CHAPTER XLII
LUCILLE'S APPEAL
JACK'S uneasiness grew as days went by. Denham was certainly in a condition by no means satisfactory. This last heavy blow, the death of his adored Chief—of the man who had been to him as a guiding star from boyhood—seemed to have shaken his hold on life, and the old courage and energy were gone. Though he struggled on, it was in a listless fashion.
Even the assurance as to Polly's constancy could not arouse him. The lassitude which oppressed him was unconquerable.
"It is so much the worse for her," he said dejectedly to Jack. "If she could forget me, she at least might be happy. She is wasting the best years of her life in this miserable waiting. I may be out here another ten years. I may never go home."
"You don't wish her to forget you, my dear fellow?"
"For her sake I could be glad. Not, of course, for my own."
"Fact is, there's no manner of use in expecting you to take reasonable views of things, while your head is in this state," declared Jack.
But he became so troubled that he confided his cares to Lucille. He could not worry the Colonel or Mrs. Baron, who were anxious enough already.
"I'm not at all happy about him, and that's the solemn truth," Jack declared confidentially, a fortnight or so after his arrival. "I don't like the look in his eyes, or here," drawing a finger across his brow. "And as for strength—just see him this afternoon! He's utterly floored by that stroll on the ramparts. Why, in old days he'd do his twenty or thirty miles at a stretch, and get back as fresh as he started. He didn't know what it was to be done up."
Lucille had not the least idea why, at this point, she should find herself to be confiding to Jack a secret which she had told to nobody else. She and he were becoming extremely good friends. Jack had taken to Lucille on the spot, when they were first introduced, and the feeling was returned. Still, Lucille had not meant to let anybody know what she had done. Somehow, it slipped out.
She had long wondered whether it might not be possible to obtain leave for Denham to return home. Some few among the détenus had been permitted by the Emperor to do so, under exceptional circumstances. And Captain Ivor was a soldier. It was well known that, if Napoleon were chivalrous to anybody, he would be so first to a soldier. He was always harder upon civilians.
At the Emperor's court an old friend of hers moved—one who had been formerly a Royalist, and who now for many years had attached himself to the fortunes of Buonaparte. Lucille had found it hard to pardon this change of front in her old friend—more strictly her parents' friend—and intercourse between the two had been almost entirely dropped. Yet Lucille had heard of him from time to time; and she knew he was not one to forget the past—the more so in her case, since that past included a debt of gratitude from him to Lucille's father.
It had one day occurred to her that she might write to this friend, explaining about Captain Ivor's failing health, and asking him to intercede with the Emperor for leave for Ivor to go home. Lucille did not tell Jack how many days she had held out against the notion. Not for Denham's sake, but for her own. He had been so long the main centre of thought in her quiet existence, that she could hardly now picture life at Verdun without him. Not that she was exactly in love with Ivor, because from the beginning she had known him to belong to Polly; and though she had been in danger of caring for him a great deal too much, she had fought against the tendency. But she was very much his friend.
So she hesitated, till one day the selfishness of her own conduct broke upon her, awakened by some fresh view of his altered looks. Then at once she acted. She wrote to the friend, putting the matter before him, frankly stating her own belief that Ivor was in point of fact slowly dying of captivity, and entreating him, in memory of old days, to interest himself in the matter, and if possible to get permission for Ivor's return to England.
The friend—whose name Lucille did not mention to Jack—had answered her letter. He had written kindly, cordially,—promising to take an opportunity, sooner or later, to lay the matter before the Emperor. He might or might not meet with success; but at least Mademoiselle de St. Roques could depend upon him to do his best for Captain Ivor.
"And you think there is the smallest chance?" Jack said incredulously.
"I cannot tell. There is no certainty, none! But until I hear from my friend, I will not give up hope. You will not say one word to the Colonel or to Mrs. Baron—least of all to Captain Ivor?"
"Trust me! Never do to raise his hopes for nothing." Jack himself had not the least expectation of success.
As a matter of course, Jack had taken up his abode under the same roof with the Barons. Roy's former room was given to him, and he made a markedly cheerful addition to the family circle.
Some ten days later they were one evening all together, after dinner. Jack was dictating a letter to Molly, having pressed Lucille into his service as amanuensis. The Colonel was reading; his wife was working; and Denham for an hour past had not stirred or spoken. They all knew what this meant, and mercifully left him alone. Jack's glance wandered often towards the motionless figure in the sofa-corner, and in the midst of his dictation he paused to murmur, "Head as bad as ever?"
"Oui," Lucille said with a sigh. "All day; and now he is quite 'done.' It is always so. What am I to write next? Ah—I am called. Somebody wants a word. Will you excuse me?"
Jack amused himself during her absence by scrawling caricatures with his left hand upon the unfinished sheet. Then Lucille came swiftly in, running, as if with joy; while her eyes were full of tears. Her face seemed to shine, and a suppressed sob could be heard in her voice, as she panted—
"Something for Captain Ivor!"
Denham looked up slowly as she came to his side, and though he received the packet from her hand, he would have put it aside without attention.
"Ouvrez-le! Ouvrez-le, vîte!" she urged impatiently.
"Who brought it?"
"A gentleman, travelling from Paris. Ouvrez-le!"
Denham roused himself with difficulty to obey. "A passport!" he said, with listless surprise, and a slight laugh. "Not the passport for Roy, surely! Rather late in the day."
"But read—read!" implored Lucille, and he made an effort to do so. Then a rush of colour came, and he looked at Lucille, a strange gleam in his eyes.
"This—what does it mean?"
"It means that you are free! Free to go home!"
From the others broke a chorus of exclamations.
"'Au nom de Napoléon!' It must be right." Ivor spoke in a bewildered tone. "But what can have made him choose me?"
"Are you not glad?"
"Glad!" The word was too absurdly inadequate. He walked across to Colonel Baron.
"Will you look at this, sir? Tell me if I understand it rightly."
Colonel Baron complied, then passed the papers on to his wife and Jack, while he grasped Ivor's hand.
"I congratulate you with all my heart," he said. "Nothing could have given me greater delight. For your sake—not for ours."
"But to leave you here still!"
"Don't think of that. Your duty is to go."
"What are the conditions? I can't read to-day."
"Not to bear arms against France for twelve months from the date of your reaching England, unless an exchange is arranged sooner. It will not be, of course. There is no exchange for détenus. That means that for one year you will still be a prisoner on parole, only in England. It will take you some months to grow strong enough for fighting."
"I am strong already," was the answer, and even in those few minutes it was remarkable how his face had changed, gaining a healthier tint, and losing its languor, while the very hollows seemed to be filling up. "One year from the day I arrive in England! Then I must be off at once—not lose a day."
"Next week," suggested Jack.
"To-morrow. But what can have induced the Emperor to free me? Why me, more than any other détenu?"
"Ask Mademoiselle de St. Roques," said Jack, and this brought upon Lucille a flood of questions. She related simply what she had done; not specifying, as she had specified to Jack, the precise manner of description given of Ivor's health.
Denham lifted her hand to his lips. "It is you whom I have to thank, then," he said, much moved. "But no thanks could repay what you have done. I can never forget this debt."
One grey shadow lay on Ivor's happiness, of which Jack alone was allowed a glimpse, when the two were together, late at night. "If it had but been to serve once more under him!" broke from Denham, in a tone which Jack too well understood. The sorrow of that loss, to those who had known John Moore personally, could end only with life itself.
CHAPTER XLIII
THE RELEASE OF ONE
RAPID travelling, ninety years ago, was a comparative term. Ivor performed the journey as fast as relays of horses could convey a post-chaise to the coast, and as quickly as contrary winds would allow him to cross the Channel. Now that he was actually on the road to Polly, each hour's delay became all but insupportable.
Six long years since he had said good-bye to Polly, for one fortnight! Would she be altered, as much as he felt that he himself was altered?
It was a cold day, late in spring, when he found himself at the front door of the Bryces' comfortable mansion. The old butler opened to Denham, as once before to Roy. This time Drake was not taken in. One glance, and his face changed.
"Sir!"
"You know me? I hardly thought you would." Ivor grasped kindly the old retainer's hand. "I am taking you all by surprise."
"It is a surprise, indeed, sir! And I'm heartily glad for to see you again. Not but what you ain't lookin' as you should, sir, not by no means. Them furrin' parts haven't suited you, I'm thinkin'."
"Captivity has not suited me. And I have travelled hard and taken little rest. Who is at home?"
"My mistress, sir, is in the drawing-room; and Miss Keene and Miss Baron. I was about to take lights."
"Wait till I have gone in. And, Drake, you can announce me, but don't say my name so that it can be heard."
Drake obeyed to the letter. He threw open the drawing-room door, and mumbled something inaudible. Denham entered, bowing ceremoniously.
"You can bring lights, Drake," said Mrs. Bryce. The room was dark, and the fire had fallen low.
"Yes, ma'am."
"I'm excessive glad to see you, sir," Mrs. Bryce declared cordially, after a hurried whisper to Polly, "Who did he say, my dear?" Then she turned to Ivor with her welcome. "Mr. Bryce is away, I'm sorry to say, but doubtless you can await his return, and Mr. Baron will be in this minute."
Polly was casting shy glances at him. Something in the outline of his figure, dim though the light was, brought Denham to her mind; but it was not until he spoke that her colour changed fast from pink to white and from white to pink.
"I shouldn't be surprised to be informed, sir, that you are but just home from the war?" said Mrs. Bryce.
"I have not been fighting, I regret to say. My turn for that will no doubt come. I have been long a prisoner."
"And you have obtained your release?"
"The Emperor has consented to my return home."
Mrs. Bryce held up both hands.
"That is excessive gracious of him, truly. You are more fortunate than many. Roy Baron was not so well off, and he had to make his escape. But he has been since in the campaign in Portugal and Spain, under our great Commander, Sir John Moore. A truly melancholy story that, sir; yet he died as a soldier would choose to die, covered with glory. And Roy—Mr. Baron, I should say—is now back with us for a little space; and we, his friends, fondly think he has done well. But will you allow me to offer you cake and wine? You have a very weary look." She peered at him, from near at hand. "What can Drake be about not to bring in the lights?" Her hand was on the bell.
Denham was gazing earnestly towards Polly, so earnestly that she could not but return the gaze. A thrill ran through her, for there was no mistaking that voice. Molly took upon herself to put a pointed question.
"Have you come from Verdun, sir, if I might ask?"
"Pray take a seat, sir," Mrs. Bryce was entreating. She might as well have spoken to stone walls.
"I am straight from Verdun," Ivor replied.
"Then, sir, doubtless you will bring messages for us all from the unfortunate prisoners there detained," said Mrs. Bryce, not grasping his identity with one of those prisoners.
Drake at this moment carried in the lights; and Roy, entering too, cried out in astonishment—
"Den! Why, 'tis Den himself! Den, dear fellow!—" nearly wringing Ivor's hands off with the energy of his welcome.
Preoccupied though Ivor could not help being with Polly, his gaze rested with satisfaction upon "his friend Roy." The boy who had left Verdun for the dungeons of Bitche was a man now: broad-shouldered, well-built, soldier-like, frank as ever in manner, yet with something in the young face which told not only of endurance past, but of the sharp touch of sorrow.
"I am glad—more glad than words can say! Little I dreamt who I should find here. And you are free! But how is it? You don't say old Boney has let you off? Of his own free will? How did it happen? Lucille! No! Bravo, Lucille!"
Nobody else had a chance of being heard. Mrs. Bryce exclaimed and talked in vain. Polly and Molly waited, not sorry to see Roy like himself again, which he had scarcely been hitherto since his return. Roy's eager questions had to be answered first.
Then came a change of manner, and a lowered voice. "I shall have no end of things to tell you, Den—yes, I know—" at a slight gesture—"another time." Roy did his best to resume a bright manner. "You've seen accounts, of course. That charge of the Reserve through the valley wasn't bad—yes, when I got my wound. It's pretty nearly right now. The column tried to turn our flank, you know, and we did just knock 'em into a cocked hat, and no mistake. The column simply ceased to exist."
So much Roy poured out impulsively. Then he stopped. A consciousness had broken upon him of something unsatisfactory. Denham's face was to him as an open book, and he saw written there several things. One thing that he saw made him turn sharply to Polly, as she stood a little way off, prettily composed. Was this the meeting of the two, after six years of enforced separation?
Roy recalled his talk with Polly on his return from Bitche, and in a flash he read the true state of affairs. He looked hard at each in turn.
"Polly, didn't I tell you? He has come back!"
It was necessary for Polly to answer. "Captain Ivor is indeed most fortunate to have obtained his release," she said, adjusting her scarf.
"Fortunate to have obtained his release!" repeated Roy, with slow emphasis.
Then he showed a decision and promptitude worthy of his profession. A gesture ordered Molly to make herself scarce. Seizing Mrs. Bryce by the arm, he dragged away that astonished lady, reserving explanations till they were out of the room. After which he poured forth profuse apologies, but would allow no re-entrance.
And Denham found himself alone with Polly. He stood looking down upon her, with a grave tenderness and questioning. Polly began to tremble.
"We had no expectation of seeing you," she remarked, in a tone of great decorum.
She cast one little glance up.
"Have you travelled hard? You are much fatigued."
"Polly, is all between us as it once was?"
Polly dropped her eyes.
"It is long since we parted," she said; "and very long since any letter has reached me, sir. I cannot tell—how matters may be now. But six years work changes. And I—"
"There are a few matters to be explained," Denham remarked quietly. "But first, may I beg you to read this note from Jack? He exacted from me a promise that I would not fail to give it to you within one half-hour of my arrival. Jack is at Verdun, with Colonel and Mrs. Baron, as you may have heard."
"I did not know that. We heard only that Jack was prisoner. It has been a sad grief to me."
"Will you have his letter now?" asked Denham, in his most courteous tones.
"If you choose, sir."
She moved two or three paces nearer to a candle, to read it. Jack's left-handed hieroglyphics were not to be deciphered quickly. This was what she made out—
"DEAR POLLY,—Denham is going home to you; and he has heard a false tale of your having forgot him. That is why he has not writ to you for so long a time. But I have assured him of your Unchanged Affection, and now I assure you of the same in him. Roy was in the right of the matter. Den has not altered, nor will he alter. But he has gone through much, and has been long ill, and the Death of Our Hero has gone near to break his heart. So do not put on pretty airs, dear Poll, but comfort him, as you know how, for he needs your comfort; and the sooner you and he get married, the better pleased shall I be, for he is in want of you. Be good to him, my dear Polly, and believe me,—Your affectionate brother, JACK KEENE."
Polly came across to where Denham stood.
"Jack tells me of the mistake," she whispered. "And now I understand. He tells me, too, that I am to comfort you."
She held out her hands, and he took them into his strong grasp.
"Sweet Polly," he said, in a voice which shook a little, despite his best efforts—"you wrote to me once a letter, which was signed, 'Yours faithfully—and till death.' That letter I have never parted with since the day it reached me. Not even when I feared that I had indeed cause for doubt. Can you say those words to me once again?"
Polly lifted her head, and looked straight into his eyes. "I am yours, Denham,—always and ever—as long as life shall last," she uttered, very clearly.
* * * * * * *
Twelve months later, Denham stood in the passage of the little London house, which for more than eleven months had been his home and Polly's. He had wasted no time in making her his wife. He had but a year, he urged, and surely the waiting had lasted long enough.
So Mrs. Bryce was obliged to forgo her hopes of a grand and fashionable wedding, to which all the Quality should be invited, for the display of resplendent costumes. Denham was neither in health nor in spirits for such a function; and Polly's one wish was to do what would give him pleasure.
They had been married quietly, less than three weeks after his return; and Polly had done her best to comfort him and to win him back once more to strength.
All that year he had not left her. But now he was free, and duty called him to the Peninsula, where the long struggle was being carried on between Wellesley and the army of Napoleon. The Spaniards with Wellesley, as with Moore, did little at any time, beyond throwing hindrances in the way of the British. Roy and Bob had gone out many months before.
It was hard work for Denham to say good-bye—not only to Polly, with her sweet brave face, but to the tiny boy, with Polly's own eyes of brown velvet, who had come but a very little while before to gladden their home. Denham bent to kiss the tiny sleeper, then turned again to Polly.
"It will not be for long," she whispered. "I may think that, may I not? Peace must surely come some day."
"Not yet, dear heart," he answered; and she knew well that, acutely though he felt leaving her, he yet longed to share the fight with those who strove for England and for freedom, that fight from which he had been so many years debarred.
"Molly will be always here. And she and I will think and talk of you and Roy, every day and every hour. And oh, Denham, if women's prayers may bring victory to men's arms, victory will surely be yours!"
"We shall conquer in the end, please God; and in that way you may truly help us, sweet one," he replied.
Then he took her in his arms and held her very closely. And in another minute he too was gone to the wars, as so many thousands had to go in those stirring days.
It was well that neither he nor she could guess how long a separation might again lie before them. For this was only 1810; and the day which should see Wellington, at the head of his victorious Army, entering France, lay four years ahead.
Four years also had Colonel and Mrs. Baron to possess themselves in patience, before they could again set eyes on their boy—before they might once more clasp in their arms the little Molly whom, in 1803, they had quitted for one fortnight's absence.
Jack remained still at Verdun, and before him too stretched four years of unbroken captivity. But Jack, though often disposed to chafe, yet found something wherewith to pass his time. This became gradually clear to Polly and Molly, through letters received at long intervals. At length came one, in which Jack gave particulars as to Colonel and Mrs. Baron, and as to the greatly improved condition of prisoners at Verdun under the new French Commandant. After which he said—
"If ever this gets to England, it is to inform you that I am proposing shortly to become a married man. Lucille has promised to be my wife."
Molly sat smiling over the notion for a long while. "Jack was sure to marry," she remarked in a philosophic tone. "He is of the sort not to be content without. And you and Denham are exceeding happy, married, dear Polly. But as for me, I have no desire that way. Never shall I care for any man in the whole world as I care for Roy." Then, in words once spoken before, and perhaps often repeated in her own mind since, she added—"And so that matter is for ever settled."
No doubt at the moment Molly honestly meant, or thought she meant, what she said. But the declaration had no sooner passed her lips than she hesitated, and a slight colour rose in her cheeks.
It was merely that she happened just then to think of Bob Monke!
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at the Edinburgh University Press