Denham's arm.

"I'll get a fiacre to drive you up the hill. Stay where you are till I come back."

He rushed away, and happily was successful in his search. Ivor had taken his seat, when Major Woodgate walked briskly up.

"Roy—got Ivor? That's right," he said in his quick fashion. "Don't bring him to the citadel. I'll go and answer for him—and fee the gendarmes, if needful. Just met Curtis and heard what's been going on. Done the hundred and fifty miles on foot, I'm told—and ill to begin with. A piece of Quixotism! I shall come and give you a piece of my mind, Ivor, another day."

Denham laughed slightly, but made no effort to defend himself, and they drove off—Roy watching his friend with a rapt gaze.

"Den, what was it for? Why couldn't you ride?"

"I did intend. Somebody else was in more need."

"Couldn't you have had a second horse?"

"No—" with a smile. "The order took every one by surprise. Most of us were short of cash."

Roy thought of what Curtis had said. "And I suppose you gave what you had to everybody else, and kept none for yourself."

"I shared with others—of course—"

"What is the reason for your all being sent back now?"

"I don't know."

Ivor seemed incapable of starting remarks himself; and Roy, realising his condition, sank into silence, unable to take his eyes from that worn face. They reached the house, and he sprang down.

"Shall I go and tell them?"

"No need. I'll come. Can you pay the driver? I'm cleared out completely."

In the salon upstairs were Colonel and Mrs. Baron, and with them was Lucille, as often now was her custom. She had gradually become almost a member of the Baron family, and they were extremely fond of her. When Roy flung the door open, and marched triumphantly in, his arm through Ivor's, one startled "Ah-h!" broke from her, before the other two had grasped what was happening; and then her face, usually almost without colour, became crimson. Her eyes shone, the lips remaining apart.

"Denham!" the Colonel and his wife exclaimed.

Colonel Baron's grasp of Ivor's hand and his fixed gaze were like those of Roy. Mrs. Baron's delight was even more plainly expressed.

"This is joy! O this is joy!" she said. "Nothing else could be so great a happiness—except going home. Welcome, welcome!" Then she held his hand, with eyes full of tears searching his face. "But, my dear Denham, you have been ill—surely you have been ill. How thin!—how altered! What have you been doing to yourself?"

"He has walked the whole way here from Valenciennes," cried Roy, before Denham could speak. "He was to have ridden, and he gave up the horse to somebody else."

"Was that necessary?" the Colonel asked.

"I thought it so, sir. Any letters from home?"

"One from Mrs. Fairbank a few weeks since. That is all. Good accounts of Polly and Molly. Have you not heard from them?"

"Not since leaving Verdun."

"They may not have heard of your going to Valenciennes. Did you see a statement in the 'Moniteur,' not long since, as to correspondence with England? To the effect that more than a hundred thousand letters had been taken possession of by the French Government,—and bills to the value of millions of pounds sterling."

"No wonder we détenus are not flush of cash! No, I did not see it. That may have been when I was ill."

"You have been ill, then?"

"Yes,—nothing to signify. How did Mrs. Fairbank's letter reach you. Post?"

"Through M. de Marchand,—under cover to him. We have advised her repeatedly to try again that mode, since it seems the most hopeful. But doubtless our letters don't reach them."

Lucille, after exchanging a warm English handshake with Denham, had held back, waiting her opportunity to slip away. She glided now towards the door, unseen by Ivor, who was gazing thoughtfully on the ground. Roy ran to open it, and she said softly as she went out, "Do not be merciless to your friend. Give him some little repose. He is what you call 'dead-beat.'"

Roy nodded. "You always did seem to see exactly how Den was, didn't you?"

Lucille made her escape promptly, with heightening colour, and Ivor asked, "Where is the letter?"

"Roy has put it away," said Mrs. Baron. "It is partly to Roy and partly to my husband. But you need food and sleep before anything else."

"Nay, if you knew how we have travelled and slept at night, you would allow the more pressing need to be for a bath and change of clothing," Ivor said, rather drily. "Well, since you can assure me that 'tis all good news, I will wait one half-hour."

"And then I'll read it to you," suggested Roy. "It isn't so very interesting. More than half is from my grandmother to my father; and you know how she writes always of the things which nobody wishes to hear. And the rest is from Molly to me. But as for Polly, my grandmother does not say much—does she?" —with a look at Mrs. Baron— "Save only that Polly is well."

CHAPTER XVIII

ALTERED LOOKS

THE letter from Mrs. Fairbank to Colonel Baron, which Roy undertook to read aloud to Denham, though somewhat verbose, was not without passages of interest.

During the last four years, since the Barons had left their own country for an enforced residence abroad, much had happened in European history. Most notable among famous events had been the Battle of Trafalgar in 1805, which crippled for half a century to come the Naval power of France.

For three years at least previous to that date, England had been kept on tenter-hooks of expectation, incessantly dreading a French invasion. Napoleon had talked largely of such an invasion, and had openly made preparations for it, on no mean scale. England also had made ready for it, had feared it, had laughed at it. And at the last, partly through Continental complications, causing Napoleon to withdraw most of the great military force which had long sat at Boulogne, waiting for a safe chance of crossing the Channel, but much more through the magnificent and crushing victory of Nelson, in the course of which he received his death-wound, England escaped it.

She escaped it by a narrow margin. But for Napoleon's pressing need of more soldiers elsewhere, and but for this crowning victory of Nelson's, the attempt might have been made. As everybody knows, Nelson chased the combined fleets of France and Spain across the Atlantic to the West Indies and back again. And had he, by one little slip, missed finding those fleets at the critical moment, a landing of French troops might actually have taken place.

Whether Napoleon could have done more than land his troops upon the coast is a question difficult now to answer. That he could ever have conquered Great Britain is absolutely inconceivable, despite his own boastful assurance on that point, which lasted, or appeared to last, to the end of his life.

However, these fears were at an end. Napoleon's career of conquest on land continued unchecked; but at sea the flag of Great Britain reigned supreme. Nelson's body lay in St. Paul's Cathedral; but before he died he had done his work. He had saved his country from the iron heel of Napoleon. So Mrs. Fairbank's letter contained no further descriptions of invasion scares, such as she would have had to write two or three years earlier, though it did contain certain references to the Emperor, not too cautiously worded for a letter on its road to France. Some past and futile hopes of a peace between England and France were alluded to also.

"I'll read it aloud to you—may I?" asked Roy again, when Captain Ivor had made his appearance, refreshed and smartened as to the outer man, and had been made to sit down to a hastily prepared meal, to which he failed to do justice. "And," Roy added, recalling Lucille's words, "you can get on the sofa, and have a rest."

Ivor declined to pose as an invalid, and submitted only to being installed in the Colonel's large arm-chair, while Roy plunged into Mrs. Fairbank's epistle, wading through it on the whole successfully, though not without an occasional suggestion of skipping.

"It's written, 'Bath, August 4th, 1806,'—ever so long ago," he remarked as a preliminary. "But she didn't get it all done in one day—not near. I can leave out the other dates. They don't matter."

   "'MY DEAR SIR,—Though 'tis somewhat hopeless work writing under the present aspect of affairs, I will send another letter, wishing that it may by some means reach you in safety. We still look out perpetually, with Constant Anxiety, for any sort of news of yourselves, which indeed but seldom arrives. These passing years are truly melancholy to think upon. Molly is now fifteen, and has not seen Roy for a space of three years and more. Who could have thought—'"

"O I say, can't I skip this? She does go on so. Well, I won't, if you'd rather not; but it's no good, you know."

   "'Who could have thought it, my dear Sir, when you and your wife unhappily decided to make that doleful excursion to France, intending to stay but one fortnight, which resulted in this Continued separation? Alas, how little man knows ever what lies Before him in the Future!'"

"But what's the good of her saying all that?"

   "'The late tremendous storms about Lonⁿ have caused much Alarm, but these terrors seem to be now somewhat Abating. I have been to the Pump Room and to the Circulating Library, and find people are not much elevated at the prospect of Mr. Fox concluding a Peace in the present dolorous situation, it being confidently said he cannot live a fortnight, and that he knows his situation."

      "'Mackbeth said Lady Mackbeth
        Should have died yesterday.'"

   "'I presume that you with ourselves greatly lamented the death of Mr. Pitt last spring; a sad event at so critical a period.'"

"But I don't see what she means about Macbeth, do you, Den? It's so funny. Do you know, we got the 'Times' with all about the 'obsequies' of Mr. Fox, and a picture of the hearse; and I kept it. I can show it to you by and by."

   "'A laughable jest was not long since in circulation here, that Bonaparte intended to compel the Pope to marry his Mother. There are a society of monied people in Bath, buying all the Houses they can meet with, on Speculation, which raises them and also Lodgings, which, with the taxes, are high beyond any former period, and in the end will be a disadvantage to Bath; for the Keepers of Lodging Houses, if they can't raise the price of rooms, oblige the strangers to take or at least pay for more than they want. The times do indeed afford a Melancholy Prospect. And still Bonaparte exists!'"

   "'If you have not, do read the Secret History of the Cabinet of St. Cloud. I have had quite a levée this Morning. Two ladies quite in a pet that they cannot get Genteel Lodgings for themselves and Maids under 80 or 90 pounds a year. Bath fills with company. It is rumoured that the Country Bankers are expected to have a run upon them for a little time; on what account I don't clearly understand; therefore shall endeavour to get as many of their five-pound notes changed as I can at the shops, by buying store of Candles, Sugar, etc., for they, the Bankers, will not part with any cash.'"

"Now we're going to get something more interesting."

   "'Jack is with us for a fortnight, and he and Polly went this morning to the Public Library, and heard a Group of Gentlemen's very serious opinions on the condition of Affairs at the present moment. What a succession of triumphs attends the Corsican, wicked Elf! Poor old England stands alone; but how long—?'"

   "'General Moore, who, as you doubtless are aware, is now Sir John Moore, and has been these two years past, continues to Befriend Jack, when opportunity offers. Jack is sorely disappointed at not being of the number sent on this Expedition to Sicily. He hopes he may yet be ordered thither, if more troops are wanted. I don't for my part know precisely what they may be doing there; but doubtless the Government has good reasons for all that's done. How much you in your long banishment may hear of Public News we have no means of guessing, my dear Sir, but most heartily do I wish it were over, and the Blessings of an assured Peace once more restored to Europe. Alas, while that persistent Disturber of Peace continues to flourish, what can be looked for but persistent War? 'Tis said that Mr. William Wilberforce declares that Austerlitz was the death-blow to Mr. Pitt.'"

   "'Polly desires me to send her due Remembrances to Captain Ivor, and her hopes that he continues well in health. She writ him awhile since a long letter, tho' 'tis disheartening work, none knowing if ever the letters sent do arrive. Polly is extremely well, and has her Roses in full bloom, and is in vastly good spirits, albeit she was greatly disappointed at the failure of the Peace negotiations, on which Mr. Fox built much, but without cause. 'Tis said that she grows a more elegant young woman each year; and for my part I know not if this be not the truth. Molly is fast becoming a grown-up young woman; and there is in her face—altho' she is not handsome—an expression of such fine Moral Sensibility as cannot but gratify the Beholder.'"

Roy made a slight pause when Polly's name came up, as if wondering whether Denham would say anything; but the break was not taken advantage of, and his still face said nothing. So Roy went on to the end, gabbling rather hurriedly through Molly's affectionate and prim little composition to himself, which somehow always gave him a sense of stricture in the throat.

"That's all. Nothing more."

"There may be scores of letters buried in official bureaux," suggested Mrs. Baron. "From—Polly and all of them."

Denham was looking steadily down, with an expression which to her, as to Roy, was inscrutable. No response came to the suggestion. He merely said, after a pause:

"I think that letter should be destroyed, Colonel. Unsafe to keep."

Colonel Baron made a sound of assent. Home subjects then were dropped, and Denham was plied with questions as to his manner of life at Valenciennes. He had a good deal to tell, and his account of the Commandant there contrasted favourably with their experiences of General Wirion.

The next day was by common consent granted to Roy as a whole holiday. His studies had been carried on partly under the young clergyman, Mr. Kinsland, partly under his father, during the last eighteen months; but a free day seemed only fair, in honour of Denham's return. The boy was in wild spirits, full of schemes for hunting up old friends in Denham's company. Denham did not appear at all till after breakfast, just in time to attend appel; and Roy, having been withheld from disturbing him, was off on some business of his own. When, after appel, he rushed in, it was to find Denham in the Colonel's chair, with a book open which he was not reading, and with the look of a man who would not be easily dislodged. His face told its own tale; and Roy's look became suddenly blank.

"I'm afraid there's no help for it, Roy. You must give me a day's grace. I've done a good deal of walking, you see;"—which was a mild statement of the case.

"I thought you'd be rested by this morning."

"Ought! but Morpheus declined to be courted."

"Couldn't you sleep? And you don't want to go out?"

"I don't think a team of horses could drag me a mile. But you will look up the Curtises for me."

"Yes, of course. Where are they? O you don't know. I'll find out. Is that it?"

"See where Carey is, too."

"Carey? Wasn't it he that had your horse—the horse you ought to have ridden?"

"No 'ought' in the question. Don't say a word of that sort to him. I want to know where he is putting up. And—Franklyn—"

"Roy, do not make him talk," as Denham's hand went over his eyes.

"No, ma'am, I won't. Only just to know—but 'tis all right now. I'll look everybody up, Den; and don't you mind about anything till your head is better."

Roy went off, and Lucille came softly to where Mrs. Baron stood. "So changed!" Mrs. Baron murmured.

"Oui," assented Lucille, under her breath. "There are creatures, Madame, that cannot live in captivity."

"Somebody over there is talking not very good sense," murmured Denham. Lucille stopped instantly, with a blush. The remark had been on her part involuntary, and she had not imagined that he could hear.

CHAPTER XIX

ROY'S IMPRUDENCE

Roy went the round of a good many returned acquaintances that morning, finding out, as he went, from one and another where next to direct his steps.

He discovered Franklyn and Carey without difficulty, and in time learnt where the Curtises had bestowed themselves. From each and all the same tale was told him as to Denham. Captain Ivor's kindness and generosity towards those who had been in difficulties—and their number was not small—formed a general theme.

"What we should have done, but for him—!" was an expression which occurred again and again. Roy no longer wondered that he had been "cleared out" to his last sou. He did his best to encourage the grateful outpourings, asking questions at every pause.

He had twelve o'clock lunch with the Woodgates, finding himself at some distance from home, with his task not accomplished. By this time he was much excited, and rather off his balance.

The Curtises came next, last on his round. Roy hunted out the rooms in which they had taken refuge, and again heard a good deal about Denham, as well as about their own doings during the last few months.

"I say, I don't think you've got into very nice quarters," he said, surveying the walls.

"Best we can afford, old man. By and by we hope to change. I want to start painting again, and one must have a good light. Got a new idea in my mind."

"You won't take the trouble to copy that, anyhow," remarked Roy, pointing at a good-sized plaster bust of Napoleon, which stood on the mantelpiece. "I wouldn't keep the wretched thing there, if I were you."

"My dear boy, it's from no sort of devotion to the original, I assure you. But what's to be done? Our landlady is a flaring red-hot Bonapartist. Raved about him for an hour this morning to my wife,—didn't she, dear?"

"I told her politely that I should like him better if he would kindly allow us to go home," added Mrs. Curtis.

"I'm afraid it wouldn't suit her views, if we got rid of the Emperor, and put King George instead. Take care, Roy. Look out."

Roy was standing by the table, on which lay a little heap of wood-chips. Curtis always had something in hand,—either painting or moulding or carving. If no other occupation presented itself, he would content himself with whittling a piece of wood into scraps; and apparently this had been his last occupation. Roy took up a chip, aimed carefully at the bust, and flung it.

"Missed, by half an inch! I'll try again. That's right. Hit him fair and square on the nose."

Roy was in a wild mood, delighted to find some vent for his happiness, and not to be easily checked. He aimed chip after chip at that self-contained face of world-wide fame, sometimes hitting, sometimes missing. When for the third time he succeeded in touching the nose, he was hilariously delighted. "Bravo, bravo!" he cried. "Down with the old fellow! Á bas l'Empéreur!"

"Sh-h! Roy, be careful. You'll certainly get yourself into trouble."

"All right. Nobody here but ourselves. I say, I wish I could do this to the real individual. Wouldn't it be a game worth playing? Á bas the old chap. Down with Nap!"

Roy's excitement went beyond bounds. He seized a solid ball belonging to the baby, and aimed with precision.

"Á bas! Empéreur!"

Down came the bust, with a crash, into the fender, and was smashed.

Roy stood still, suddenly conscious of having done a very silly thing, and a shriek sounded in his rear. The door had just been opened, the landlady had appeared, and she was now shaking her fists, and executing a dance of rage.

"I say, Roy,—stop! Don't go on fooling like this. You'll get us all into trouble." Curtis spoke roughly, realising in a moment that matters might become serious. "Tell her you mean nothing by it."

"Mean nothing! But of course I do mean—"

"Roy! Will you hold your tongue? Stop this foolery!"

Roy obeyed; while the woman, shaking her fists, continued to pour out a torrent of abuse, in the midst of which occurred several times the ominous word, "gendarmes."

Curtis went nearer to her and spoke in his quietest tones.

"Madame is mistaken," he said. "Nothing is intended. Monsieur is but a boy, and Monsieur was but in jest."

"It is an insult to l'Empéreur! It shall be made known," screamed the other.

"I beg of you to hear me. It is no insult. This gentleman had no wish, none whatever, to break the figure. He did but aim at it in jest—as English Messieurs love to do. Not because it was a bust of the Emperor, but to have something to aim at," explained Curtis.

He might as well have addressed himself to the winds.

"A jest!—and as to the Emperor! Truly a fit subject for a jest. But the thing shall be known. M. le Général Wirion shall hear. Ah-ha and we shall see what the gendarmes will say to Monsieur's little jest! Eh-he, Monsieur,—I know a thing or two as to les Anglais, I can tell you. And my ornament that is broken—broken all in pieces—"

"Madame shall have full value for that."

Roy felt in his pockets. "I've only five francs here. But it can't be worth more."

"You won't get off with the mere market value of the thing," Curtis replied in English. "I have five, and not a sou besides in the house at this moment. Here—offer her the ten."

Roy's hand was thrust contemptuously aside.

"Non, vraiment! Dix francs! Does Monsieur think ten francs will pay for that?"—tragically pointing towards the fragments in the fender. "An image of the Emperor! Non, Monsieur! I go to the General."

"How much?" Curtis tried to make her say.

She gesticulated furiously, and declined payment. It was an insult to the Emperor. Did Monsieur imagine that money would wipe out that? Did Monsieur suppose that she cared only for her own loss?—bah!—nothing of the kind, though Madame was a widow, and could ill afford to lose anything. But this was a profound matter. Madame had a duty to perform, and incontestably she would perform it.

With which declaration the irate landlady disappeared.

"That's awkward," Curtis said seriously. "She is the first of the sort that I have come across yet. We had a nice little landlady at Valenciennes. Roy, you had better be off sharp. She may not know your name."

"And leave you to bear the blame for what I've done! I'm not so mean!"

"It's not meanness. She may cool down when she does not see you, and I must make another attempt. Of course I know that your father will pay anything in reason to get you out of the difficulty. Be off, Roy."

"But she knows my name well enough. She has seen me before, I'm sure."

"All the more reason why you shouldn't stay here. Get home as fast as you can, and tell your father at once. Don't put off. I hope it will come to nothing; but Wirion is certain not to lose his chance of putting on the screw, and squeezing money out of your people. Run off, as fast as you can. I'll tackle her again."

Roy obeyed, by this time rather serious. "I wonder what does come over a fellow sometimes to make him make a fool of himself," he cogitated.

CHAPTER XX

ORDERED TO BITCHE

ROY forgot everything except the affair on hand. He dashed upstairs and into the salon at a headlong pace, knocking over a chair as he entered. It fell with a crash, and Roy stopped short. Denham was on the sofa, no one else being present except Lucille, who, with her bonnet on, as if she were going out, had just taken an empty cup from his hand.

"Roy, you unkind boy," she said, turning with a look of positive anger. "How you can do it!"

"I'm sorry. I didn't remember. Isn't Den better?"

"Not remember! But you ought to remember. So without thought! It is selfishness."

For Lucille to be seriously displeased with Roy was an event new in his experience, and Roy gazed with astonished eyes.

"No matter," interposed Denham. "Had a good time, Roy?"

"I've seen lots of people. Den, I'm sorry—really. I didn't mean—"

"No, of course not. It's all right."

"Where is my father?" Roy asked in a subdued voice.

"Gone out but ten minutes since," said Lucille. "General Cunningham sent to see him on business. And Colonel Baron has to go with him somewhere, and cannot return soon. So dinner is put off till six."

"And mother?"

"Mrs. Baron had a call to pay in the same direction. Captain Ivor thought he might get an hour's sleep. Roy, be good, I entreat. Do not fidget, and knock over the chairs, and talk, talk, talk without ending."

Roy nodded, and Lucille moved towards the door, adding as she went, "I also have to see some one, but I shall be back soon."

Roy sat down in his favourite attitude, facing the back of a chair, and wondering what to do next. Would it be right to tell Denham what had happened? Would it be wrong to put off telling? Curtis had enjoined him to speak at once; but Curtis had not known the posture of affairs. The matter might be of consequence, or it might not. Roy was disquieted, but not seriously uneasy; and he hesitated to worry Denham without cause.

"Seen anybody?" asked Ivor.

"Yes, numbers."

Then a break.

"Found Curtis?"

"Yes. And Carey too. Would you like to hear all about it?"

"By and by, I think. It will keep."

Silence again, and Roy debated afresh. What if his action should mean bringing Curtis into trouble? That thought had considerable weight.

Three times he formed with his lips the preliminary "I say, Den!" and three times he refrained. The third time some slight sound escaped him, for Denham asked drowsily, "Anything you want?"

"Lucille told me not to talk. Does it matter?"

Ivor did not protest, as Roy had half hoped. He was evidently dropping off, and Roy decided that a short delay was unavoidable. He took up a volume that lay near, and, being no longer a book-hater, he became absorbed in its contents. General Wirion, chips of wood, the Imperial nose, and irate landladies faded out of his mind. The affair was no doubt a pity, but after all it meant only—so Roy supposed—a pull upon his father's purse. Boys are rather apt to look upon parental purses as unlimited in depth.

Denham was sound asleep, and Roy kept as motionless as a girl—not that girls are always quiet. An hour passed; another half-hour; and he began to grow restless. Might it be possible to slip away?

Gruff voices and heavy trampling feet in the hall below broke into the stillness, and Denham woke up. "This is lazy work," he said wearily. "Roy—here yet! What time is it?"

"Nearly five. Dinner isn't till six. Head any better?"

"Yes, rather. I'm wretched company for you to-day. Different to-morrow, I hope."

"You can't help it. You've just got to get rested, that's all. I say, what a noise they are making downstairs. Frenchmen do kick up such a rumpus about everything."

The door opened hurriedly, and Lucille came in, wearing still her bonnet, as if just returned from a walk.

"I am sorry," she said. "I do not know what it means, but I must tell. I have no choice. It surely must be a mistake—it cannot be truly—"

Lucille startled herself no less than her listeners by a sharp sob. She caught Roy's arm with both hands, holding him fast. "Roy, Roy, what is it that you have done? Ah, what have you done?" she cried.

"Is it that bosh about the image? I know. They want to be paid. Lucille, Den has been asleep, and I've been as quiet as anything, and then for you to come in like this I Den, you must keep still, and I'll speak to them. I'll settle it all."

"No, no, no!—stay, you must not go!" panted Lucille. "Stay—it is the gendarmes! And they come to arrest you—to take you away!"

The word "gendarmes" acted as an electric shock, bringing Denham to his feet.

"What is it all about? I do not understand." He touched Roy on the shoulder, with an imperative, "Tell me."

"It was only—I'd have told before, only I didn't like to bother you. It was at Curtis's. There was a bust of Boney on the mantelshelf, and I just shied bits of wood at it in fun. And I said 'Á bas Napoléon,' or something of that sort, and then I threw a ball, and the idiotic thing tumbled down and broke into pieces. And the landlady—she's a regular out-and-out virago—happened that very moment to come in, and she saw and heard. And she vowed she would tell of it. Curtis tried to explain things, and I offered to pay, but she wouldn't listen. She went on shrieking at us, and said it was an insult to the Emperor, and Wirion should know of it. She's a Bonapartist—worse luck! Curtis made me hurry off, and said I was to tell my father at once. But he was out, and you—you know—" with a glance at Lucille, who wrung her hands, while Ivor said—

"Roy, were you utterly mad?"

"I don't know. Was it very stupid? Will it matter, do you think? I'm sorry about you most. I thought they would wait till to-morrow; but I suppose they want me to pay directly. Is that it?" looking towards Lucille.

"No, no, no!" she answered, again wringing her hands. "It is to take—to take you—to the citadel!"

"To the citadel!" Roy opened his eyes. "I say, what a farce! For knocking down an image not worth fifty sous!"

"For breaking the bust of the Emperor, and for shouting 'Á bas—'" Lucille could not finish.

"You mean that they will keep him there to-night?" said Denham.

She looked at him with eyes that were almost wild with fear. "Oui, oui—the citadel to-night! And to-morrow, they say, to Bitche."

"To—Bitche!" whispered Roy. He grew white, for that word was a sound of terror in the ears of English prisoners, and his glance went in appeal to Ivor.

"Stay here, Roy. I will speak to them."

Ivor crossed the room with his resolute stride and went out, meeting the gendarmes on the stairs. Lucille clutched Roy's arm again, half in reproach, half in protection. "Ah, my poor boy I—mon pauvre garcon!—how could you? Ah, such folly! As if there were not already trouble enough! Ah, my unhappy Roy!"

"Shut up, Lucille! You needn't jaw a fellow like that! It can't mean anything, really, you know. Wirion just thinks he can screw a lot of money out of my father. And that's the worst of it," declared Roy, in an undertone. "I hate to have done such a stupid thing; and I hate the worry of it for Den, just now when he's like this. But you know they couldn't really send me to Bitche, only for smashing a paltry image. It would be ridiculous."

"Ah, Roy! even you little know—you—what it means to be under a despot such as—but one may not dare to speak."

Lucille's tears came fast. They stood listening. From the staircase rose loud rough voices, alternating with Ivor's not loud but masterful tones. That he was a prisoner, and that they had power to arrest him too, if they chose, made not a grain of difference in his bearing. It was not defiant or excited, but undoubtedly it was haughty; and Lucille, just able to see him where she stood, found herself wondering—did he wish to go to prison too with Roy? She could almost have believed it.

"Eh bien, Messieurs; since l'Empéreur sees fit to war with schoolboys, so be it," she heard him say sternly, in his polished French. "To me, as an Englishman, it appears that his Majesty might find a foe more worthy of his prowess."

"But, ah! why make them angry?" murmured Lucille.

A few more words, and Denham came back. One look at his face made questions almost needless.

"Then I am to go, Den?"

"I fear—no help for it. The men have authority. You will have to spend to-night in the citadel. But I am coming with you, and I shall insist upon seeing Wirion himself."

"But you—you cannot—you are ill," remonstrated Lucille. "Will not Colonel Baron go—not you?"

He put aside the objection as unimportant.

"Roy must take a few things with him, not more than he can carry himself. I hope it may be only for the one night. They allow us twenty minutes. That is a concession."

"I will put his things together for him," said Lucille quickly. "I can choose what he will most need."

"One moment. May I beg a kindness?"

"Anything in the world."

"If Colonel Baron does not return before we start—and he will not—would you, if possible, find him, and ask him to come at once to the citadel? Then Mrs. Baron—"

Ivor's set features yielded slightly. The thought of Roy's mother without her boy was hard to face. Lucille watched him with grieved eyes.

"I will tell her, but not everything—not yet as to Bitche, for that may be averted. I will stay with her—comfort her—do all that I am able. Is that what you would wish?"

"God bless you," he said huskily, and she hurried away.

"Den, have I got to go with those fellows really?" asked Roy, beginning to understand what he had brought upon himself. "I never thought of that. Can't you manage to get me off? Won't they let me wait till my father comes home?"

"They will consent to no delay. He will follow us soon. And, Roy, I must urge you to be careful what you say. Any word that you may let slip, without thinking, will be used against you. I hoped you had learnt that lesson."

A listener, overhearing Denham with the gendarmes, might have questioned whether he had learnt it himself; but Roy was in no condition of mind to be critical. He could not restrain some measure of dismay.

"And if you and my father can't get me off! If I am sent to Bitche—"

"If you are,—" with more of an effort than Roy could imagine, for Denham knew far better than Roy what such "sending" would mean—"then you will meet it like a man. Whatever comes, you will be brave and true through all. Keep up heart, and remember that it is only for a time. We shall do everything in our power to get you back here. And—I know you'll never let yourself be drawn into anything that you would be ashamed to tell your father."

"Or—you," with a slight catch of his breath.

"Or me either. You won't forget that you are an Englishman. For your mother's sake you must bear patiently, even if things are disagreeable. Don't make matters worse by useless anger. And—you'll think sometimes how she will be praying for you."

Denham found it not easy to say the words, and Roy's lips were unsteady.

"Yes, I will. Only, if you could get me off—I'd rather, you know."

"My dear boy—if they would take me in your stead—"

"Den, I'm awfully sorry! It isn't that I'm afraid—of course I'm not that. But it's so horrid to have to go. Just when you've come back, and it would have been so jolly—and it's such a horrid bother for you too. I do wish I had let that wretched image alone!"

Ten minutes later the two started, Roy under the gendarme escort, Ivor keeping pace with them. Lucille then hastened away on her sorrowful mission, leaving a message with old M. Courant, in case either Colonel or Mrs. Baron should return during her absence,—not the same message for Mrs. Baron as for the Colonel. A short search brought her into contact with the latter, and she poured forth a breathless tale. Heavier and heavier grew the cloud upon his face. He knew too well the uses that might be made of Roy's boyish escapade. At the sound of that dread word "Bitche," a grey shadow came.

"Captain Ivor went with Roy to the citadel. He ought not, he has been so suffering all day, but he would not let Roy go alone. And he asked, would you follow them as soon as possible? For me, I will find Mrs. Baron, and will stay with her."

The Colonel muttered words of thanks, and went off at his best speed.

Would he and Captain Ivor be able to do anything? Would they even be admitted to the presence of the autocratic Commandant? Denham might talk of insisting; but prisoners had no power to insist. If he did, he might only be thrown into prison himself. Was that what he wanted—to go with the boy? "Ah—j'espère que non!" Lucille muttered fervently. And if they were admitted, what then? Would money purchase Roy's immunity from punishment? General Wirion's known cupidity gave some ground for hope. Yet—would he neglect such an opportunity for displaying Imperialist zeal?

Lucille put these questions to herself as she flew homeward. On the way she met little Mrs. Curtis, and for one moment stopped, in response to the other's gesture.

"Is it true?" Mrs. Curtis asked, with a scared look. "They tell me Roy has been arrested. Is it so? My husband could do nothing. The landlady was off before he could speak to her again. He thought that Roy and the Colonel would be coming round directly, and so he waited in. But they did not come; and now two gendarmes are quartered in our lodgings, and Hugh may not stir without their leave. It is horrid. But—Roy?"

"I cannot wait. Roy is taken to the citadel. I have to see to his mother. Do not keep me, madam, I entreat;" and again Lucille sped homeward.

As she had hoped, yet dreaded, she found Mrs. Baron indoors before herself, alone in the salon, and uneasy at Captain Ivor's absence.

"He ought not to have gone out," Mrs. Baron said. "He will be seriously ill, if he does not let himself rest. It is Roy's doing, I suppose—so thoughtless of Roy. I must tell Denham that I will not have him spoil my boy in this way. It is not good for Roy, and Denham will suffer for it. You do not know where he is gone?"

"Oui," faltered Lucille, and Mrs. Baron looked at her.

"You have been crying. What is it?"

As gently as might be, Lucille broke the news of what had happened; and Mrs. Baron seemed stunned. Roy—her Roy—in the hands of the pitiless gendarmes! Roy imprisoned in the citadel! Lucille made no mention of Bitche; but too many prisoners had been passed on thither for the idea not to occur to Mrs. Baron.

"And it was I who brought him to France! It was I who would not let him be sent home, when he might have gone! O Roy, Roy!" she moaned. Lucille had hard work to bring any touch of comfort.

Hour after hour crept by. Once a messenger arrived, with a pencil-note from Colonel Baron to his wife—"Do not sit up if we are late. We are doing what we can. I cannot persuade Denham to go back."

Not sit up! Neither Mrs. Baron nor Lucille could dream of doing anything else. This suspense drew them together; and Lucille found herself to be one with the Barons in their trouble.

Nine o'clock, ten o'clock, and at length eleven o'clock struck. Soon after came a sound of footsteps—not of eager boyish steps. No Roy came bounding into the room. Lucille had found fault with him that afternoon for impulsiveness, but now from her very heart she would have welcomed his merry rush. Only Colonel Baron and Ivor entered.

The Colonel's face was heavily overclouded; while Denham's features were rigid as iron, and entirely without colour.

"Roy?" whispered Mrs. Baron.

Deep silence answered the unspoken question. Colonel Baron stood with folded arms, gazing at his wife. Denham moved two or three paces away, and rested one arm on the back of a tall chair, as if scarcely able to keep himself upright.

"Roy?" repeated Mrs. Baron, her voice sharpened and thinned. "You have not brought—Roy."

A single piercing cry rang out. She stopped the sound abruptly, with one quick indrawing of her breath, and waited.

Colonel Baron tried to speak, and no sound came. Denham remained motionless, not even attempting to raise his eyes.

"Oui," Lucille said restlessly. "Il est—il est—"

The Colonel managed a few short words. There was no possibility of softening what had to be said.

"To-night—the citadel. To-morrow—to Bitche!"

"To Bitche!" echoed Lucille. "Ah-h!"

To Bitche—that terrible fortress prison, the nightmare of Verdun prisoners! Their Roy to be sent to Bitche! Mrs. Baron swayed slightly, as if on the verge of fainting. Her petted Roy, her idolised darling, her boy so tenderly cared for—to be hurried away to Bitche!

It could hardly have been said which of the two Lucille was watching with the more strained attention—Mrs. Baron, stunned and wordless, or Denham Ivor, with that fixed, still face of suffering.

"And nothing—nothing—can be done?" she asked.

"We have tried—everything," the Colonel answered gloomily.

CHAPTER XXI

A GLIMPSE OF LOVELY POLLY

"Now, my dear Polly, I pray you make the very most this evening of your charms. Somebody will be there whom you little think to see."

Polly and Molly, both on a visit to the Bryces in London, looked up sharply.

"Yes, indeed, and you may guess; but I vow you'll not divine the truth. Two young maidens to have such good fortune. Had it come to me in my young days, 'twould have driven me out of my senses with joy. But you may conjecture, you may conjecture!"

Polly, seated upright on a straight-backed chair, looked as usual exceedingly pretty. Her eyes, softer and more than ever like brown velvet, took a far-away expression; and the delicate tinting of her cheeks grew roseate. She said demurely—

"If I might conjecture that which my desires would prompt, ma'am, I would say—Captain Ivor."

Mrs. Bryce tapped the floor impatiently with her slippered and sandalled foot.

"Tut!—Pish!—Pshaw! To be sure, that is proper enough, my dear. But now you may rest satisfied that you have uttered that which propriety demands. And since Captain Ivor is a prisoner in foreign parts—likely so to remain for many a long year to come—we'll e'en dismiss the thoughts of him, and Molly shall say whom she would most desire to meet at the dance to-night."

Molly sat upon a second straight-backed chair, busily netting. She was more altered from the child of eleven or twelve than her twin-brother in the same lapse of time. She had not grown tall, but she had gained rounder outlines. Her black eyes looked less big and less anxious, partly because the face had lost its peakiness. A healthy complexion and an expression of straightforward earnestness served in lieu of good looks. Though Molly Baron would never be a "belle," she might become a woman to whom men and women alike would turn, with a restful certainty of finding in her what they wanted. Her reply, no less prompt than Polly's, consisted of a single syllable—

"Roy!"

"But Roy, like Captain Ivor, is a prisoner, child. Like to remain so also. Who next?"

"Jack!"

"Nay, Jack is nobody. Jack is one of ourselves—a genteel young fellow enough, but better than Jack awaits you this evening."

"Bob!" with equal rapidity.

"Bob Monke is well enough in his way too; but you must go further afield, child. Eh, Polly—what if it be Captain Peirce?"

"Captain Peirce better than Jack or than Bob? Nay!" Molly said indignantly.

Polly's colour went up again, as it was wont to do on slight provocation, delicately and prettily. She also tossed her head, and arranged the light scarf which covered her shoulders.

"Captain Peirce is welcome, if he so choose, ma'am," she replied carelessly.

"I do not like Captain Peirce," murmured Molly.

"Nobody desired you to like Captain Peirce, my dear Molly. 'Tis vastly more to the point whether Polly likes him, since of a certainty Captain Peirce's affections are engaged in a certain direction, which may be named without difficulty. Captain Peirce is a prodigious favourite with everybody—especially, I can assure you, with all the young women of mode. And he has eyes for none of 'em except Polly."

Polly looked studiously on the floor, and Molly frowned.

"If Captain Peirce were what a man should be, he would never, sure, come after Polly as he does, knowing that Polly is promised to another, and he out of reach."

"Tut, tut, my dear Molly! Pish! Pshaw! What know you of such matters? A chit of a young female of sixteen! I'm positively shamed of you. Why, you're scarce out of the nursery, child. And here's Polly, the prettiest girl in all London, past twenty-one, and not yet married! No, nor like to be, while old Nap lives, if she wait for Captain Ivor; and depend on 't, old Nap'll not die yet for many a long year. Is Polly to delay till her prettiness goes, and she turns into an elderly maiden, whom no man of ton will deign to cast eyes upon, while Captain Ivor spends fifteen or twenty years in France, and forgets his past fancy, and marries some beauteous young Frenchwoman?"

Molly gazed at Polly's downcast face. "But Polly knows Denham better," she said.

"Knows Captain Ivor better! And how may that be," demanded the vivacious lady, "since Polly has seen him but from time to time, and that at long intervals, and I have been acquainted with him since he was left an orphan at the age of seven? Nor have I a word to speak against Captain Denham Ivor, save only that to expect Polly to wait for him twenty years, losing her bloom and growing old, would be altogether unreasonable."

"Polly is yet a good way off from growing old," persisted Molly.

"Well, well, that's as may be. But you've not divined my secret yet. Jack will be at my Lady Hawthorne's to-night; and 'tis not Jack of whom I speak. Bob Monke is like to be there, for aught I know, and 'tis not Bob. Captain Peirce will be there, and 'tis not Captain Peirce. Somebody else will be there,—and 'tis he."

Mrs. Bryce lifted a book from the table. "Who was it that read last week the 'Lay of the Last Minstrel,' and that said she would give half she was possessed of, to set eyes on the writer of that most elegant poem?"

"Mr. Walter Scott!" The rapture on Molly's face repaid Mrs. Bryce, who, whatever her faults might have been, did dearly love to give pleasure. Polly too smiled, but more quietly, having her mind greatly preoccupied.

"Mr. Walter Scott is now in London, and he will be at my Lady Hawthorne's assemblage. So now, Miss, what say you to my promise of somebody that shall be worth seeing? You may count yourself a fortunate young woman! At your early age, not only to have a personal acquaintance with so distinguished a martial hero as Sir John Moore, but also to have had a sight of Mr. Southey, and of Mr. Southey's friend, Mr. William Wordsworth,—and now to be brought face to face with Mr. Scott himself. I give you joy of such good fortune."

"And I love the 'Lay of the Last Minstrel' infinitely more than I love 'Thalada,'" remarked Molly. "Sure, ma'am, so great a poet as Mr. Scott has never yet been known."

"If the public voice be true, 'tis even so. Mr. Southey complains sorely of his ill-luck in the poor sale of his poems, and I know not that Mr. Wordsworth has much to boast of. Whereas Mr. Scott's poems go off by the myriad, and are read of all. I'm informed that Mr. Constable this year is paying him one thousand pounds in advance for a poem not yet completed—a poem about a place named 'Rokeby.' But now 'tis full time you began to prepare yourselves; and Polly must look her best."

Polly was in nowise unwilling. It was as natural to her to adorn her dainty self, as to a wren to preen and perk. Molly, being no professed beauty, made shorter work of her toilette. Her white muslin gown was of the simplest, and her short black hair was all but hidden under a turban of white silk. But every strand of Polly's abundant mane needed attention, though crowned by a fantastic hat with lofty white feathers; and her embroidered white gown, made with its waist close under the arm-pits, left throat and snowy shoulders bare. The skirt was clinging and scanty; and a large white muff completed her ballroom equipment, except that a light scarf was wound round the said shoulders, and that the dainty feet bore satin slippers.

Polly looked exquisitely pretty. Her skin was like ivory; the blush-rose tinting was just where it ought to have been; and the smile in her velvet eyes was a perfect sunbeam.

She could never enter a crowded room without becoming at once a centre for all glances. Molly, close behind, was neglected by comparison, and was content to have it so, not expecting admiration.

The one thing upon which her heart was set was the promised sight of Mr. Walter Scott. His real work in life, the writing of the Waverley Novels, had not then been even begun; but he was well known as the author of divers historical ballads, which had taken the fashionable world by storm.

Molly pictured him to herself as a quite ineffable individual, with fathomless dark eyes and Rowing locks of ebony, such as should befit an immortal poet. She sat upon her chair, quiet, neglected, yet perfectly happy at the thought of the glorious sight which was soon to dawn upon her vision. Mrs. Bryce's finger-tips roused her from a dream.

"Wake up, Molly. Are you asleep? Here he comes."

Molly looked around in eager quest. But she saw no wondrous form to correspond to the image in her mind. A lame man, rather robust in make, certainly not "elegant," with brown hair, flaxen eyebrows, a long upper lip, and a genial expression,—no, that was no embodiment of Molly's ideal. His eyes were light grey in colour, not dark and wild, as a poet's should have been. Yet the gleams of arch brightness which lighted up his face, as he talked, went a long way towards redeeming it from homeliness.

Then Molly was called up to be presented to the poet.

He said a few kind words to the young girl—she could not afterwards remember what they were. In later years she would be glad always to know that she had spoken with him; but at the moment her mind was full of its sudden disillusionment.

CHAPTER XXII

THE WAY OF THE WIND

MR. SCOTT passed on, surrounded by a host of friends, and Molly returned to her seat. Rather a long pause had come, with no fresh partners, Mrs. Bryce having too many irons in the fire to spare much time for looking after the quiet country girl by her side. Molly cared little. She liked to watch and listen, indulging in cogitations of her own. Growing surfeited with Mrs. Bryce's gay talk, she turned her attention to Admiral Peirce, who, close at hand, was holding forth in a loud voice on the advantages of London as a place of residence.

"Why, sir," he was saying, "why, sir, there's nothing after all like old Thames. Give me the blue ocean and tossing waves. But for a landsman, why, the Thames is as good as he may look to find. And I tell you what, sir, the water of the river Thames is the finest drinking water in the world. Only has to stand and ferment a little, and then it'll keep as long as ever you want it. Yes, sir, it will indeed."

Molly, being sublimely indifferent to the qualities of London drinking water, which in those days was not a question of pressing interest, wandered elsewhere. A slight pucker came between her smooth brows as she made out Polly at a short distance, with Captain Peirce in attendance. He was bending towards Polly, saying something in a low and confidential voice. It could not be known from Polly's look whether she were pleased or displeased.

The gay scene faded from Molly's vision. She was looking down, thoughtfully, on her own half-furled fan. But she did not see the fan, or the crowds of gay women around, with their low dresses and hats or turbans, their scarves and muffs and satin shoes. Another scene had risen before her mental eyes. She seemed again to be in a day long gone by, and Roy was giving her a boisterous kiss.

"All right, Molly!" he was calling gaily. "It's only for two weeks, you know, and then we shall be back." And as Roy ran off, in high glee, she had looked up, and had seen Denham Ivor holding Polly's hands in a firm clasp, while Polly's sweet face was downward, bent and blushing. But it was not Polly who, in one moment, had left an indelible impression upon Molly's childish memory. When she thought of that day, it was always Ivor's face, always the young Guardsman's look of silent grave devotion, which, unbidden, came up.

"How can Mrs. Bryce say such things? He will never, never forget," murmured Molly, her lips moving.

"Molly, this is, sure, scarce a place for audible meditation."

Molly's face grew bright, as Jack deposited himself in an empty chair by her side.

"Were you spouting Mr. Scott's last new poem?"

"You love to plague me, Jack. Why should I be spouting aught?"

Jack gave her a quizzical look.

"Three dances with me to come, mind you, Molly."

"Two," corrected Molly. "My grandmother desired me to dance no more than two with any one man. And what has become of Bob to-night?"

"Bob was on duty, and could not arrive till late. He desired me to plead with you to keep at the least three dances for him."

"Nay, I will keep two," demurely replied Molly. "And what of Sir John?" She had a quick womanly instinct, not possessed by all women, as to what people would like to speak about, and she generally managed to hit the mark, whence her quiet popularity in the little circle of those who knew her well.

"I went to Cobham a week since, and saw his mother. She fears that Sir John is sorely tried by these Sicilian complications. The Queen of the Sicilies must be a strange personage. She detests the English, and gives all her confidence to Frenchmen. Yet our Government fights in defence of the King, her husband."

"And 'tis but a year since Sir John was on the alert to be sent to the Indies."

"Ay, for he deems India to be by far the most important Colony our nation has ever had. He thought he might well go for a while, since matters in Europe were somewhat at a standstill."

"Was Buonaparte at a standstill, Jack?"

"Nay; but since the Battle of Trafalgar, there can be no further dread of an invasion; and little was being done to check his progress on the Continent. But Mr. Fox flatly declined to let Sir John go to the Indies. He said England could not safely spare him."

"'Twas a marvellous beautiful diamond star that the officers of his regiment presented to him when he was made Knight," observed Molly. "I saw it last month, for the first time."

"And a fitter token of regard than brilliants could scarce have been chosen for one of his transcendent purity of character," declared Jack.

Molly's attention wandered slightly, and Jack scanned her with an air of brotherly criticism. He was very fond of Molly, and she of him. It seemed to him this evening that she was looking particularly nice and ladylike, or, in the phraseology of the day, "pleasing and genteel." She was not pretty. Jack did not wish her to be pretty. He liked her better as she was.

"And had Sir John gone out to India, you doubtless would have wished to go also, Jack?"

"Doubtless," Jack replied at once. "In which case you would have missed me, Molly? As much as you miss Roy?"

Molly laughed outright. "Jack!—Jack!—why, Jack! Roy is my twin. He is more to me than all the world beside. Never in my life shall I care for any other as I care for Roy."

Jack laughed in his turn derisively.

"Never, never, never!" repeated Molly. "O never! I love my father and my mother dearly, and I love Polly, and Denham is a brother to me. And I love my grandmother, And I—like you and Bob too. I like you both. But Roy—Roy—he is more than all!"

"That is vastly well, Molly. But wait till your time shall come—till somebody will be more to you than even Roy."

"Never!" reiterated Molly. "You mean that one day I shall have a preference for—for some gallant gentleman! Nay, but I shall never marry, for I could not care for any, beyond my caring for Roy. And so that matter is for ever settled."

Jack was silent, perhaps a degree vexed. He was not in love with Molly himself, and he believed that Bob Monke was in love with her. Perhaps he was jealous for Bob. Perhaps he was jealous for himself. Though he and Molly were simply friends—bon camarades, in modern parlance—he did not quite see why he should rank second to the long-absent Roy.

Then again Molly's attention wandered, and Jack's glance followed hers. Molly's brow puckered, and Jack's drew into a frown.

"She is wondrous pretty," Molly said softly.

"But Peirce—what business has Peirce? He knows, sure, as to Ivor!"

"Why, Jack, all the world knows."

"And Polly permits!"

"Does Polly permit? Can Polly help it? If she holds aloof, and seeks to check those who come after her, they do but come the more. Polly cannot be sharp with folks. She is so sweet, and 'tis not her way. And Mrs. Bryce too, ever talking—" Molly breathed this very low—"ever seeking to persuade Polly that Den will forget, and will care no more for her."

Jack muttered something to himself. "Then—'tis her wish?"

"The wish of Mrs. Bryce!" Molly's face took an arch set. "Ay, since Captain Peirce came in for of money, on the death of his grandfather. He will be a richer man than Den, by a matter of ten pounds to one."

"Phew!" muttered jack in disgust. "Ivor will have enough. If Polly casts him off, she will deserve to suffer for it all her life long. She will lose one of the best men living."

CHAPTER XXIII

IN VIEW OF CAPTAIN PEIRCE

"IN this brilliant assemblage of rank and fashion, though lightened by the fire of genius and radiant with feminine charms, there is for me but one star of greatest magnitude, before which all lesser orbs fade into insignificance."

So spoke Captain Peirce in the ears of Polly Keene, and he felt that he had expressed himself with the utmost elegance. Gentlemen in those days were prone to more flowing speech than they are in these, and such speeches did not necessarily mean much. Ninety years later, the grandson or great-grandson of Captain Peirce would merely drag his moustache and mutter, "Awfully pretty girl!" But the two modes of expression, though rather unlike, probably implied and imply much the same in the end.

Captain Peirce did not pull his moustache. It was not the fashion, and he had none to pull. He bent a little nearer to Polly; and that was the moment when Jack's glance followed Molly's.

Polly did not seem to repulse him. She did not even exert herself to turn her head away. She had so much of this sort of thing. One flowery speech more or less made very little difference. Had it not been for the pressure put upon her by Mrs. Bryce, Polly would not have imagined that Captain Peirce meant anything seriously. She stood in one of her most graceful attitudes, toying with a fan; and the light from innumerable wax candles fell upon her fair round arms.

"Can you by any chance divine who that star of greatest magnitude may be, sweet Polly?"

This was audacious, and Captain Peirce fully expected a rebuff in consequence.

It did not come so soon as he expected. A thrill ran through Polly, almost amounting to a shiver. She was instantaneously carried back, as a few minutes earlier Molly had been, bridging at a leap four long slow years.

"Sweet Polly, may I speak?" Captain Ivor had said.

The voices were different. Ivor's was deep and quiet, with clear enunciation; while that of Captain Peirce was some semitones higher in key, with a rapid and rather indistinct intonation.

The other face, too, came up before Polly's mind—a face generally of still outlines, grave and handsome, with eyes which looked other men straight in the face, and level brows, not quick to frown, though when they did there was no mistake about it, and a smile as quiet as his voice. Captain Peirce was of smaller and slighter make, and his features as well as his tone underwent much more rapid changes. An impulsive man altogether; not bad-looking; and he had a certain fascination of manner too when he chose to exert it. Polly was not oblivious to the fascination while it lasted. Perhaps she liked his unequivocal admiration, and did not dislike to feel her power over him. But that flash of vivid recollection—did it arise from some subtle connection between her mind and Molly's?—brought with it a totally different look from any that Captain Peirce had seen upon her face. Perhaps he might be excused for imagining that the change of expression was due to his own words.

"Sweet Polly, you will not be one of the cruel fair who—"

This was going too far. Polly woke up from her dream. She withdrew one step, and dropped a suggestion of a curtsey.

"Your pardon, sir. My name is Miss Keene, as you are aware."

"Ah! adored one—so hard-hearted to your humble slave!"

"My word, Albert!" and the heavy hand of his uncle, the Admiral, fell with a smart slap upon the Captain's shoulder. "So, you do not fail to make hay while the sun shines! But there's such a thing as poaching in another's preserves, man. Ha, ha, Miss Polly! Well, and what news from abroad of the unfortunate prisoners, eh?"

Captain Peirce wore the look of a thunder-cloud under this interruption. He dared not openly resent it; not only because young men in those times were far more submissive to older men than now, but because, also, had he aroused the Admiral's ire, he would have drawn upon them the attention of the whole room. Admiral Peirce was known to be hasty in temper, and not slow to speak his mind. So he glowered silently, and Polly looked with a smile into the battered face of the old sailor, now on shore for a brief spell.

"Nay, sir, I have not heard for this very long while from any of them, and it is but seldom we may hope to hear. Letters go astray by hundreds. Doubtless they write, as do we—to no purpose."

"Ay, ay, trust Boney for that! He'll not help forward the post. Well, well, every lane has its turning; and Boney will come to his turning sooner or later. Nay, indeed, has he not already—at the glorious Battle of Trafalgar, of immortal memory?"

"And on land too, sir,—in time our brave soldiers will have the best of it, and will gain the reward that is due to their valour," suggested Polly.

Captain Peirce's opportunity was gone; and though Polly did not appear to avoid him, yet he found no second chance. Jack and Molly, looking on, saw this little episode, and they wondered—had the old Admiral acted accidentally or on purpose, and was Polly glad or sorry? Neither question received an answer.

In the small hours of morning, when dancing was ended, Mrs. Bryce drove home with the two girls, in the fine yellow coach, which was considered to be a suitable "equipage" for one in her position. Mr. Bryce, having a cold, had not gone with them. The girls retired to their room, and Molly would have liked to question her companion, had she dared. But Polly, with all her sweetness, could hold folks aloof if she chose; and this night she did choose. She was very pale and tired—sad too, Molly thought, now that the excitement was over. Few words passed between them before they crept into bed.