Virginie had not, as he feared would be the case, recovered her senses
with the shock of the immersion, but lay insensible on his shoulder. He
could see by the movement of Jeanne's lips that she was praying, and he
too thanked God that He had given success to the plan so far, and prayed
for protection to the end.
With every minute that passed his hopes rose; everything had answered
beyond his expectation. The other victims had apparently not even
noticed what he was doing, and therefore had not, as he feared might be
the case, interfered with his preparations, nor had any of them striven
to gain a hold on the hatchway.
The sinking of the vessel, and the tearing up of the water by the shot,
would render the surface disturbed and broken, and decrease the chances
of the floating hatch attracting attention. After ten minutes had
passed he felt certain that they must be below the point where the
troops were assembled.
The tide was running out strong, for the time for the massacre had been
fixed at an hour which would ensure the bodies being swept down to the
sea. Half an hour would, he thought, take them past the bend, where
their friends would be waiting for them.
The time seemed endless, for although Harry felt the coldness of the
water but little for himself, he knew that it must be trying indeed for
Jeanne. As far as he could see her face it was as white as her
sister's; but he had hold of one of her hands now, and knew that she was
still conscious.
At last he heard the sound of oars. It might not be one of the friendly
boats; but the probability was that it was one or other of them. Had
they seen any other fisherman's boat near the point, they would have
rowed high up so as to intercept the hatch before it reached the
stranger. Harry could not hear voices; for although the water had
conveyed the sound of the oars a considerable distance, he could hear no
sound in the air.
The oars came nearer and nearer, and by the quickness with which the
strokes followed each other he knew that two boats were at hand. Then
the hatch was suddenly lifted, and as Harry raised his head above water
there was a loud cheer, and he saw Adolphe and Pierre, one on each side,
stretch out their arms to him.
The girls were first lifted into Pierre's boat, for Jeanne was as unable
to move as her sister; then Harry was dragged in, the rough sailors
shaking his hand and patting him on the shoulder, while the tears ran
down their cheeks.
As soon as Jeanne was able to sit up she began to chafe one of
Virginie's hands, while Harry took the other.
"Take off her shoes, Pierre, and soak a cloth with the hot water and put
it to her feet."
But with all these efforts it was not until they were close to Pierre's
village that Virginie opened her eyes. When they arrived at the little
causeway the two girls were wrapped up in the peasants' cloaks which
Pierre had brought with him. Jeanne took Harry's arm, while Adolphe
lifted Virginie and carried her up. Henriette was standing at the door
as Jeanne staggered in with Harry.
"That is right, Mademoiselle. Thank God who has brought you safe
through the danger. Now, do not stop a moment, but come in here and get
into bed, it is all ready for you. The blankets have been before the
fire until the moment you landed; they will soon give you warmth. And
do you, Monsieur Sandwith, hurry up to the loft and get on dry clothes."
[Finally they succeeded in getting on board a smuggling lugger, and
arrived safely in England.]
*THE CHILD'S RETURN.*
*FROM "WITH WOLFE IN CANADA."*
[Squire Linthorne's son had married the daughter of an ex-sergeant in
the army, who kept a lodging-house at Southampton. He had married her in
defiance of his father, and in spite too of the sergeant, who would not
give his consent to the marriage unless the squire also gave his
approval. The young couple had fallen into poverty.
The squire, who always intended finally to forgive his son, travelled on
the Continent, and on his return found a letter from his dying son,
dated from a place in the south of France. He travelled there
post-haste, but arrived too late; his son and his young wife were both
dead. A child had been born, but had been taken away by the wife's
father, who had been with them at the last.
The squire had tried every means to obtain a clue to the whereabouts of
his granddaughter, but had failed, and had settled down a solitary and
broken-hearted man on his estate near Sidmouth. In the meantime the
sergeant, who was ignorant that the squire had ever at heart forgiven
his son, and who believed that he had refused to come to see him even on
his death-bed, had brought up the child.
After the death of his daughter he had travelled the country with a
peep-show, taking the little one with him. When she was five or six
years old he had placed her with a school-mistress at Sidmouth,
considering that although it would be terrible to him to part with her,
it was but right that the squire should at least have the opportunity of
taking his granddaughter to live with him. John Petersham, the squire's
old butler, undertook to introduce the little girl to his master.]
That evening the squire was sitting by himself in the great dining-room.
The curtains were drawn and the candles lighted, for it was late in
September, and the evenings were closing in fast, and the squire was
puzzling over John Petersham's behaviour at dinner.
Although the squire was not apt to observe closely what was passing
around him, he had been struck with the old butler's manner; that
something was wrong with him was clear. Usually he was the most quiet
and methodical of servants, but he had blundered several times in the
service. He had handed his master dishes when his plate was already
supplied; he had started nervously when spoken to. Mr. Linthorne even
thought that he had seen tears in his eyes; altogether he was strangely
unlike himself.
Mr. Linthorne had asked him if anything was the matter, but John had
with almost unnecessary earnestness declared there was nothing.
Altogether the squire was puzzled.
Presently the door of the room quietly opened. The squire did not look
up. It closed again as quietly, and then he glanced towards it. He
could hardly believe his eyes. A child was standing there--a girl with
soft smooth hair and large eyes and a sensitive mouth, with an
expression fearless but appealing. Her hands were clasped before her,
and she was standing, in doubt whether to advance.
There was something so strange in this apparition in the lonely room
that the squire did not speak for a moment. It flashed across him
vaguely that there was something familiar to him in the face and
expression, something which sent a thrill through him; and at the same
instant, without knowing why, he felt that there was a connection
between the appearance of the child and the matter he had just been
thinking of--John Petersham's strange conduct. He was still looking at
her when she advanced quietly towards him.
"Grandpapa," she said, "I am Aggie Linthorne."
A low cry of astonishment broke from the squire. He pushed his chair
back.
"Can it be true," he muttered, "or am I dreaming?"
"Yes, grandpapa," the child said, close beside him now, "I am Aggie
Linthorne, and I have come to see you. If you don't think it's me,
grampa said I was to give you this and then you would know;" and she
held out a miniature on ivory of a boy some fourteen years old, and a
watch and chain.
"I do not need them," the squire said in low tones, "I see it in your
face. You are Herbert's child, whom I looked for so long. Oh! my child!
my child! have you come at last?" and he drew her towards him and kissed
her passionately, while the tears streamed down his cheeks.