It is a moonless November night, and a fog drifting down from the _Pas
de Calais_ envelopes Boulogne in its damp, clammy embrace. The great
cathedral clock is tolling twelve midnight, and the streets are
deserted, the last wooden-heeled _soulier_ having ceased clattering over
their cobble-stone pavements. If a foot passenger be abroad he is some
belated individual groping his way home from the _Cafe de billars_ he
frequents, or the _Cercle_ to which he belongs. Even the _sergens de
ville_ are scarcer than usual; those seen being huddled up under the
shelter of friendly porches, while the invisible ones are making
themselves yet more snug inside _cabarets_, whose openness beyond
licensed hours they wink at in return for the accommodation afforded.
It is, in truth, a most disagreeable night: cold as dark, for the fog
has frost in it. For all, there are three men in the streets of
Boulogne who regard neither its chillness nor obscurity. Instead, this
last is just what they desire, and for days past have been waiting for.
They who thus delight in darkness are Major Mahon, Captain Ryecroft, and
the waterman, Wingate. Not because they have thoughts of doing evil,
for their purpose is of the very opposite character--to release a
captive from captivity. The night has arrived when, in accordance with
the promise made on that sheet of paper so dexterously pitched into her
cloister, the Soeur Marie is to see friends in front of her window.
They are the friends; about to attempt taking her out of it.
They are not going blindly about the thing. Unlikely old campaigners as
Mahon and Ryecroft would. During the interval since that warning
summons was sent in, they have made thorough reconnaissance of the
ground, taken stock of the convent's precincts and surroundings; in
short, considered every circumstance of difficulty and danger. They are
therefore prepared with all the means and appliances for effecting their
design.
Just as the last stroke of the clock ceases its booming reverberation,
they issue forth from Mahon's house; and, turning up the Rue
Tintelleries, strike along a narrower street, which leads on toward the
ancient _cite_.
The two officers walk arm in arm, Ryecroft, stranger to the place,
needing guidance; while the boatman goes behind, with that carried
aslant his shoulder, which, were it on the banks of the Wye, might be
taken for a pair of oars. It is nevertheless a thing altogether
different--a light ladder; though were it hundreds weight he would
neither stagger nor groan under it. The errand he is upon knits his
sinews, giving him the strength of a giant.
They proceed with extreme caution, all three silent as spectres. When
any sound comes to their ears, as the shutting to of a door, or distant
footfall upon the ill-paved _trottoirs_, they make instant stop, and
stand listening--speech passing among themselves only in whispers. But
as these interruptions are few, they make fair progress; and, in less
than twenty minutes after leaving the Major's house, they have reached
the spot where the real action is to commence. This is in the narrow
lane which runs along: the _enceinte_ of the convent at back; a
thoroughfare little used even in daytime, but after night solitary as a
desert, and on this especial night dark as dungeon itself.
They know the _allee_ well; have traversed it scores of times within the
last few days, as nights, and could go through it blindfold. And they
also know the enclosure wall, with its exact height, just that of the
cloister window beyond, and a little less than their ladder, which has
been selected with an eye to dimensions.
While its bearer is easing it off his shoulders, and planting it firmly
in place, a short whispered dialogue occurs between the other two, the
Major saying--
"We won't all three be needed for the work inside. One of us may remain
here--nay, must! Those _sergens de ville_ might be prowling about, or
some of the convent people themselves: in which case we'll need warning
before we dare venture back over the wall. If caught on the top of it,
the petticoats obstructing--aye, or without them--'twould go ill with
us."
"Quite true," assents the Captain. "Which of us do you propose staying
here? Jack?"
"Yes, certainly. And for more reasons than one. Excited as he is now,
once getting his old flame into his arms he'd be all on fire--perhaps
with noise enough to awake the whole sleeping sisterhood, and bring them
clamouring around us, like crows about an owl, that had intruded into
the rookery. Besides, there's a staff of male servants--for they have
such--half a score of stout fellows, who'd show fight. A big bell, too,
by ringing which they can rouse the town. Therefore, master Jack _must_
remain here. You tell him he must."
Jack is told, with reasons given, though not exactly the real ones.
Endorsing them, the Major says--
"Don't be so impatient, my good fellow! It will make but a few seconds'
difference; and then you'll have your girl by your side, sure. Whereas,
acting inconsiderately, you may never set eyes on her. The fight in the
front will be easy. Our greatest danger's from behind; and you can do
better in every way, as for yourself, by keeping the rear guard."
He thus counselled is convinced: and, though much disliking it, yields
prompt obedience. How could he otherwise? He is in the hands of men
his superiors in rank as experience. And is it not for him they are
there; risking liberty--it may be life?
Having promised to keep his impulsiveness in check, he is instructed
what to do. Simply to lie concealed under the shadow of the wall, and
should any one be outside when he hears a low whistle, he is _not_ to
reply to it.
The signal so arranged, Mahon and Ryecroft mount over the wall, taking
the ladder along with them, and leaving the waterman to reflect, in
nervous anxiety, how near his Mary is, and yet how far off she still may
be!
Once inside the garden, the other two strike off along a walk leading in
the direction of the spot, which is their objective point. They go as
if every grain of sand pressed by their feet had a friend's life in it.
The very cats of the Convent could not traverse its grounds more
silently.
Their caution is rewarded; for they arrive at the cloister sought,
without interruption, to see its casement open, with a pale face in it--
a picture of Madonna on a back ground of black, through the white film
looking as if it were veiled.
But though dense the fog, it does not hinder them from perceiving, that
the expression of that face is one of expectancy; nor her from
recognising them as the friends who were to be under the window. With
that voice from the Wyeside still echoing in her ears, she sees her
deliverers at hand! They have indeed come.
A woman of weak nerves would under the circumstances be excited--
possibly cry out. But Soeur Marie is not such; and without uttering a
word, even the slightest ejaculation, she stands still, and patiently,
waits while a wrench is applied to the rotten bar of iron, soon snapping
it from its support, as though it were but a stick of macaroni.
It is Ryecroft who performs this burglarious feat, and into his arms she
delivers herself, to be conducted down the ladder; which is done without
as yet a word having been exchanged between them.
Only after reaching the ground, and there is some feeling of safety, he
whispers to her:--
"Keep up your courage, Mary! Your Jack is waiting for you outside the
wall. Here, take my hand--"
"Mary! My Jack! And you--you--" Her voice becomes inaudible, and she
totters back against the wall!
"She's swooning--has fainted!" mutters the Major; which Ryecroft already
knows, having stretched out his arms, and caught her as she is sinking
to the earth.
"It's the sudden change into the open air," he says. "We must carry
her, Major. You go ahead with the ladder, I can manage the girl
myself."
While speaking he lifts the unconscious form, and bears it away. No
light weight either, but to strength as his, only a feather.
The Major going in advance with the ladder guides him through the mist;
and in a few seconds they reach the outer wall, Mahon giving a low
whistle as he approachs. It is almost instantly answered by another
from the outside, telling them the coast is clear.
And in three minutes after they are also on the outside, the girl still
resting in Ryecroft's arms. The waterman wishes to relieve him,
agonised by the thought that his sweetheart, who has passed unscathed,
as it were, through the very gates of death, may after all be dead!
He urges it; but Mahon, knowing the danger of delay, forbids any
sentimental interference, commanding Jack to re-shoulder the ladder and
follow as before.
Then striking off in Indian file, the Major first, the Captain with his
burden in the centre, the boatman bringing up behind, they retrace their
steps towards the Rue Tintelleries.
If Ryecroft but knew who he is carrying, he would bear her, if not more
tenderly, with far different emotions, and keener solicitude about her
recovery from that swoon.
It is only after she is out of his arms; and lying upon a couch in Major
Mahon's house--the hood drawn back and the light shining on her face--
that he experiences a thrill, strange and wild as ever felt by mortal
man! No wonder--seeing it is Gwendoline Wynn!
"Gwen!" he exclaims, in a very ecstasy of joy, as her pulsing breast and
opened eyes tell of returned consciousness.
"Vivian!" is the murmured rejoinder, their lips meeting in delirious
contact. Poor Jack Wingate!
Volume Three, Chapter XXIV.