Was that a sound of smothered weeping? Molly was all but asleep when it aroused her. She listened carefully.
"Polly!" No answer. "Polly, are you awake?"
A pause, and then—"You must go to sleep, Molly."
"You are not crying, Polly?"
Polly's hand gently pressed hers, but Polly's face was turned away, and another short break took place before she replied, in a tone of strained cheerfulness—
"'Tis far too late. We may not lie and talk now. Go to sleep and dream. No,—not one little word more."
Molly had to obey. Yet she felt sure that soon again she heard the tiny smothered sound which had suggested tears. She lay long listening. Was Polly thinking of Denham Ivor? Or could it be a question of Captain Peirce?
* * * * * * *
This side of life went on, and had to go on, even in such a period of stormy unrest, of perpetual warfare between nations. Men and maidens love and mate, work has to be done, hopes rise and sink, even the lesser amusements and gaieties and the small daily occupations of existence do not cease, though the whole world may be at loggerheads.
The deadly duel between Napoleon and Britain continued; and while Britain was supreme on the ocean, Napoleon was all but irresistible upon land. Of all the nations England alone withstood him; and at this date she fearlessly faced Europe in arms. For the Continent had crouched beneath the arm of the tyrant, and was tamely ranged on his side.
In the year 1807 Great Britain had not a single ally. Sweden, the last remaining, had been compelled by Russia to break away. One brother of Napoleon's was king of Holland; another was king of Westphalia; a third was king of Naples; while lesser European kingdoms and the congeries of little German states had well-nigh disappeared into the vortex, and French soldiers swaggered about the streets of Berlin.
Great Britain was neither crushed nor intimidated. She had flung off the fear of invasion; and her ships triumphantly ranged the seas. She had, indeed, as yet been less successful on land than at sea. Many a battle had been gained, many a deed of splendid valour had been done. But while one expedition after another had been despatched hither and thither, with intent to undermine and weaken the enormous power of Napoleon, most of these had failed to give any serious check to his advances. England had an Army inadequate to her needs, both in numbers and in military equipment; and the expeditions sent were invariably too small for the work they had to do.
All this while the inner life of the nation flowed on. Taxes were heavy, food was dear, much suffering existed; yet the spirit of the people neither failed nor faltered. They were cheery and full of courage, looking forward with high hope to a better state of things. In a little while, surely, justice would be meted out, and the cause of liberty would prevail.
Even in England Napoleon was not without his enthusiastic admirers. There are always some whose party feeling is stronger than their patriotism; and some others who will sentimentally put a man upon a pedestal, with regard to his intellect only, apart from questions of character. But the mass of the people was in deadly earnest. The nation as a whole was ready to fight Buonaparte to the last coin in its purse, the last drop of blood in its body.
One more tragic story had yet to be told. One more apparent failure, which contained in itself the heroic germ of coming victory, had yet to be lived through. One more great Englishman was to die, in the very moment of a success which at the time could scarcely be read otherwise than as a defeat. Then the turn of the tide would have begun.
CHAPTER XXIV
A BITTER EXPERIENCE
THAT march from Verdun to Bitche! If Roy Baron should live to be a hundred years old, the bitterness of it would stand out still pre-eminent in his memory.
He had at first only three English companions, middle-aged men, masters of merchantmen, accused of trying to escape from close confinement in the dungeon of the "Tour d'Angoulême" of the Verdun citadel. There, for no apparent reason beyond caprice, they had been flung by the Commandant's orders, and thence they were now no less arbitrarily remanded to the worse dungeons of Bitche.
At the first halting-place they were joined by a second and larger company—a party of English sailors, manacled two and two, like criminals. Sailors of the Royal Navy, Roy knew at a glance; and he caught a glimpse also of three or four middies behind them. Then his attention was called off, as, to his unutterable wrath, he found himself also on the point of being put into fetters.
Roy Baron—son of a Colonel in His Majesty's Guards—to be handcuffed!
The blood rushed to his face, then receded, leaving him as white as his own shirt-front. He clenched his hands fiercely; and the merchantman Captain who had addressed him at the first came a step nearer.
"Sir, it'll be worse for you if you resist! I wouldn't, sir—I wouldn't, really!"
As if in echo Roy seemed to hear Denham's voice. "For your mother's sake—" he had said. If Roy endured patiently, he might be the sooner sent back to her.
The frank weather-beaten face of the sailor wore an anxious look. Roy said gravely, "Thank you, Captain," and submitted, though not without a sting of hot tears smarting under his eyelids at the indignity.
Then he flung himself flat on the ground, passionately hiding his face in those manacled hands, and refusing the coarse food that was offered to him. He had money in his possession, but Denham had advised him to be in no haste to betray the fact.
"Never you mind," a voice said at his side, clear and chirpy as the note of a robin. "There's nothing to be ashamed of, you know. 'Tis not our fault. The shame is for them, not us. Cheer up, comrade."
The combined childishness and manliness of the voice made an odd impression upon Roy. He pulled himself up, and found one of the middies close by—a lad, perhaps two years his junior, with a rosy face. Roy stared at him in bewilderment.
"You'd better eat while you can. None too good fare, eh?" —with the same droll assumption of manliness. "As for these—" and he lifted his little brown manacled hands—"it only shows that we're Englishmen. Ain't you proud of that? I am!" Then a pause, and a return stare. "I say! My eyes!"
"I say!" echoed Roy. "Why, you're as like as two peas to—"
"You're Roy Baron, as I'm alive!"
"And I declare it's Will Peirce!"
The two tongues went fast. As little boys they had played together, romped together, worked mischief together; but for nearly five years the two had not met.
"We weren't beaten in fair fight—don't think it," asserted Will, with his chirrupy cheerfulness. "Got caught in a trap. Damaged in a gale off Finisterre; and when 'twas as much as we could do to keep afloat, two seventy-four gun frigates bore down on us. If she'd answered to her helm, we'd have had the best of it, spite of all. But though we made a hard fight, 'twas no go. They raked us fore and aft, and we got riddled through and through. So we had to give in. I say, you set to work and eat. We've got a long way to go."
Roy followed the counsel of experienced boyhood, and was the better for food. Will's familiar face brought comfort.
On again they marched, the middies and Roy handcuffed; the sailors chained two and two. The boys kept up a brave heart, no matter how weary and footsore they became. Roy held out as resolutely as any one.
Later, when another halt was made, a third company awaited them. A company of—were they prisoners? These were French faces, sullen and downcast, with French dress. Yet they too were coupled together by connecting chains. They too were under an escort of gendarmes.
"Are they convicts?" exclaimed Roy, and a ship-master replied, "Bless you, no, sir. These are conscripts for the Emperor's grand Army. Dragged from their homes, belike, without a will-he nor a nill-he, and driven to war, like sheep to the shambles."
"Poor wretches!" remarked Will, with his experienced air. "I've seen a lot of 'em before on our way across France."
"Sure enough, sir, and so have I. Times and again. Looking as sheepish and as down in the mouth as a man can. Don't make much wonder, neither, seeing they're dragged away from their homes, with never a chance of getting off. O they'll make smart soldiers enough, I'll be bound, and good food for shot too, with a few months of drill; and be as ready as any Frenchman of them all to rave about 'le petit Caporal.' And the mothers and the sweethearts may bear the parting as best they can, and the land may go uncultivated; and what does Boney care, so long as he has his way?"
The chained and dejected conscripts followed after the prisoners, when the march was resumed.
Day after day, week after week, it lasted. A hundred leagues were not to be quickly covered by a large number of men and boys of varying powers. Many of them, used to shipboard life, were unaccustomed to long tramps. There were tender feet and aching limbs among them; and matters grew steadily worse. Some broke down altogether, and had to be conveyed in rough springless carts. Those who had no money were fed mainly on black bread and water. At night, when they halted, they were put into the common prison of the place, no matter what kind of prison it might be. Often they were confined in the criminal cells, suffering miseries from heat and lack of air. Not seldom too their only couch was filthy straw, alive with insects. Weary as Roy might be, he could not sleep amid such surroundings.
He guarded carefully the money with which he had been abundantly supplied by his father, not allowing others to know that he had more than a purse of loose coins for immediate use. Impulsive Roy would hardly have been so reticent, but for parting injunctions. Like Ivor, he was naturally generous; and since the middies were ill supplied with cash, he gladly shared the contents of his purse with them.
At length the long march came to an end. Bitche was reached—a grim and solemn fortress, sheltering already hundreds of British prisoners. The fortress was built upon a rocky height, below which lay the small town.
Upward and upward the prisoners mounted, by a sharply zigzag way, passing one drawbridge after another, each strongly guarded. Roy and the middies were first taken to the "Petite Tête," so-called, where they underwent a severe searching. Roy's hidden supply of money was detected in this operation; and though he was not deprived of it, he knew that thenceforward the gendarmes would look upon him as their lawful prey.
He and the middies were then led through gloomy passages, down into the great dungeon. This, as well as the smaller dungeon, had been originally dug out of the solid saltpetre rock, being at least thirty feet below the surface of the ground. At first meant as a safe retreat for the garrison during a bombardment, they had of late been used as receptacles for English prisoners. The smaller cavern was in theory kept for officers, the larger for private soldiers and sailors "before the mast." But this rule was often and widely departed from, as Roy discovered; for he with the middies was conducted to the large souterrain.
In a huge vault, where sunlight never entered, where the dim daylight had to be always supplemented by candles, where the atmosphere was heavy and dank, where water dripped from the roof or ran down the walls, might be found a motley crowd of about three hundred captives. English soldiers, English sailors, English middies, détenus from Verdun and elsewhere, mingled with French swindlers, pickpockets, and highwaymen—this was the society into which Roy Baron was thrust.
With the descent down and down those stone steps, his heart sank lower and lower. How long might he have to wait for his next glimpse of the outside world?
An outburst of uproarious cheering greeted the new arrivals, as the heavy door was unlocked, and they were ushered in. Three cheers were given; then each was hoisted on the shoulders of three or four men, and was paraded round the dungeon. After this rough welcome came a severe blanket-tossing, which Roy and the middies were wise enough to take in good part. Any who wished to fight were then cordially invited to do so; and, lastly, those who had money were called upon to treat others to drink.
Such ceremonies being ended, comparative quiet descended on the scene. It was past eight o'clock when first they arrived, and night was near.
Roy Baron's first night in a French dungeon!
Each prisoner was provided with a worn blanket, cast off by a French soldier. Wrapped in these, the crowd of over three hundred men and boys laid themselves down to rest. Some slumbered silently; some tossed to and fro; some talked or shouted in their sleep; some snored loudly. Roy at first had rejected his ragged blanket with scorn; but these subterranean regions were cold, and reeking with damp. Shivering, he at length drew it round him, as he lay with arms crossed, and face pressed into them. The handcuffs had been removed in the guard-room.
He was not thinking of the bruises he had received, when the rough blanket-tossers had allowed him to drop upon the stone floor. Bruises to a hardy boy are a small matter. But the desolation of the lad that awful night went beyond bounds; and desperate blank despair took possession of him.
For hours he hardly stirred. He could not sleep. He could only lie in a trance of misery. He saw no gleam of hope, no chance of escape from this terrible place. Yet, to stay on here, week after week, month after month, perhaps year after year—could he bear it? Through all previous troubles Roy had borne up bravely; but at last his spirit gave way beneath the strain.
Molly's face came up before his mind. Not Molly, a sedate maiden, but Molly the little eager child, whom he remembered. O to see her again! Roy pressed his face closer into the folded arms.
Then his mother! He hardly dared to think of her. What would she not suffer? Unknowing indeed what her boy had to endure, but fearing the worst. Would any picturings of hers approach the reality?
A craving for Denham had him next in its grasp. If Denham had but been arrested too—had but come with him! But this unworthy wish lasted not ten seconds. Upon it followed a nobler rush of gladness that Denham was not here. The worn face came up before Roy, as he had seen it last at Verdun; and below his breath he sobbed in an ecstasy of thankfulness that at least Denham would be in comparative comfort, that at least Denham had not to be in this dungeon.
"Think how your mother will be praying for you."
Was Denham speaking? Roy seemed to hear the words, not only with his mind, but with his bodily ears.
He sat up and looked round upon the slumbering throng—looked with smarting eyes into the gloom. He gazed into the blackness overhead, where a stone roof shut him pitilessly in.
Was his mother praying for him then? Would God hear her petitions?
Denham's voice, deep and quiet, seemed again to breathe around him—"Remember! God is over all!" How long ago was it that he had said those words? Was it—when he was ordered off to Valenciennes?
God over all! Ay, even here; even in this dungeon.
Roy dropped down again, face foremost; and through heaving sobs, not one of which was allowed to make itself heard, he joined his prayers to those of his mother.
CHAPTER XXV
LIFE IN A FRENCH DUNGEON
EIGHT long, long months at Bitche!
No wonder Roy Baron was altered. He had grown fast in body, faster still in spirit. He had left Verdun a careless and light-hearted lad, almost a child, young in all respects for his age. Eight months at Bitche had ground every remnant of childishness out of him.
Not the whole of that time had been spent in the crowded dungeon. The gendarmes knew better, when a prisoner possessed a little money. For some weeks, by paying heavily, he had been permitted to occupy a smaller room above ground, in company with a few other prisoners of better grade. He had thankfully availed himself of the chance, and had tried in vain to get Will brought up also. When his money ran out, and no more arrived, he was remanded to the great dungeon.
He took it more quietly than at the first. By this time he was, in a manner, used to close captivity. Will and the other middies welcomed him with warmth; and he soon found that a plan for escape was brewing among them.
No wonder prisoners sought to get away. The life in those underground caverns must have been terrible.
From about eight at night till eight in the morning the three or four hundred prisoners were locked up in their dungeon. At eight in the morning they were turned out, like sheep from a pen, into the yard, a place one hundred and thirty paces in length by about thirty in breadth. There they stayed till noon, getting what air and exercise they could. At noon they were mustered in the dungeon. Two or three times a week a body of prisoners was allowed to go into the town, under supervision, to buy food, and Roy had his turn occasionally. These faint peeps of liberty made captivity harder to endure.
The very idea of escape from such an existence could not but be welcomed, though every attempt to get away meant danger to life. Many had escaped; many more were likely enough to do their best for the same end. When Will Peirce, with the consent of his friends, and under strictest vows of secrecy, confided to Roy their plan, Roy threw himself into it with fervour. Anything to be free!
He stood in the prison-yard one cold day in late autumn, leaning against the wall, with folded arms and abstracted look. A grey sky was overhead, and some drops of half-frozen rain had fallen. Hundreds of prisoners were assembled there: some walking about to keep themselves warm; some leaping or wrestling; some fighting in good earnest; others absorbed in games of chance; while many lounged listlessly, with no spirit to exert themselves. A dull inertia, as of semi-despair, characterised them.
Yet on the faces of a few, notably on that of Roy Baron, might have been detected a gleam of something like hope, carefully repressed. A blue-eyed little middy was at his side; for he and Will had drawn together, as they seldom failed to do. Will's high spirits were as helpful to Roy now, as Roy's in the past had been to Ivor.
About a dozen middies, besides one young Naval lieutenant and Roy Baron, were in the plot, all sworn to secrecy. None but active and agile young fellows could have hoped to succeed in what was proposed.
They had made a stout rope out of such materials as they were able to get together; and their intention was to descend by means of this from the high outer wall, which must first be scaled from within. One or two would have to reach the top with no help from above, and, when they were up, to lower the rope for the use of the rest. On the other side of the wall lay fresh difficulties: sentries, perils of starvation, dangers of being retaken, fears of worse treatment to follow. Those who failed to get away might expect to be despatched to the fortress of Sédan for solitary confinement. But with the hope of liberty to cheer them on, not one of the number hesitated.
"Two days more! Only two days!" Roy was saying to himself. He hardly dared to look up when anybody not in the secret drew near, so much he feared to suggest by even a cheerful glance that hope had dawned.
"I know what you're thinking, Roy," muttered Will, under cover of a noisy fight between a couple of imprisoned professional boxers.
"I'm thinking that this is an awful place."
Will drew closer, and spoke in lowered tones. "I say—don't look as if we were saying anything particular. I say, mind we keep together. And if—you know what I mean—"
Roy made a hasty gesture. "Then you tell my people. And if—the other way—then I tell yours."
"Tell 'em I've tried to do my duty," said Will, as manly a note breathing through his hushed tones as if he had measured six feet in length. "And, Roy, tell my mother I haven't forgot what she said to me. And I've got the Bible still; and I've said my prayers. I don't mind telling you, because you're not the sort to jeer."
"And, Will, if it's the other way, you'll tell my people—tell 'em—" Roy's voice faltered.
"I'll say you're as brave a chap as any officer in His Majesty's Navy. Couldn't say more, could I?"
"Only that I've tried—that too. And tell Den I've kept my promise. It's been hard work, but I have."
Somebody came near, and they dashed into careless talk.
Roy looked round that night with a strange moved gaze, when the bulk of the prisoners were asleep. One night more after this—only one!—and then away for dear old England, for the land of freedom.
He thought of Molly, and of how she would look when she saw him walk in. He thought how glad his father and mother and Den would be, if once they could know that their boy, Den's friend, was safe in England. Not that Roy meant to stay at home. A little time in what now looked to him like heaven itself, and then away to fight for his Country, to help to overthrow the great tyrant.
It was worth while making the attempt, even though in that attempt he should die. He was so sick and weary of this long captivity. He had the craving of a caged bird for light and air, for exercise and active life. At the bare notion of liberty once more, his heart danced and sang. Then he bowed his head on his knees, and he prayed passionately that—if only it might be—he should succeed, and should find his way home. Home to Molly! Home to the dear old Country! The rapture of it!
"For Christ's sake, O God, let me go! Let me get away! O do not let them take us prisoners again!" he implored.
But prayer, though heard, is not always answered in the manner wished. And often one has to wait to know the reason.
CHAPTER XXVI
A PRISON TRAGEDY
MORNING dawned, and half of another slow day passed. Ah, how slow those unoccupied hours were! Roy could do nothing but hang listlessly about. He could think of nothing but the coming nightfall, when, after dark, but before they were ordered into the souterrain for the night, he and his companions would steal softly away to that high outer wall, and would scale it. All details of the plan thus far had been carefully thought out and arranged. Beyond that, most of them were trusting largely to what is called "the chapter of accidents."
To be free again! Ah, to be free!—free under the blue sky, free to breathe heaven's breezes, free to sun himself in heaven's smile, free to stretch his limbs, free to be a light-hearted English boy once more instead of a careworn man before his time! Roy flung his arms out and clutched the prison wall, in that craving for liberty.
Midday came, and the crowd of prisoners was, as usual, ordered in. A hand touched Roy, and a rough voice ordered him to follow.
Roy faced the gendarme.
"Where?" he demanded blankly, in a moment realising what this might mean.
No answer was vouchsafed. These gendarmes were for the most part surly fellows, though even among them gleams of kindness towards the prisoners were not wholly unknown.
Roy had no choice but to obey. Resistance would have done himself no good, and might have drawn suspicion upon his comrades. The man laid a grip upon his arm, and led him—not down but up—past the ground floor, ascending to the floor above. At the end of a long passage, he stopped at a door, opened it, and thrust Roy in. The door was shut and the lock snapped.
Roy found himself alone in a small cell, with stone floor, stone ceiling, stone walls, one little iron-barred window, deeply embrasured, and a single wooden bench. Beside the bench were a jug of water, a hunch of bread, and some cheese.
Was he now condemned to solitary confinement—perhaps for weeks, perhaps for months, perhaps for years? And for what? What had he done to bring this upon himself?
But for the planned escape, so near at hand, he might have welcomed almost any change from the dungeon and its horrors. Now, however, now with freedom in sight, to be carried off, to be placed where he was, to be debarred from every hope of liberty—it was heart-breaking.
He flung himself upon the ground, hid his face on his crossed arms, and gave himself over to despair.
Would he never leave this awful place? Was this the way in which his prayers and his mother's prayers were to be answered? If so, what was the use of praying? He would give it all up. He would never pray again. It was of no use. Nothing was of any use.
Hours passed in one long agony. All that day he was left alone. At nightfall a gendarme brought his allowance of coarse food, and went away. Roy drank the water, and pushed the black bread aside, too sick with misery to eat. The boys would now be escaping. He followed in imagination every step of theirs, envying them bitterly. That they should be on their way to dear old England, and that he should be held back! It was too terrible too awful! too cruel!
He had no sleep that night. He could not see the pitying angels who hovered over him in the darkness. He could not know what was going on in another part of the fortress. He could not guess how some of his comrades won their freedom.
All the next morning he lay upon the ground, listless, hopeless, careless of what might happen next.
At midday he was ordered to go down into the yard. That was the hour when the inhabitants of the great dungeon retired into their cavern, and when the better class of prisoners might take their turn of fresh air—if any air could be fresh which had just been breathed by hundreds of men. Roy wondered languidly at being treated thus. He had expected to remain in his cell. It mattered little either way, he said to himself, as he found his way thither. All hope for the present was at an end.
On reaching the yard, his first impression was of an unusual gravity among even the gravest of the prisoners there before him. One or two half spoke to Roy, and stopped, thinking from his look that he already knew,—that he would not be taken by surprise. And so he was allowed to pass on, unhindered. He saw the expression in their faces, and he wondered a little, indifferently.
Then indifference fled, and a dazed bewilderment took possession of him. His brain swam, and he staggered to the wall, clutching it for support, staring and shuddering.
His eyes had fallen on something unexpected—on—what was it? What could it mean?
A row of boys lying on the ground, peacefully asleep. Ah, so peacefully! so awfully white and still, in their brave blue uniforms, some of them spattered with mud. But they did not seem to mind. A smile was on one quiet face; a second wore a look of high repose; one or two carried a defiant frown, as if at the last moment they had known what was come to them; and another was a little grieved, but not much. And all were free. They had won their liberty, though not the liberty for which they had craved and striven, but doubtless a better freedom. Only, the poor mothers of those lads, away at home, what would it have been to them to see their boys lying here?
Roy dragged himself nearer, his heart beating in heavy strokes, while his head seemed to be bursting open. Yes, these were the boys with whom he was to have made his escape—some of them at least. And here was little Will Peirce, with blue eyes fast shut, lying in the placidest sleep, smiling to himself, in a calm waxen whiteness. He had tried to do his duty to the last. Brave little Will!
Roy caught his breath in one hard moan of bitter pain.
"Come away," a voice said, and somebody drew him, unresisting, to the further side of the yard. Roy vaguely knew that it was an elderly English officer, one of the quietest and most retiring of the upstairs prisoners, seldom heard to speak. He made Roy sit down, and as the boy hid his face, a compassionate hand was on his wrist.
"I know, You were in the dungeon with them, I believe. Don't look any more. No good. It's over for them."
A sound asked the question which Roy could not put into words.
"It was last night. They tried to escape over the wall. It seems to have been planned for some time. But they were overheard and betrayed by a fellow-prisoner. The scoundrel! They got away safely to the top of the wall, and let down the rope. Their plan had been to descend one by one, I believe; but they found that too slow, and time was short. So when they had fastened the rope, they got upon it all together. A French officer was on the watch, and he seized the moment to cut it above. The miscreant! The hound! He'll get his deserts some day! They all fell. Several were killed instantly,—as we see. Some, with broken limbs, are in hospital. This is not the first time that an escape has ended thus. The bodies are always exposed next day."
Roy shuddered.
"You may be thankful that you were not among them."
Another shudder.
The grey-haired Colonel bent gravely towards him.
"If any friend of yours is there, do not grieve too much, my boy. Some of us might well be disposed to envy them. They are in God's Hands now, and that is well. God is kinder far than man."
He might indeed say so, looking across the yard. Roy lifted his face, as if in bitter protest. Was man kind, if man could do such deeds as these? And then he thought of Ivor, of his father, of Sir John Moore.
There may be very demons in human form upon earth; yet man was made in the Image of God; and all the kindliness that is seen in the best of men is a glimmer of that Image.
CHAPTER XXVII
A BARRED WINDOW
How the next fortnight passed, Roy never afterwards knew. He was sick and dazed with the shock he had had, grieving for little Will, and all but hopeless. He had ceased to care for food; and though he dozed a great deal, it was not restful sleep. Life seemed terribly hard to get through. He often envied Will.
The Colonel who had spoken to him that day spoke again often, when they met in the yard; and Roy was grateful. But he could not rouse himself. He had lost all interest in what went on around him. He hated the yard, and always kept as far as possible from where the exposure of the murdered boys had taken place.
His one longing was to know how the other poor lads in the hospital were, but accounts were unreliable.
About a fortnight later, one cold afternoon, he was leaning against the wall at the further end, hardly thinking, only drearily enduring. He noticed a man coming towards him carrying a large basket or hotte, piled up with loose wood; not a gendarme, but evidently one employed about the fortress on manual work. He was broad-shouldered and long-limbed, and he walked in a slouching manner. At the moment that he came close to Roy, the basket tilted over, raining the whole mass of wood upon the ground.
"Hallo!" exclaimed Roy.
The man muttered something, and went slowly down upon his knees to pick up the scattered wood. No one else was near. A body of prisoners had been that morning removed elsewhere, and the yard was not so full as usual. Roy good-naturedly bent to help the man, and their faces came together.
"Hist!" was whispered cautiously. Roy started. "Hist!" again. "Does monsieur know me? But not a word!"
Roy drew one quick breath. Then he tossed more bits of wood into the hotte. He cast another glance at the man, his whole being on the alert. In an instant he saw again the small French town, the crowd in front of the hôtel de ville, the released conscript, the old mother clinging to Denham's hands, and Den's pitying face.
"Jean Paulet!" he breathed.
"Oui, m'sieu. Hist!"
Jean piled some of the wood together with unnecessary noise.
"Will m'sieu not betray that he knows me?"
"Oui." Roy threw two more pieces of wood into the hotte. Then he stood up, yawned, and gazed listlessly in another direction. After which he hung lazily over the hotte, as if to play with the wood. A touch of cold steel came against his left hand.
"Hist!" at the same instant, as Roy grasped the something, and slipped it instantly out of sight. His right hand still turned over the wood.
"Bon!" murmured Jean, making a clatter. "Listen! If m'sieu will file away the bar of his window—ready to be removed—I will be there, outside, to-morrow night, after dark. When m'sieu hears a whistle—hist! But truly this weight is considerable—oui, m'sieu, and a poor man like me may not complain."
Jean hitched up the big hotte, now full, and passed on, grumbling audibly, while Roy strolled back to his former position. His heart was beating like a hammer, and to return to his former attitude of dejection was not easy, with new life stirring in every vein. He managed, however, to avoid observation, and when two o'clock came it was a relief to be alone in his cell. He could safely there fling his arms aloft in a frenzy of delight.
If only little Will might have escaped with him!
But there was no leisure for regrets. He had a task to accomplish in a given time. Often he had examined the massive iron bar, wedged firmly in across the small window. If that could be removed, he might squeeze himself through; but to take out the bar, or at least to wrench it on one side, meant first to file nearly through it—quite through, indeed, for the noise of breaking it might not be risked. He could only guess what would lie on the other side, down below. The deep embrasure within, and the thickness of the wall without, prevented him from seeing.
At stated intervals the gendarmes visited him, and he could reckon upon their visits; yet he knew well that he was never secure against a sudden interruption. He had to toil in a difficult and cramped position, supporting himself in a corner of the slanting embrasure, and filing very lightly, that no sound might reach the ears of any passer-by.
He had to work at the bar in a difficult and cramped position.
One narrow escape of detection he had. Absorbed in his toil, he failed to note the preliminary click of the lock, and the door began to open. Roy flung himself to the ground, reckless of bruises, and the noise of his fall was happily lost in the creak of the door. The gendarme, entering, found a sleepy prisoner. Roy wondered that the thumping of his heart did not betray him.
Thoughtful Jean had provided him with three files. Two of them broke. The third held out to the end.
Through a good part of the night he worked, fearing lest the task should not be done in time. In the morning, after the usual visit from a gendarme, he was up again in the embrasure. Before midday he had worked his way through the heavy bar. He stirred it cautiously. Yes, it yielded. One good wrench, and it could be forced aside.
That was all he had now to do. The bar would remain in position till the latest moment. He cleared away every speck of iron filing; and then he had to go into the yard. What if the gendarmes should examine the window during his absence? What if, before Jean came, Roy himself should be removed elsewhere? Then came another question,—What if his mother's prayers were being answered?
At last the afternoon had waned, without any mischance, and the gendarme's evening call had been paid. The window had not been examined; and Roy was left for the night, with his allowance of food. He wisely disposed of it, knowing that he would need all his strength. Then he waited, minute after minute, in a suspense hardly to be described.
A slight faint whistle, close to the window.
In a moment Roy was up in the slanting embrasure. Jean's hand met his; and together, noiselessly, they wrenched the bar aside.
"Hist! Be still as death!" whispered Jean.
Roy worked himself through the opening, Jean's grasp steadying him. He found his feet to be resting on the topmost rung of a ladder. Jean whispered one or two directions; then he went down himself, and held it firm while Roy followed. Little need was there to bid the boy be quiet in his movements. The slightest sound might betray them.
No sooner had they reached the bottom than Jean's hand gripped Roy's wrist, and led him away. The ladder had to remain where it was. Its removal would have meant too great a risk. Roy could not see where they were. Pitch darkness surrounded them; but Jean moved with confidence, though with extreme care.
Soon they had to pass near a sentry, and a sharp challenge was heard. Roy's heart leaped into his mouth; and Jean promptly replied with the password for the night. Veiled by the darkness, they went by in safety.
At length the outer wall was gained—that same wall which the middies had reached in their attempted escape, though at a different part of it. Jean had chosen this mode of escape, not daring to take Roy under the eyes of sentries at the gates, where, despite his command of the password, the prisoner would almost certainly have been found out.
In a quiet corner, where nobody seemed to be near, Jean drew down the end of a stout rope, already secured at the top of the wall, and knotted loosely out of easy reach. This had been his doing after dark, before he went to Roy's cell. With the help of the rope they made their way to the top, Roy first, Jean next, pulling it after them, and lowering it on the other side. Then together they trusted their weight to it.
As they hung over the depth, Roy recalled the cold-blooded act of two or three weeks earlier. If any man had obtained an inkling of Jean's intentions, or had discovered the rope, the same tragedy might now be repeated on a smaller scale. One clear cut would do the business. He and Jean would fall heavily downward; and in an instant he too, like Will, might be in that Land where dungeons and cruel separations are things of the past.
These thoughts came to Roy unbidden, even while his whole attention was bent to the task of working himself hand under hand, swiftly and noiselessly, down the rope. Already his hands were torn and strained, yet under the excitement of the moment he felt no pain.
The rope remained taut. There was no sudden yielding from above, no helpless plunge earthward. He and Jean arrived in safety on firm ground.
Again Jean gripped his wrist. "Now, m'sieu—hist!" was whispered. As fast as might be, yet with extreme caution, they hurried away from that grim surrounding wall.
Roy could not see where they were in the darkness. He could only trust himself blindly to Jean's guidance, and Jean seemed to know well what he was doing.
During the first half-hour or so, excessive caution was needful; and more than once Jean had to make use of the password, which he had somehow learned. Once well away from Bitche, discovery became a less imminent danger. The chief aim then was to put as wide a space as possible between themselves and the fortress before morning. That was as much as Roy had in mind. Jean's object was more definite. But for a while he attempted no explanations. All breath was required for getting along.
So soon as Roy's disappearance should become known, the gendarmes would be off in hot pursuit. At present they had a clear field, favoured by darkness and by the fact of a world mainly asleep.
Roy's powers were severely taxed, as the hours of that night went by. Excitement kept him going; but he had slept and eaten little during the past thirty hours, and after eight months without proper exercise he was direfully out of training. His muscles had grown flabby, and he so soon began to pant, as to become angry with himself. Still, he fought doggedly onward, making no complaint.
At first they followed bypaths or kept to fields, for greater safety; but by and by Jean struck into the highroad, and here advance was easier.
As hour passed after hour, and they made uninterrupted progress, Roy grew light of heart. Breathlessness, aching limbs, sharp cold, gnawing hunger—all these were as nothing, compared with the fact that he was free. No stone walls, no iron-bound and padlocked doors, shut him ruthlessly in.
From time to time a short halt was necessary, and Roy was allowed to fling himself flat on the icy ground for some minutes; after which he could always start afresh with redoubled energy.
"Wonder what happened to take you to Bitche, Jean?" he said after one such break.
"M'sieu, I had a friend at Bitche."
"Somebody in the fortress?"
"Oui, m'sieu. Un soldat. M'sieu will perhaps refrain from putting many questions. It is a friend from my boyhood. He was taken in the conscription, and no kind messieurs were at hand to help to buy him off. And his poor mother became imbecile. La pauvre femme! See what might have come to my mother also, but for the goodness of ces messieurs."
"She became imbecile because he had to go to the war?"
"Oui, m'sieu. What wonder? For see—it was not a common parting. Hundreds, thousands, go thus in the armies of the Emperor, and never return. They vanish from their homes, and no more is heard of them. Here or there, far-away, they have died and have been buried—hélas!—and that is the end."
"A soldier's end!" the boy said proudly.
"Oui, m'sieu, sans doute. But not all men have a taste for soldiering. I myself, for one—"
"You didn't want to fight?"
"I had no wish to leave my home, m'sieu. Of late, it is true, I have had thoughts of entering the army, after all. Le petit Caporal is no such bad leader for a man to follow, when he has not ties to bind him down."
"But your mother—what would she say?"
"M'sieu, I should not be leaving my mother. It is she who has left me. Le bon Dieu has called her away to another place."
Roy gave a glance of sympathy, which he could not well put into words.
"But to the last she had her Jean. She did not die alone, forsaken and desolate. For that I shall be eternally grateful to ces messieurs—that her last days were in peace."
"I remember now, Jean, you said you would like some day to do something for my father and for Captain Ivor. And this is for them. If they could thank you—"
"M'sieu, if I could thank them—!" interjected Jean. Then again they pressed on in silence. Morning had begun to break, and they plodded forward still. Roy had pleaded for another halt, for the boy was almost at the end of his powers, but Jean refused.
"Courage, m'sieu, courage. But a little further, and we will rest. To stop here, if the gendarmes come, would be fatal. See, the day dawns, and soon they will scour the country round. Courage! A little further yet."
"All right," panted Roy, dragging along his leaden-weighted limbs. "Shall we hide all day?"
"Mais, oui. A little cottage in a wood belongs to a friend of mine, and he has made ready for us. Once there, all will be well. The danger now increases each minute. Can m'sieu increase his speed? M'sieu will soon be able to rest. At nightfall we shall start again, refreshed."
"Will you come with me still? Jean, you are a good fellow!" gasped Roy.
"If I can see m'sieu safe off French ground, then I will let ces messieurs at Verdun know, and it will gladden their hearts."
A few minutes later they entered a wood, and Jean's look of anxiety lessened as the trees closed around them. He consented to a slight relaxation of their speed, though reiterating his "Courage, m'sieu! The worst is done."
CHAPTER XXVIII
MOST FRIENDLY OF FRENCHMEN
"BUT what made you think of coming to Bitche at all?" asked Roy presently, as he struggled on.
"M'sieu will not ask too many questions? No one at Bitche knew that I had a friend there."
"You don't think I'd betray you, Jean—even if we were retaken? And I hope I'm not going to be."
"The good God grant it, m'sieu."
"How did you know that I was there? Who told you?"
"M'sieu, it was a young lady, not English, who lives under the same roof with m'sieu's friends."
"Mademoiselle de St. Roques?"
"M'sieu has the name—precisely. It was at St. Mihiel."
"I know. We drove there once to see the place."
"Naturellement. St. Mihiel is but seven leagues from Verdun. Mademoiselle de St. Roques had some affair in the place, and she was there for a few days. We chanced to meet—it matters not how,—and when I learned that she was from Verdun, I asked her had she seen M. le Colonel and the tall M. le Capitaine, and the young gentleman with them. Then I found that she knew them all well. And she told me of m'sieu being at Bitche, and the great trouble that it was to those others."
"Did she say—were they all well, Jean?"
Jean answered this question reservedly. M. le Capitaine had been ill, but Mademoiselle had said that it would doubtless make him well, could he but hear good news of the young gentleman at Bitche. Then Jean had offered to go himself to Bitche, and to find out what he might. And the good demoiselle had emptied her pocket of all the money that she had, to enable Jean to go the more quickly.
"And I thought, m'sieu, if I could but compass m'sieu's escape from that terrible Bitche, and might take word that he had gone to England, then Monsieur le Capitaine would have a light heart, and would grow strong once more."
"Jean, you're the best fellow that ever was! Won't they be glad!" panted Roy.
And at length their destination was reached.
On the edge of a little clearing, in the centre of the wood, stood a small charcoal-burner's cottage, built of stone. Near behind it might be seen a good-sized outhouse or woodhouse; and on one side was the pile of slowly burning charcoal. Round and about were heaps of unsightly rubbish and of blackened moss.
Nobody seemed to be at hand. Jean opened the door, and when they were within he bolted it. Roy flung himself upon a small bench, glad to get his breath; while Jean went to a corner, struck a light with flint and steel, and made a dip to burn. The one window was closely shuttered.
"Are we to stop here?" asked Roy. "But if the gendarmes come?"
"We must circumvent them, m'sieu."
Jean produced a blouse, such as would be worn by a French labouring lad, with shirt and trousers to match. "M'sieu must change his clothes."
"All right," assented Roy. He stood up, though the cottage was swimming and his ears were buzzing with fatigue, and promptly divested himself of what he wore, to assume a different guise. Jean then brought a small bottle of dark liquid, which he mixed with water, and dyed Roy's hair and eyebrows, thereby altering his look to such an extent that his own mother might have passed him by. Roy laughed so much under this operation as to discompose the operator.
"Tenez, m'sieu! Taisez-vous donc, s'il vous plait! I assure monsieur it is no matter for laughter."
"If you knew what it was to be free again, you'd laugh too," declared Roy. His merriment passed into a yawn. "But I'm awfully sleepy."
"Monsieur is hungry too."
Monsieur undoubtedly was, though the craving to lie down was the stronger sensation. Jean handed him a hunch of bread and cheese and a glass of milk; and while Roy was busy with the same, he proceeded to array himself in holiday costume. He donned an old and shabby but once gorgeous coat, with stand-up collar and gay buttons, which, as he informed Roy, had many long years before been the best holiday coat of his esteemed grandfather.
"I go to the wedding of my niece," he remarked, with so much satisfaction that, for a moment, Roy really thought he meant it. "Does monsieur perceive? And monsieur will be the boy Joseph, who goes with me in the little cart."
"But where is the cart?"
"All in good time, m'sieu."
Jean rolled the discarded clothes into a bundle, with which he disappeared. Roy conjectured that he might have buried it in the bushes or under heaps of black rubbish outside. Jean then led him into the outhouse, which was more than two-thirds full of heavy logs and fagots of wood—the winter supply, piled together.
"Am I to get underneath all that, Jean?"
"Oui, m'sieu. The gendarmes will not readily find you there. I meanwhile betake myself to the soupente."
The soupente in a French cottage is a kind of upper cupboard, a small corner cut off from the one room, near the ceiling, descending only half-way to the ground, and reached by a ladder.
"And if they find you there?"
"M'sieu, they will not know me in this dress. See—I am not the Jean who chopped wood at Bitche. And I hope then to draw their attention from m'sieu."
Roy wrung his hand. "I don't know what makes you so good to me," the boy said huskily.
"It is not difficult to tell m'sieu why." Jean looked abstractedly at the roof of the wood-hut. "It is for the sake of that kind M. le Capitaine, who would not leave my mother unhappy. Does m'sieu remember how M. le Capitaine regarded my mother that day?"
Roy remembered, and understood.
Jean hauled aside logs and masses of wood, making a little cave far back, where Roy could creep in and lie close to the wall. Jean wrapped round him an old coat, for warmth, and, when he had laid himself down, threw light black rubbish over him as an additional security. After which he carefully heaped up anew the logs and fagots, till not the faintest sign remained of any human being beneath.
"M'sieu must lie still," Jean said, when he had effaced every token that the wood-pile had been disturbed. "On no account must m'sieu move or speak. If by chance I should have to go away, m'sieu must wait till nightfall, when the cart will come to take m'sieu on his way."
"But, I say, Jean, you mustn't get into trouble for me," called Roy, his voice sounding muffled.
"Bien, m'sieu. Trust Jean to do his best. Can m'sieu breathe?"
"Rather stuffy, but it's all right."
"Au revoir, m'sieu. I go to the soupente."
Then silence. Jean returned to the cottage, where he rinsed the basin which had been used for dyeing purposes, put things straight, unbolted the front door, and climbed into the soupente, drawing the ladder after him. There he laid himself flat, and was, or pretended to be, sound asleep.
Roy's sleep was no pretence. Despite his hard bed and the stuffiness of the air which he had to breathe, despite fear of gendarmes and risks of discovery, he forgot himself for a couple of hours.
Something roused him then. In a moment he was wide awake, his heart thumping unpleasantly against his side. The gendarmes had come!
Roy could see nothing; he could only hear; and he heard more than might have been expected from his position. The men made a good deal of noise, after the manner of gendarmes; and Roy's senses were quickened by the exigency of the moment.
First they went into the cottage, finding the door on the latch, which fact allayed their suspicions, as Jean had intended. They marched round the room, knocking things about a little; and one of them took a good look at the soupente. But not seeing the ladder, and not really suspecting the fugitives of being here, he did not trouble himself further.
Then they walked to the bûcher. One gendarme knocked down a few fagots, and another pulled at a log. To Roy it sounded as if they were making their way into where he lay. But after what he felt to be a century of suspense, they left the outhouse. He heard them mount their horses and trot off.
"Safe!" murmured Roy, and in his heart was a fervent "Thank God!"
Presently he dropped asleep again, and knew no more for hours. When he woke he had the consciousness, which one often has after long sleep, of a considerable time having passed; yet whether it was now morning or afternoon or evening he could not tell. To sleep more was not possible. He was growing frightfully weary of his constrained position. A voice at length sounded near.
"M'sieu!"
"All right," called Roy.
"Can m'sieu wait a little longer? It is not safe to move till after dark."
"I'll wait, Jean. Only, as soon as you can, please."
The wisdom of Jean's caution became evident. Before darkness settled down, the same party of gendarmes galloped up once more. As before, they walked through cottage and shed, kicking the furniture about, knocking down some logs, and using rough language about the escaped prisoner, which boded no gentle treatment for Roy, should he fall into their clutches. But the search was perfunctory, and soon they vanished, silence following their departure.
One more hour Roy had to endure. Then came the welcome sound of Jean removing the wood-piles.
"Can m'sieu stand?"
Roy crept out, made the attempt, and fell flat. Jean pulled him up, and held him on his feet.
"I'm only stiff," declared Roy. "They won't come again now, I suppose. And they didn't find you?"
"Non, m'sieu. I was in the wood this last time."
"It is night, I declare! Now I can walk," and Roy managed to reach the cottage on his own limbs. "What a long day it has been! But as if that mattered—as if anything mattered—only to get away safely! Jean, you are a good fellow. Is this for me to eat? I'm as hungry as a bear. Jean, I shall always think better of Frenchmen for your sake."
"Yet m'sieu will doubtless fight us one day."
"I shall fight Buonaparte. Not the French nation. I like some of your people awfully. Lots of French have been as good and kind to us détenus as possible. Only I don't like Boney."
"Cependant, m'sieu, the Army of the Emperor is made of French soldiers."
"Can't help that," retorted Roy. "And they can't help it either, poor fellows! I say, this cheese is uncommonly good. How did you manage to hide it from the gendarmes? Jean, were you long at Bitche? Tell me all about it."
Jean evidently preferred not to enter into details. It was better for Roy's own sake that he should not know too much.
It appeared, however, that on Jean's arrival at Bitche he had found one of the gendarmes to be an old acquaintance; and through this man he had obtained a temporary post in the fortress. A man who did rough work, such as chopping and carrying wood, had fallen ill; and Jean was allowed to undertake his duties.
This gave him an opportunity to study the fortress, to make himself acquainted with the surrounding country, and to mature his plans. How far his friend had a hand in the matter, he did not reveal. He had held carefully aloof from Roy himself, till matters were ripe. Then he contrived to be sent into the yard, just at the right time. The rest Roy knew.
"Why was I put into that cell?" asked Roy.
"M'sieu, there were doubtless reasons. It is sometimes best that one should not understand everything," meditatively observed Jean. "What if—perhaps—somebody had known of the intended escape, and had tried by such means to save m'sieu from danger?"
"Was it you, Jean?"
"Non, m'sieu." But whether Jean spoke the truth, whether he might or might not have had a hand in the wirepulling which had led to that event, Roy could not know. He had but to be thankful that he was free.
After darkness had some time set in, a rough little cart, drawn by a rough little pony, and driven by a charcoal-burner, came to the door. Then he and Jean started, taking with them a small lantern.
The next stage of the journey meant quicker and easier advance than that of the previous night. The pony was strong and willing; and all through the hours of darkness they were getting further and further away from Bitche. By dawn of day the fear of pursuit was immensely lessened. Even if the gendarmes had overtaken them, they would hardly have suspected the odd figure in a smart old coat and ancient cocked hat to be the temporary wood-chopper at Bitche, or the black-haired boy in a rough blouse to be their prisoner, Roy Baron.
For greater safety, both that day and next, they found a retired spot in which to hide, letting the pony loose to browse on some rough ground, or putting up it and the cart at a wayside inn, and calling there later. One way and another the dreaded pursuit was eluded; and as day after day went by, Roy felt himself indeed nearer home.
CHAPTER XXIX
THE DEAR OLD COUNTRY
THE month of April, 1808, saw Polly and Molly again in London; not this time for the enjoyment of gay assemblies. Old Mrs. Fairbank, after many months of gradual failure, had passed away in an acute attack of bronchitis; and Mrs. Bryce immediately offered a home to the two girls, until at least it might be possible to know the wishes of Colonel Baron and his wife. Though Mr. Bryce, as usual, only had to assent to his "better half's" proposition, he did so with a heartiness not shown towards every wish of hers.
So the Bath house, with its quaint furniture, was let; and in the end of March, after a few weeks given to necessary arrangements, the two girls found themselves once more under Mr. and Mrs. Bryce's hospitable roof.
A double bedroom, opening into a small sitting-room or boudoir, was given to them; and here they loved to pass much of their time. Mrs. Bryce was now in a full swing of engagements; and she would greatly have liked to take Polly with her wherever she went, despite the recent death of Polly's grandmother, but for Polly's resistance.
"Well, well, well, my dear; all in good time," Mrs. Bryce said, after some discussion. "To be sure, the old lady was tolerable close related, and there's no doubt your feelings does you credit. But I can assure you, 'tis time you was settled in life, with a husband of your own, and a ménage, and a suitable equipage, and the rest of it. And as for Captain Ivor—I protest I've no sort of Patience with the man. Why, 'tis eighteen months at the least since ever a word reached us of Captain Ivor and his doings. And by this time there's no sort of question that he's forgot all about you, and has found himself a wife, and belike he's been married this year past and more. So 'tis good time you too should forget all about him."
Polly was thinking over these utterances, as she sat before the drawing-room fire, robed in white muslin, with black sash and ribbons. In the first decade of the nineteenth century, muslin was counted to be the correct dress for a girl, morning and noon and evening, summer and winter, no matter what the weather might be. Polly looked rather blue and chilly, with her bare arms and shoulders, the latter covered but lightly with a thin black crape scarf.
She was as pretty as ever; but her colouring was less brilliant than of old, while the sweet eyes held a touch of melancholy. Molly, dressed to match, though with white ribbons instead of black, was busily reading to herself on the other side of the fireplace.
It was a cold April afternoon, five o'clock dinner being over. Mr. and Mrs. Bryce were out on one of their innumerable engagements. Mr. Bryce, poor man, would greatly have preferred a quiet evening at home with the girls to the most brilliant gathering; but his relentless wife dragged him in her wake, an unwilling and helpless victim, to dinner-parties, balls, crushes, routs, innumerable.
"Molly, the Admiral is at home again. 'Tis a fit of the gout, Mrs. Peirce tells me. I saw her to-day; and she is vexed, for it makes him roar like a wild beast. And though 'tis doubtless true, as the faculty say, that the gout sets a man up again, yet the setting up is by no means pleasant. And Mrs. Peirce and the Admiral are sorely troubled about Will; for since he was taken prisoner, all that long while ago, never a word has reached them about him. O this weary war!"
Molly murmured one or two indistinct responses to the early part of Polly's speech. The last four words made her look up. Then she stepped across, kissed Polly's brow tenderly, and went back to her seat.
"What is it you are reading, Molly?"
"The 'Edinburgh Review' for this month. An article on 'Marmion.' And Polly—would you think it?—the Editor has no appreciation for our great poet's genius! No; none whatever. He writes—he writes as if Mr. Scott were but a common man, like any other sort of scribbler—and not the mighty world-wide genius that he is."
"Would that be a paper by Mr. Jeffrey? But he knows Mr. Scott. The two are friends. Can he find it in his heart to blame his friend? And what may he see to find fault with?"
"What indeed?" echoed eager Molly. "Do but hear? He says it is 'a good deal longer' than the last poem—'more ambitious,' with 'greater faults' and 'greater beauties,' 'less sweetness,' 'more vehemence,' 'redundancy,' and a 'general tone of spirit and animation, unchecked by timidity or affectation, and unchastened by any great delicacy of taste or elegance of fancy.' Oh!" cried indignant Molly, "to think that any critic can be so blinded by prejudice! There have been poets, 'tis true, before this; but none, sure, to compare with the author of 'Marmion!' Why, what were Homer and Milton—what are those old plays by Mr. William Shakespeare, which Mr. Bryce loves to read—compared with the poetical writings of Mr. Scott? I have a mind never to read the 'Edinburgh Review' again." Molly flung it to the ground.
"A young man desires to speak with Miss Baron." The butler's solemn voice came as a surprise.
"His name, Drake?" asked Polly.
"The young man refuses to give his name, Miss."
"Then what does he want?"
"He says that Miss Baron will know him. He—in fact he declines to be refused, Miss. But if it is your wish that he be sent away—"
"You must make him say what he wants, Drake."
"Is he a gentleman?" asked Molly.
"He—" and a pause—"is extremely shabby, Miss."
"What are we to do, Polly?"
"If Miss Keene desires that he should—"
Drake advanced no further. Somebody from behind put him on one side, with a gentle shove, and walked past him, straight into the room.
Drake was indignant, yet not so indignant as he ought to have been. A certain vague influence, which he afterwards declared to have been an instinctive knowledge of the truth, withheld him from any show of wrath. The young man came quickly nearer to where the two girls sat. He was of good medium height, with a boyish look; and he wore a rough travel-stained coat, ill-made and ill-fitting. His boots were cut through, his trousers were soiled, his hair was of an odd mottled colour, as if it had once been dark and were turning fair. But—
"You ask to know what I want," he said, in a half-laughing voice. A pair of large grey eyes were turned full upon them both. "I want—Molly!"
Molly did not shriek, did not even exclaim. It was Polly who cried out in astonishment; not Molly. Nor did Molly hesitate for one quarter of a second. As she met Roy's glance, she was in his arms, clinging to him in a voiceless rapture. Neither of the two spoke. Roy stood perfectly still, his head bent low over the faithful little sister, who held him fast in a vehement clutch of joy. Drake came some steps nearer, understanding, yet scarcely able to believe what his own sight told him. Polly stood gazing at the pair, her eyes full of tears.
"I'm not fit to be touched," Roy said at length, in an odd husky voice. "Don't, Molly! I shall spoil your nice things. I've been on the tramp."
She half loosened him, then returned to the charge with another passionate clasp; and Polly's tears now were running down her cheeks. Roy broke into an odd hard sound, not far removed from a sob, though he tried to turn it into a laugh; and he kissed and kissed again the top of Molly's head. Her face was out of reach, buried in his rough coat.
Polly pulled one of Molly's hands, trying to wrench asunder that frantic hold.
"Dear Molly, you must not. Roy is tired and hungry. Try to think of him. He wants food. And he has not said one word to me yet." Polly dashed aside her tears, trying to smile. "How did you get away from Verdun, Roy?"
"Not Verdun. Didn't you know I'd been sent to Bitche last spring?"
"No. Were you really? Bitche! Isn't that where prisoners are said to be so badly treated? O we hear so little!" and a sigh came from Polly's heart, while Molly, having pulled Roy into a chair, knelt by his side, gazing with eyes of rapt delight into his face.
"Rather! yes. I got away from there. I'll tell you all about it presently. It's all right, now I'm back in old England. Do you know, when first I got on shore, I just went down on my knees, and kissed the ground. Bitche is an awful place,—couldn't well be worse. Drake, you didn't know me. For shame! But I was sure Miss Molly would. I knew she'd never be taken in. Eh, Molly?"
"I don't know as I didn't, sir, for all you're so growed and altered. I couldn't turn you away, and that's a fact, though it seemed like as if I'd ought. And I did feel queer-like, and no mistake, when I see you a-looking at me, sir; only begging your pardon, sir, you did speak so short—"
"I'm sorry; but I didn't mean to be found out by anybody first, except by Miss Molly. Dear little Molly!" as she stooped to kiss the back of his brown hand. "No, no, you mustn't do that. I say, Drake, I wonder if you can find anything respectable for me to wear. These things were given me at a farmhouse in France, and they were old to begin with. And I've had to get to London on the tramp, because I'd no money, though people have given me many a lift, and shelter as well. But couldn't you make me look decent, before Mr. and Mrs. Bryce come home?"
Drake made no difficulty about the matter, and he and Roy, after a few more explanations, went off together. Roy had seen in an old newspaper, since landing on the east coast, the mention of Mrs. Fairbank's death; and he had at once decided to find his way straight to the house of Mr. Bryce, secure of learning what might have become of Polly and Molly. He had hardly felt surprise, on arrival, to learn that both the girls were there. Another sadder duty would lie before him soon—to see Admiral and Mrs. Peirce, and to tell them the story of little Will. But his first aim had been to reach Molly.
As the two disappeared, Molly flung herself on the rug, with her face on Polly's knees.
"To think that I have my own Roy again!" she whispered.
"Dear Molly, 'tis something indeed to be thankful for!" A tear splashed on Molly's cheek. She looked up with startled eyes.
"Ah, I forgot! If Denham could but have come with Roy! Then we should both be happy, we should want nothing. Except—for my papa and my mamma to return."