Dick ordered the postboys to return to the chaise.
"We will return with you to Bath," said he. "Put the harness of your
horse which was shot on mine. We will join you before you have got the
horse in the traces. Carry the man to the bank and lay him among the
trees."
"Not back to Bath, Dick--not back to Bath," said Betsy, when the
postboys had gone.
"Good heavens! if not to Bath--whither?" he cried.
"The thought came to me just now--an inspiration," she said. "I will
not return home. I have not the courage. Do you know what has happened?
I have told Mr. Long that I cannot marry him, and when my father heard
it he was furious, and gave me notice that I must begin singing once
more at his concerts. I cannot do that! Oh, it would kill me, Dick!"
"Dear one," he said, "I will do my best to carry out any plan that you
may suggest--I give you my promise, dear Betsy."
"I spoke to Mr. Long of my hope--of the one longing there is in my
heart, Dick. Your sisters told me of the convent at Lille, beside where
they lived. The old grey building among the ancient trees--far away
from any sound of the world. Oh, surely that is the one spot in the
world where rest--the divine rest--the peace of God--may be found. O
Dick, Dick, if you could know how I long for it!"
He started away from her.
"Is it possible that that is your choice, Betsy?" he cried, and there
was agony in his voice. "Is it possible that you can shut yourself off
from your friends--from those who love you? Ah, dear child, you know
that I----"
"Do not say it--ah, do not say the words that are trembling on your
lips, Dick. You will not say them when you know that they will make me
miserable. Dick, I will think of you as my dear, dear brother, and you
will take me away to that place of rest. Ah, I feel that all I have
gone through to-day since that man sent a forged message to me at nine
o'clock to the effect that my father wished me to play the harpsichord
in his place at the concert, and so trapped me into the chair which
he had waiting and on to the chaise, the linkmen whom he had bribed
standing so close to the windows that I was quite concealed, and my
cries to the passers-by were unheeded,--all that I have gone through,
I say, must have been designed by Heaven to enable me to reach my
goal--my place of rest."
"I will take you there, Betsy," he said in a low voice. "You may trust
me to take you there, dear sister--sweet sister Betsy."
She put her arms about him and kissed him on both cheeks.
* * * * *
It was the scheme of a boy and a girl, that flight of Richard Brinsley
Sheridan and Elizabeth Linley to France as brother and sister. It has
never been explained, nor can any explanation of it be offered that is
not founded upon the passionate yearning of that purest-minded girl
that ever lived in the world, for a time of seclusion such as she had
never known--for a period of tranquillity such as had never come to her.
Dick led her to the chaise, and gave the postboys orders to go on
to the next stage at which Mathews had ordered fresh horses to await
his arrival. The men grumbled. Dick threatened them with hanging.
They should have trouble in proving to any jury that they were not
privy to the abduction of the lady, he said; adding, that if they did
not keep the secret of the change in the lady's companionship at the
various stages of the journey, they would be running their heads into
the hangman's noose. The men protested that they were on his side
down to every rowel of their spurs, and one of them went so far, in
demonstration of his good-will, as to curse soundly Captain Mathews and
all his connections.
In the chaise Betsy gave Dick a circumstantial account of the attack
made by the highwaymen--the highwaymen of Providence, Dick ventured to
term them. The two shots which he had heard in the distance when he was
assuring himself that his horse had become lame, were fired, the first
by Mathews on the appearance of the highwaymen, the second by one of
the highwaymen. Only the latter had taken effect; it had brought down
the off-wheeler, and then, the chaise coming to a standstill, a man had
stood with a cocked pistol at each of the windows until Mathews handed
over his purse. The robbers had then ridden off, and while Mathews was
helping the postboys to disentangle the harness of the dead horse, she
had, unperceived by any one, crept out of the chaise and made her way
up the bank where she had hidden among the trees.
"But I never doubted that you would come to my help, Dick," she said in
conclusion. "Oh, no! I had faith in you from the very first to the very
last. When we saw the figures of the two highwaymen in the distance,
I cried out, ''Tis Dick--Dick and Mr. Long come to save me!' And when
I heard the sound of your horse galloping on the road I said, ''Tis
Dick come to save me!' I had called out your name before the horse came
abreast of the bank. But how did you learn what had happened? Who
could have been near us when that man dragged me from the chair and
forced me into the chaise?"
He told her that it was Mrs. Abington who had come to him with the
news, and she was amazed.
"But how could she--why should she be at that part of the road at such
an hour?"
"Alas, my dear Betsy, she had a fancy that you were being carried off,
not by Mathews, but another," said Dick. "She must have acquired by
some means an inkling of the plot, and she was foolish enough to take
it for granted that the man who was playing the chief part was--some
one else. But we cannot refuse her our gratitude. When she had found
out that it was Mathews who was the abductor, she did not falter in her
purpose. It is to her that we owe your safety."
There was a long pause before Betsy said:
"She acted honourably--nobly. 'Tis for us to respond in like. We shall
not fail, Dick."
At the end of the next stage Dick wrote a letter to Mr. Long
acquainting him in brief with all that had occurred, and telling him of
Betsy's desire to go to the convent at Lille. He ordered the letter to
be posted to Bath at once. Betsy wrote to her father.
When they reached London he drove with her to the house of a friend of
his--a Mr. Ewart; and Mr. Ewart and his wife assumed that Betsy was his
elder sister.
"Yes, this is Elizabeth," said Dick. "I am taking her on to Lille for a
holiday."
Mrs. Ewart, knowing that the Sheridan family had lived at Lille for
some years, merely said:
"You must have formed many friendships in France, my dear?"
"I have got some dear friends there," said Betsy.
Mr. Ewart found out that a packet was leaving Margate in two days for
Calais, and at Dick's request wrote to secure cabins aboard. After
staying two nights at the Ewarts' house, the boy and girl posted to
Margate, and duly set sail in the packet, which was really only a
smack, but one with a reputation for making rapid passages. It acted up
to its traditions by landing them at Calais in twenty-two hours.
The first person whom they met on the quayside was Mr. Long.
They were both astonished. How on earth did he contrive to reach Calais
before them? they inquired.
Well, he had got Dick's letter the morning after Dick had posted it,
and he had set out at once for Dover, where he had found a faster boat
even than the Margate smack. He had been at Calais since the previous
afternoon.
He led them to his inn, and ordered breakfast. When they were alone
together after that repast, he said:
"My dear children, I do not think that this story of ours should have
an unhappy ending, and every young woman of sense who has read Mr.
Richardson's novels--assuming that any young woman of sense ever read
novels--will tell you that a convent in a foreign land cannot possibly
be regarded as furnishing a happy ending to a story. Ah, my dear Betsy,
when I saw you and Dick just now walking side by side on the quay, I
knew that you were meant by Heaven to walk side by side through life.
Will you not consent to make me happy? I have money enough to allow of
your living in some peaceful cottage until Dick gets a footing in a
profession. Dear child, I know that you love him, and I think that he
loves you, too."
"I will consent with joy if he consent," said she. "But I know that he
will not. I do not think that I could love him if he were to consent.
Dear sir, 'tis to Mrs. Abington I owe my safety, and can I act with
such base ingratitude to her as to do what you suggest?"
"God help me!" said Dick. "I am weak--oh, so weak! It seems as if I
should be turning my back upon all the happiness which I could ever
hope for in the world, were I to refuse now what is offered to me. O
Betsy, tell me what to do! Will you not raise your finger to help me,
Betsy?"
"I dare not, dear. There is one who stands between us. You owe
everything to her. I owe everything to her."
"You have helped me," he said in a low voice. "Mr. Long, you will take
Betsy on to Lille. I shall return alone to Bath."
"No, my boy," said Mr. Long, "we shall return to Bath together. Mrs.
Abington is more than generous--she is sensible. She came to me before
I started on my journey. She brought with her a letter, charging me to
put it into your hands. Read it, Dick."
Dick, with nervous fingers, tore open the letter which Mr. Long handed
to him. He read it, but he gave no cry of gladness. Tears were in his
eyes. He handed it to Betsy. She read it. It dropped from her grasp.
There was a long pause. Then each looked into the face of the other.
The next moment they were in each other's arms.
L'ENVOI
(_FROM THE DIARY OF MR. WALTER LONG_)
_October 1st._--I have just returned from paying my long-promised
visit to Dick Sheridan and his wife at their cottage. During the three
days that I was with them I have been looking at happiness through
these young people's eyes, and indeed I think that I felt as happy as
they. Betsy's few months of married life seem to have added to that
half divine beauty which ever dwelt upon her face. A lovely light
came to her eyes when I told her that such was my thought. "Ah, yes,"
she said, "when one has been living in heaven for a space, one cannot
help acquiring something of a region that is all divine." No flaw
in her happiness seems to exist, though I fancied that I detected
a certain momentary uneasiness on her face when Dick began to talk
of his plans and his hopes for the future. He has a mind to write a
comedy satirising Bath society--nay, he has even progressed so far as
to have found a name for his heroine--a very foolish young woman, as
full of ridiculous whims as any Bath belle--Miss Lydia Languish she is
to be called; but 'tis doubtful if the name will ever become familiar
to playgoers, in spite of the attractive jingle there is in it. I do
not say that Betsy has yet come to look upon Miss Lydia Languish as a
rival, but I am sure that she does not like to hear the wench's name so
often on the lips of her husband, though, like a good wife, she tries
to brighten up and to discuss all the points of character which the
young woman should possess. Has she a fear that Dick will some of these
days tire of the blessed retirement--the sweet peace of this cottage to
which she has led him? I know not. If he be wise he will perceive that
the world can give him no more perfect measure of happiness than that
which is his to-day; but alas! a man's ambition soon passes beyond the
pure tranquillity of a wife's devotion. Alas! alas!
* * * * *
A REVERIE
(_WRITTEN APPARENTLY ON THE SAME DAY_)
Beloved, who art ever by my side, whose gracious presence, unseen by
mortal eye, is ever, ever felt by me--dear Companion, ever youthful,
ever lovely, come with me into the autumn woodland and let us converse
together. See, my dear one, the bend of the river by which we wander
has brought us within view of the wonderful tints of the hedgerow. If
the summer has died it has left the autumn wealthy, and its treasury
is a hedgerow. Here on this first day of autumn we see scattered
in profusion the yellow gold and the mellow bronze of Nature's
cunning coinage. One might be tempted not to forsake the simile, but
to anticipate the coming of those bleak days when the spendthrift
winds--children of the autumn--rush down in riotous mirth to disperse
with prodigal fingers the wealth of the season's store, only that
the tinge of melancholy which one feels when looking over the autumn
landscape at the close of day quickly passes in view of the charms
of mingled tints that meet the eye. The gracious warmth of green
leaves whose edges are embroidered with bronze may be found when the
hedgerow is sheltered by a sturdy ash from both wind and sun. Does
not the full depth of rich colour at this place suggest June rather
than October? but where the hedgerow bourgeons out beyond the line of
straggling leafless trees, the signs of the month are apparent. Here,
beneath the fringe of a dark cloud of russet leafage, shine a few
stars of brilliant yellow--the Pleiades of the hedgerow--and light up
the dimness with their mellow radiance. Further down the variegated
forms of the crisp foliage become more fantastic. It requires no vivid
imagination to see here and there a thick cluster of yellow grapes,
through which the sun shines as they show themselves among the close
network of vine leaves, and for a single moment one recalls a day
spent in the South, where the grapes overhung the dusty roadway, and a
muleteer paused to gather a splendid cluster. But quickly the vision
passes, when our eyes wander on down the leafy path of autumn that was
once the primrose path of spring; for there we see--is it an autumn
hedgerow or an ocean on a night when the air is saturate with golden
moonlight? All before our eyes is yellow--not a russet tinge appears
among those gracious leaf-ripples that lose themselves in the distance.
We wander along until the mellow line is broken by a forest of bramble.
The purple berries are set like jewels among the golden leaves--the
amethyst, the topaz, and here and there an exquisite emerald appear in
profusion. Have we indeed reached the yellow strand of an ocean island
where every pebble is a precious stone? Alas! a few steps onward, and
we are face to face with the realities of autumn, for here the hedgerow
has been exposed to the blast of a cold wind from the north, and we
see nothing but a tangled network of gaunt branches. Weird skeleton
fingers are stretched out at us on every side. Every leaf save one has
been swept away, and as we stand looking at this desolate place--the
visible boundary of autumn and winter--the sere solitary leaf flutters
to the ground at our feet. The wind that comes from where the sun is
setting in lurid glory sends a faint whisper through the woodland. We
stand in the silence, and the touch of the spirit of autumn is upon us.
We feel that every sound of the woodland is a sigh for its departed
glories--the glories of blossom and leafage and days that have passed
away. When the autumn winds have garnered their harvest from the boughs
of the woodland, their aftermath begins in the meadow. But, my Beloved,
neither you nor I can be altogether melancholy among the autumn
hedgerows, for, through the signs of the year's decay, the Hope that is
in us seems to break more abundantly into bloom. We feel that death is
not for all things that made life beautiful; Love and Faith and Truth
are not among the spoils of Time. We are lifted up and strengthened
by this reflection as we retrace our steps amid the slowly gathering
shadows of the evening.
THE END
_Printed by Hazell, Watson, & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury._
Messrs. Hutchinson & Co.'s New Novels, Autumn 1901
_By F. FRANKFORT MOORE._
A Nest of Linnets
By the Author of "The Jessamy Bride," "The Fatal Gift," etc.
_With 16 Full-page Illustrations by_ J. JELLICOE.
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The story opens in Bath at the time when that city was at the height of
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God Save the King
By the Author of "The Sword of the King."
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Jill Drake
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atmosphere; very human; a book to enjoy a long success."--_Standard._
"Seldom have I read a book with better appreciation, or laid one down
with more regret--altogether a delightful book."--_Sporting Times_
("The Pink 'Un").
"I have not read any book which is so deliciously saturated with the
gay spirit of the river."--_Star._
"Strikes a fresh note, and presents us with charming visions of English
youth and maidenhood on the loveliest reaches of the Thames."--_Queen._
The NOVELS of F. FRANKFORT MOORE.
_In cloth gilt. 6s. each._
According to Plato
Well, After All----
SECOND LARGE EDITION.
The Fatal Gift
With 8 Full-page Illustrations by SAUBER. SECOND LARGE EDITION.
The Millionaires
With Illustrations by MAURICE GRIEFFENHAGEN. EIGHTEENTH THOUSAND.
The Jessamy Bride
With Illustrations by A. FORESTIER. FOURTH EDITION.
I Forbid the Banns
FORTIETH THOUSAND.
A Gray Eye or So
NINTH EDITION.
One Fair Daughter
FOURTH EDITION.
Phyllis of Philistia
FIFTH EDITION.
They Call it Love
SECOND EDITION.
Daireen
THIRD EDITION.
HUTCHINSON & CO., PATERNOSTER ROW
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE: Apparent printers' errors corrected. The oe ligature
has been replaced with the letters oe. Long dashes are found spaced in
the original; this spacing has been retained.
End of Project Gutenberg's A Nest of Linnets, by Frank Frankfort Moore