IN THE YEAR 1807
MORE than eighteen months had dragged past since the day when Denham
Ivor had been summarily despatched to Valenciennes.
Once or twice a letter from him had reached the Barons, but it was
now long since the arrival of the last. Whether Denham remained yet
at Valenciennes was a matter of supposition. For aught that his
friends knew to the contrary, he might have been passed on to the grim
fortress, Bitche, to Sédan, or elsewhere.
One day, in the spring of 1807, Roy stood upon the ramparts, gazing
eagerly towards the nearest town gate. At fifteen he was much the same
as he had been at thirteen; not so much taller as might have been
expected, for he had grown but slowly. He looked as boyish as ever,
with the same curly brown hair, honest grey eyes, and impulsive manner.
Not quite so good-looking, perhaps, as in more childish days, but
attractive enough. Few guessed him to be within three or four months of
his sixteenth birthday. He was often taken for only fourteen.
To some extent habit does and must mean use. Four years out of a boy's
life are a goodly slice of time; and Roy had now been nearly four years
a captive. He might, and not seldom did, chafe and fume. Still, he had
good health and unquenchable spirits; and however impatient he was by
fits and starts, no one could have described him as unhappy. He had
the gift of making the best of things, and a certain breezy spirit of
philosophy stood him in good stead. Hard as it had been to find himself
cut off from Molly for an indefinite period, harder still to lose
Denham, he managed to enjoy life, finding entertainment in everything
and everybody.
"I say! Hallo! There's something going on!" he said aloud.
Roy gazed hard, trying to make out the cause of that gathering throng
round about the gate. Some unusual event seemed to be taking place.
Colonel Baron had gone into a neighbouring street on business, telling
Roy that he would meet him again on the ramparts. But as Roy watched,
the pull became too strong. Something certainly was happening. What
if Colonel Baron had forgotten all about him, and had gone in that
direction to discover what was being done?
Roy could endure himself no longer. He descended to the ground, set off
full tilt, and speedily reached the outskirts of the crowd, running
plump against the Rev. Charles Kinsland, who received the onslaught
with a "Hallo, Roy!"
"I beg your pardon, sir. What's up?" demanded Roy breathlessly.
"A party of détenus back from Valenciennes, I believe," the young
clergyman answered. "There was a report this morning in some quarters
that we might expect them, and it seems to be true. Any friends of
yours, I wonder? There they come through the gate."
Both pressed on, but Roy made the quicker advance, edging himself
through the crowd with dexterity. The thought of Ivor had come up like
a flash of lightning. Not that he expected to see Denham himself—the
chance was too remote, the delight would be too supreme—but some news
of him might be obtained. Somebody who had arrived would certainly
have seen him, have talked with him. Roy might keep up his spirits and
enjoy life, despite partings and deprivations; but no one who could
have known how the boy's heart leaped at the very idea of hearing about
Ivor, would ever have accused him of lack of feeling.
He forced his way to a good position near the gate, and scanned face
after face of the returned wanderers. Many were familiar; but it was
one, not many, that Roy wanted; and though he had resolutely assured
himself that he did not expect, keen disappointment laid hold upon him
when Ivor failed to appear.
Greetings between friends parted for eighteen months were passing
warmly, and the buzz of voices was considerable. Suddenly Roy's glance
fell upon a man standing somewhat apart, leaning against the wall. A
little child lay asleep in his arms, and Roy's first impression was of
a stranger who was awfully tired with the march. He actually gazed full
at the face without recognition, so much was it altered—the features
sharpened into a delicate carving in very pale bronze, like a profile
on some rare old coin, and the dark eyes set in hollows. "Poor fellow!
he does look done!" thought Roy, and he went nearer.
"I say, hadn't you better give me that little thing to hold?"
[Illustration: "I say, hadn't you better give me that little thing to
hold?"]
"Why—Roy!"
The voice, too, had a worn-out intonation, but the smile was not to be
mistaken.
"DEN!—you don't mean to say it's you!"
Their hands met in a prolonged grip.
"You've come back! I am glad!"
"Yes. How are you all?"
"Den—I say—what's wrong with you?"
A man came limping up, in appearance a respectable artisan. He took
the child from Ivor's arms. "Sir, no words o' mine can say what me and
mine owe to you," he muttered, not noticing Roy. "But sure, sir, God'll
reward you."
"I shall be at Colonel Baron's. Come and see me some day—tell me how
you're getting on."
"I will, sir—and thank you kindly for everything."
Ivor remained in the same position, and a hand touched Roy. He turned
to find himself facing the young artist, Hugh Curtis.
"You back too! That's good. And your wife?"
"Wife and baby coming. Didn't you know I had a little one? Well, I
have. Jolly little thing too. They're in a cart with others—thanks to
Captain Ivor—" in a lower tone. "Never mind about us. Get him home—"
with a glance towards Denham. "I've got to find rooms for ourselves,
after I've been to the citadel. Must report myself there first. And
then I shall have to meet my wife."
Roy moved two or three paces away with him.
"I say, tell me—what's been the matter with him? He just looks as if—"
"Hasn't been well for some time, and he was ill a few weeks ago. He has
walked the whole way here from Valenciennes. Got a horse for himself,
and at the last gave it up to young Carey—a poor consumptive young
fellow. Said Carey needed it most. Just like him, you know. And then,
carrying that child for hours yesterday and to-day!"
"What for?"
"Child's father hurt his foot, and could barely get along. And the
little thing cried with everybody except Ivor. You know his way with
children. But he's about used up now. Get him home, and make him rest."
Curtis went on, and Roy touched Denham's arm.
"I'll get a fiacre to drive you up the hill. Stay where you are till I
come back."
He rushed away, and happily was successful in his search. Ivor had
taken his seat, when Major Woodgate walked briskly up.
"Roy—got Ivor? That's right," he said in his quick fashion. "Don't
bring him to the citadel. I'll go and answer for him—and fee the
gendarmes, if needful. Just met Curtis and heard what's been going on.
Done the hundred and fifty miles on foot, I'm told—and ill to begin
with. A piece of Quixotism! I shall come and give you a piece of my
mind, Ivor, another day."
Denham laughed slightly, but made no effort to defend himself, and they
drove off—Roy watching his friend with a rapt gaze.
"Den, what was it for? Why couldn't you ride?"
"I did intend. Somebody else was in more need."
"Couldn't you have had a second horse?"
"No—" with a smile. "The order took every one by surprise. Most of us
were short of cash."
Roy thought of what Curtis had said. "And I suppose you gave what you
had to everybody else, and kept none for yourself."
"I shared with others—of course—"
"What is the reason for your all being sent back now?"
"I don't know."
Ivor seemed incapable of starting remarks himself; and Roy, realising
his condition, sank into silence, unable to take his eyes from that
worn face. They reached the house, and he sprang down.
"Shall I go and tell them?"
"No need. I'll come. Can you pay the driver? I'm cleared out
completely."
In the salon upstairs were Colonel and Mrs. Baron, and with them was
Lucille, as often now was her custom. She had gradually become almost a
member of the Baron family, and they were extremely fond of her. When
Roy flung the door open, and marched triumphantly in, his arm through
Ivor's, one startled "Ah-h!" broke from her, before the other two had
grasped what was happening; and then her face, usually almost without
colour, became crimson. Her eyes shone, the lips remaining apart.
"Denham!" the Colonel and his wife exclaimed.
Colonel Baron's grasp of Ivor's hand and his fixed gaze were like those
of Roy. Mrs. Baron's delight was even more plainly expressed.
"This is joy! O this is joy!" she said. "Nothing else could be so great
a happiness—except going home. Welcome, welcome!" Then she held his
hand, with eyes full of tears searching his face. "But, my dear Denham,
you have been ill—surely you have been ill. How thin!—how altered! What
have you been doing to yourself?"
"He has walked the whole way here from Valenciennes," cried Roy, before
Denham could speak. "He was to have ridden, and he gave up the horse to
somebody else."
"Was that necessary?" the Colonel asked.
"I thought it so, sir. Any letters from home?"
"One from Mrs. Fairbank a few weeks since. That is all. Good accounts
of Polly and Molly. Have you not heard from them?"
"Not since leaving Verdun."
"They may not have heard of your going to Valenciennes. Did you see a
statement in the 'Moniteur,' not long since, as to correspondence with
England? To the effect that more than a hundred thousand letters had
been taken possession of by the French Government,—and bills to the
value of millions of pounds sterling."
"No wonder we détenus are not flush of cash! No, I did not see it. That
may have been when I was ill."
"You have been ill, then?"
"Yes,—nothing to signify. How did Mrs. Fairbank's letter reach you.
Post?"
"Through M. de Marchand,—under cover to him. We have advised her
repeatedly to try again that mode, since it seems the most hopeful. But
doubtless our letters don't reach them."
Lucille, after exchanging a warm English handshake with Denham, had
held back, waiting her opportunity to slip away. She glided now towards
the door, unseen by Ivor, who was gazing thoughtfully on the ground.
Roy ran to open it, and she said softly as she went out, "Do not be
merciless to your friend. Give him some little repose. He is what you
call 'dead-beat.'"
Roy nodded. "You always did seem to see exactly how Den was, didn't
you?"
Lucille made her escape promptly, with heightening colour, and Ivor
asked, "Where is the letter?"
"Roy has put it away," said Mrs. Baron. "It is partly to Roy and partly
to my husband. But you need food and sleep before anything else."
"Nay, if you knew how we have travelled and slept at night, you would
allow the more pressing need to be for a bath and change of clothing,"
Ivor said, rather drily. "Well, since you can assure me that 'tis all
good news, I will wait one half-hour."
"And then I'll read it to you," suggested Roy. "It isn't so very
interesting. More than half is from my grandmother to my father; and
you know how she writes always of the things which nobody wishes
to hear. And the rest is from Molly to me. But as for Polly, my
grandmother does not say much—does she?" —with a look at Mrs. Baron—
"Save only that Polly is well."