"Well, the symptoms are not unusual. You ought to know best, of course;
but in any case you had better get the matter off your mind. This weary
siege cannot last more than a few days longer; we hear that the enemy
are on the point of surrender; we shall go into winter quarters
immediately, I suppose, and I shall be able to dispense with your
services until the spring. Pack off to Breda and see your--friends,
holding yourself in readiness, of course, to come back to me when
summoned."
Harry was too much pleased at the opportunity of assuring himself that
all was well to think it necessary to make any protestation about his
motives. Thanking the prince, he finished off one or two small duties
and went to arrange with Sherebiah for their journey. Before he left he
came across Fanshawe in camp, and, without disclosing his reasons, told
him where he was going.
"Then will you do something for me?" asked Fanshawe eagerly. "Will you
carry a letter for me? I love that girl, Harry. I can't get over it.
I made a mistake last time. I ought to have known that our English ways
would not answer with French ladies. I spoke to Adele herself; I ought
to have spoken to her mother. If you will take it, I will write a
letter to Madame de Vaudrey asking permission to pay my addresses to her
daughter; that may give me a chance; don't you think so, Harry?"
"I don't know," said Harry. He felt strangely unsympathetic with
Fanshawe at that moment. "I will take your letter if you are not long
about it: I ride for Maintz to-night."
"Thanks, old fellow! Wait till you're in love; then you'll know how a
fellow feels; I shall have no peace of mind till I know my fate."
A few hours after this, Harry left the camp with Sherebiah, carrying the
letter on which Fanshawe's fate depended. To save time he had decided
to take boat at Maintz, and sail night and day down the Rhine. Ten
hours later he had bought a big boat, engaged a man who knew the river,
and begun his journey. With the aid of the stream and oars, and
proceeding continuously, he could save a day or two on the land journey.
His plan was to engage fresh crews at every important stopping-place, so
as to have relays of sturdy oarsmen and to get out of them all the work
of which they were capable. The Germans were naturally not so eager as
himself, and grumbled a good deal at the exertions demanded of them.
"Unerhoert! unerhoert!" was the exclamation he frequently heard from
their lips. But he never relaxed his determination, and found liberal
pay a ready stimulus.
Thus, without mitigation of pace, the boat rushed down the river. As
one after another the river-side towns were passed, Harry felt a
satisfaction mingled with an impatience too great to allow of his taking
much interest in the scenes. The ugly, dirty garrison town of St. Goar,
the fortress of Hesse-Rheinfels, the famous Rat tower of the Hatto
legend, Coblentz, Cologne, Duesseldorf, were only so many stages of his
uneventful journey.
*CHAPTER XXIV*
*The Wages of Sin*
Promenade a Berlin--A Sudden Stop--Grootz Chuckles--Place aux Dames--The
Last Two Miles--Polignac Pays the Penalty--Zo!
About four o'clock on a November afternoon, fine for the time of year,
two horsemen rode up to the inn at Eyndhoven. Huge clouds of steam rose
from their horses into the cold air; the panting of the beasts told of a
forced pace. Dismounting, the riders called for refreshment and a
change of horses: they were anxious to push on at once.
When their hasty meal was finished, while the master was paying the
bill, the man went into the inn yard and tried to enter into
conversation with a servant standing there in charge of a large empty
travelling carriage.
"Whose carriage is that?" he asked.
"Monsieur de Polignac's," was the surly answer.
The man started slightly, but no one would have suspected anything but
pure curiosity from the tone of his next question.
"Who is it waiting for?"
"Monsieur de Polignac."
The reply was still more surly.
"The roads will be heavy for travelling. Bad enough for horsemen, worse
for coaches. Maybe the gentleman is not going far?"
"Maybe not."
"The Breda road?"
"What is that to you?"
"No offence, comrade. A man may ask a question, to pass the time. Bid
you good-day!"
Seeing that he was unlikely to get any further information he sauntered
off, but disappeared as quickly as possible into the inn.
"Mounseer's coach is in yard, sir," he said quietly, "and a-waiten for
Mounseer."
"Ah! Are we in time, Sherry? Call the ostler."
When the man appeared, Harry slipt a coin into his hand.
"Monsieur de Polignac is making a journey. Tell me all you know about
it."
The man replied that the coach had been sent to the inn two days before.
Monsieur de Polignac was expected at any moment. He had recently sold
his estate and was leaving for Germany. It was thought that he wished
to take his departure quietly, for he had always been unpopular with his
tenants, and he ran the risk of a hostile demonstration if the time of
his setting out were known. He probably intended to slip secretly away
from his house and make his real start from Eyndhoven. A large quantity
of his baggage had passed through the town a few days before; but,
strangely enough, a carter coming in had reported that Monsieur's wagons
were going south, which was certainly not towards Berlin, the alleged
destination. On the road they had taken there was great danger of their
falling into the hands of the French, for it was not more than five or
six leagues from Marshal Villeroy's lines, and Monsieur as a Huguenot
refugee would meet with scant consideration from his countrymen.
"Has Monsieur de Polignac himself been to Eyndhoven lately?" asked
Harry.
"No, Mynheer; the arrangements were made for him by an English officer
who fought at Blenheim, where the great duke gave the French such a
drubbing a few months back. He was a masterful man; gave orders that
the horses were to be ready at a moment's notice and to be kept in good
condition. Only this morning a messenger came with instructions for the
coach to be ready by eight o'clock to-night, with a stock of wine and
provisions which Monsieur will take with him."
Harry was perturbed at this news. It was clear that Polignac intended
to depart in haste; but whether on political grounds, having found his
character as spy detected, or in pursuance of the plot hinted at by
Simmons, it was impossible to know. If the latter, there was certainly
not a moment to lose, and it behoved to push on with all speed to
Lindendaal. Fresh horses had been waiting for some minutes. Harry and
Sherebiah were soon in the saddle, and set off at a gallop along the
miry road, into the gathering night.
Some hours previously a traveller approaching Lindendaal from the
opposite direction had passed through Breda. He had found it impossible
there to get a change of team for his coach; all the horses in the town
were out, conveying to their homes the gentry of the countryside who had
come into Breda for a grand ball given the night before by the officers
of the garrison, the finale of a week of entertainments. Not even
Mynheer Grootz's liberal offers sufficed to secure a team at once. The
motive of his journey was clearly urgent, for instead of waiting a few
hours until some of the hacks returned, he pushed on at once with his
tired animals to Tilburg, four leagues farther on the road. There he
succeeded in hiring fresh horses, and without delay continued his
journey.
He was himself very much fatigued, having risen from a sick bed on
receiving the letter sent him by Harry from Landau. As he drew out of
Oerschot, where the team was again changed, he pulled up the wooden slat
blinds, and settled himself in the corner of his seat for a short nap.
So much exhausted was he that he was still sound asleep when, nearly two
hours later, the coach reached the end of the park wall of Lindendaal.
It was now growing dark. All at once Grootz was roused from sleep by
the stopping of the coach. In his half-awake condition he thought that
he was at his journey's end, and was rising to lower the blinds when
there was a shout and the report of a pistol-shot. Wide-awake in an
instant he groped in the darkness for his own pistol. But just as he
laid his hand upon it the coach jolted on again, throwing him back into
his seat. It was rattling and swaying from side to side, the horses
being urged to their utmost speed. His first impulse was to let down
the blinds and endeavour to get a shot at one of the men who had waylaid
him. Then he hesitated; a sudden thought had occurred to him; he gave a
quiet chuckle, and peeped through the slats of the blinds, first on one
side, then on the other. He could just see that a horseman was riding
at each side of the carriage, and through the small window at the back
he saw a third following. He smiled grimly, and, holding his pistol
ready, waited for what he suspected must happen before long.
His own postilion, he guessed, had been killed or wounded by the
pistol-shot he had heard, and the coach was now driven by a stranger.
He was thus one against four. He might shoot one of them, but would
clearly be at the mercy of the three others. It was a lonely road;
there was nothing for the present to be gained by resistance, and
besides, he had a further reason for biding his time. Delay would not
worsen his own situation; while if his suspicions were correct the
longer he remained passive the better his purpose would be served.
After a headlong, rattling, bumping flight of about two miles, as it
seemed to Grootz, he heard the horseman on his right shout an order to
the postilion. The coach was pulled up; the horseman threw himself from
the saddle, and wrenching open the door peered in.
"I regret, Madame, the necessity----"
He started back, for in the waning light he had just become aware that
there was but one figure in the carriage, and that clearly the figure of
a man.
"Triche, morbleu!" he cried in fury. "Someone shall pay for this. Come
out, or I will empty this pistol into you!"
The only answer was the click of a pistol within the coach, and a flash
from the corner. Grootz's weapon had missed fire. Whipping his own
pistol from his belt Polignac fired; and the Dutchman fell back, hit in
the shoulder. With a cry to his companions Polignac sprang on his
horse, and galloped furiously back along the road he had come, the other
two horsemen hard at his heels. Immediately afterwards the postilion cut
the traces and set off in haste after his employer, leaving Grootz, the
coach, and one horse to themselves.
Five minutes later, from the Eyndhoven direction, up rode two horsemen
at speed. It was now almost totally dark; the coach could barely be
discerned in the middle of the road, and Harry, who was foremost, pulled
up only just in time to save his horse's knees. In a moment he was out
of the saddle; Sherebiah was by his side, and while the man held the
horses, Harry, anxiety tearing at his heart, looked into the coach.
There was a huddled heap upon the floor.
"Steel and tinder!" he cried to Sherebiah.
A light was struck.
"Good heavens! it is Mynheer Grootz."
He bent down and touched the wounded man's hand, fearing he might be
already dead. The touch revived Grootz from his swoon.
"On to Lindendaal!" he said faintly and brokenly. "Leave me! Ladies in
danger. Take care. Desperate men: four; at once!"
Loth as Harry was to leave his friend in so ill a plight, the imminence
of the peril to which the ladies were exposed was predominant.
"I will send a man back to you, Mynheer," he said. "Sherebiah, we must
hasten."
The short halt had given the horses time to recover their wind. They
had not travelled far, nor had they far to go. The two sprang to their
saddles, and as they rode off into the darkness there was a look on
Harry's face that boded ill for Polignac or any of his party. Never
before, even when carried bound on board the _Merry Maid_, even when his
own life had been attempted, had he felt the overmastering desire for
vengeance that burnt within him now. The sight of his friend and
benefactor wounded and helpless had quickened his indignation with
Polignac and his crew into a fury of resentment, and at the back of his
consciousness there was another and a subtler feeling which he did not
pause to analyse. With eyes staring into the distance, ears strained to
catch the slightest sound, every sense on the alert, he led the way over
the heavy miry road, Sherebiah a short length behind. If anyone could
have seen the riders' faces he would have been struck by the contrast
between their expressions. Harry's was grim and tense with white rage;
Sherebiah's round cheeks wore their settled look of cheerful
placidity--the unruffled carelessness of a man of peace.
It was a furious gallop, over the two miles from the halted coach to the
gates of Lindendaal. Harry's eager eyes at length caught a twinkle of
light ahead to the right of the road. A moment later the faint sound of
a shout came down the wind, then the crack of a pistol-shot. Digging his
spurs into his steed's heaving flanks he drew his sword; it was a matter
of seconds now. He flew past the ruined barn, standing bare and black
on the right; and there, before him on the road, shone a light, from a
carriage lamp as he supposed. Now mingled with shouts and oaths he
heard the clash of steel; in a moment there loomed up before him at the
entrance to the balustraded avenue a dark still mass, and in the yellow
glare of the lamp he perceived two men on foot fighting desperately. He
was still some yards away when he saw the man farthest from him shorten
his sword and run his opponent through the body, then with lightning
speed prepare to meet the horseman, whether friend or foe, whose coming
the ring of hoofs had announced. As he dashed forward, Harry recognized
in the sinister features and the wry mouth the evil face of Polignac.
Leaning low over his horse's neck he made a sweeping blow with his heavy
cavalry sabre that would have cut the Frenchman's spare frame into
halves had he not with rare presence of mind sunk on one knee and
allowed the blade to swish harmlessly over his head.
Harry was carried on for some yards before he could check the impetus of
his horse, and then he found himself in the thick of a fight in which he
could distinguish neither friend nor foe. A fierce oath on his right,
however, proclaimed the identity of one of the group, and, turning, he
saw the bulky form of Captain Aglionby on horseback outlined against the
light from the distant house. Leaving Polignac for the moment Harry
made straight for his elder enemy, who was wheeling to deal with the
new-comer. It was no moment for nice sword-play on either side; cut and
thrust, lunge and parry--thus the two engaged in the dark. Blade
clashed on blade, horse pressed against horse, their hoofs struck
sparks; nothing to choose between the combatants except that Aglionby
was between Harry and the light.
Suddenly the captain made a supreme effort to quell his assailant by
main force for good and all. Rising in his saddle, he brought his sword
down with the full weight of his arm. But, thanks to the friendly light
from Lindendaal, Harry saw the movement in time. Parrying the swashing
blow with ease, he replied with a thrust that tumbled the captain
groaning from his saddle. The horse plunged and galloped madly into the
night. Harry did not wait to discover the full effect of his blow, but
wheeled round to find Polignac, the duel on his left having terminated
in the flight of one of the parties and pursuit by the other.
At the moment of wheeling he heard the voice of Sherebiah at his elbow.
"Hold, sir! 'Tis done. Mounseer ha' paid his score."
"You have killed him?"
"My sword went through un. He be on ground: no risin' for he."
"Then secure Aglionby. He fell from his horse a few yards up the road."
He himself sprang from the saddle and ran to the door of the coach.
Wrenching it open, he saw by the light of the lamp Adele de Vaudrey
erect on the seat, supporting the unconscious form of her mother. The
girl's cheeks were the colour of death; her lips were ashen; upon her
face was the fixed look of resigned despair.
"Mademoiselle," cried Harry breathlessly, "all is well. You are safe."
A sob broke from the girl's dry lips; tears welled in her eyes.
"Mother has swooned," she said in a whisper.
Harry darted to the canal side, stuck his handkerchief on the point of
his sword and let it down to the water, returning with it dripping wet
to the coach. Bathing the lady's temples they revived her, and Adele
whispered the news that they were safe. Madame's nerves were quite
unstrung; incapable of heeding what was said to her she wept and laughed
alternately, to Harry's great alarm.
"We must get her home," said Adele.
"Yes; I will find a man to lead the coach. You will not mind my going:
Mynheer Grootz is wounded two miles away."
"Oh, Monsieur Harry, go then at once. I can take care of Mother."
Harry ran back to the road to find Sherebiah, who in his absence had
made an examination of the ground with the aid of the carriage lamp.
Polignac was stone dead; his body lay at the very brink of the canal.
There was no sign of Aglionby or of the other two men, though traces of
blood were found on the spot where the captain had fallen. Of the house
party two men were badly wounded; these Harry despatched to the house
for ministration while himself with Sherebiah hurried back at full speed
to Mynheer Grootz. The coach stood undisturbed where they had left it.
Grootz lay on the seat, conscious but very weak.
"Well?" he said, as they appeared.
"Well, thank God!" replied Harry. "The ladies are safe, Polignac is
dead, Aglionby and the rest have fled."
"Zo!"
Quite content, the merchant said no more. He was taken at a walking
pace to Lindendaal.
*CHAPTER XXV*
*A Bundle of Letters*
Jealousy--Hard Facts--A Special Plea--Family History--Brother and
Sister--Marriage Lines--A Fair Claimant--Air Castles
Some hours later, when Madame de Vaudrey had been composed to sleep, and
the three patients made as comfortable as possible pending the arrival
of the doctor, who had been summoned from the village, Adele left her
mother's bed-side and joined Harry in the dining-room.
"I must thank you," she said, advancing to him with outstretched hands.
"We have always to thank you. It seems to be fated that you should save
us from that bad man."
"He will trouble you no more, Mademoiselle."
Adele looked a question.
"Yes, he is dead."
The girl shuddered, and looked involuntarily towards the sword at
Harry's side.
"No, it was not I; it was my man."
There was a look of relief in Adele's face.
"How thankful to God we must be that you came in time, Monsieur!"
"Did Madame not get my letter?"
"Did you write a letter?"
"Yes; I learnt some time ago that this plot was hatching, and I wrote
twice. The first letter, I know, must have miscarried, but the
second--it should have reached you, for I am sure Mynheer Grootz must
have received a letter written at the same time. That is why he is here
now."
"We have been away from home: stay, Monsieur, I will enquire."
She soon returned with the letter unopened.
"It came three days ago," she said. "We have been for a week in Breda;
there were festivities given by the officers of the garrison, and the
servants did not think to send the letter, knowing that we should soon
return. M. de----he must have found out the time of our departure, and
so planned to waylay us. But we were late in starting; Mother was
fatigued; and I see how it happened. Mynheer Grootz's coach was taken
for ours; when the--the man found that it was not, he thought it had
been sent on in front to deceive him. Oh, Monsieur Harry, but for your
letter to Mynheer Grootz, and your coming so soon yourself----"
"Think no more of it, Mademoiselle. I cannot say how glad I am that I
happened to be able to serve you. Forgive me; you are worn out; it will
not do to have another invalid, you know----"
Adele smiled in answer.
"Yes, I will go to bed," she said, "and I do thank you for Mother and
myself."
She clasped his hands again, then ran from the room. Harry had never
seen her so much moved. Hitherto she had always been so cold, so
reserved, seeming to grudge the few words that courtesy demanded. Even
when something claimed her active help, as in the stratagem by which
Lindendaal had been saved from the raiders nearly eighteen months
before, she had acted, indeed, with decision and courage, as a good
comrade, but had at once relapsed into her former attitude of aloofness,
almost disdain. With Fanshawe, on the contrary, she had been frank and
gay, ready with quip and jest, gently correcting his French, merrily
laughing at her own attempts to speak English, never wearying of
accompanying on the harpsichord his west-country songs, which she
quickly picked up by ear. Fanshawe was thoroughly in love with her--and
Harry remembered with a pang that he bore a letter from Fanshawe to her
mother, once more urging his suit.
"Confound him!" he thought, and, his hands tight clasped behind him, he
strode up and down the room with compressed lips and lowering brow.
He had no doubt now of the relationship in which he stood to Fanshawe;
he was both his rival and friend. He tried to face the situation calmly.
Fanshawe was a good fellow, an officer in the English army, and heir to
a baronetcy and a fine estate. He could sell out at any moment, and
doubtless enjoy by the liberality of his father an income sufficient to
maintain a wife in something more than comfort. It gave Harry a pang to
contrast his own position. He had no property, no family influence,
nothing beyond his pay and the income so generously allowed by Mynheer
Grootz. True, he was now in the service of Prince Eugene, and the
circumstances in which he had joined the Austrian service gave him a
good prospect of ultimate advancement; but it might be many years before
he could venture to ask a lady to share his fortunes. Besides, if
Mademoiselle de Vaudrey was indeed heiress to an estate, as Simmons had
reported, a poor man could not seek her hand without incurring the
suspicion of being a fortune-hunter: the mere suggestion brought a hot
flush to Harry's cheeks. No; he could but stand aside. Fanshawe had
failed once; he might yet succeed; and if it should so turn out, Harry
could but wish his friend joy and go his way.
"Heigh ho! Some fellows are lucky!" he thought, and, heaving a
tremendous sigh, he went to bed.
A good night's rest, and the knowledge that Polignac could never disturb
her again, cured Madame de Vaudrey's hysteria, and she came down next
morning somewhat pale, but in her usual health. After breakfast Harry
took the first opportunity of finding his hostess alone, to deliver
Fanshawe's letter. She smiled as she took it and noticed the
handwriting.
"From that dear Monsieur Fanshawe, is it not?" she said.
"Yes, Madame."
"What can he have to write about, I wonder? Do you know, Harry?"
"Fanshawe told me, and--well, he asked me--that is, I promised to put in
a word for him."
"Vraiment! Then I think I guess the subject of his letter. Come, mon
ami, what have you to say for him, then?"
The comtesse watched Harry with a twinkle of enjoyment. Her mother's eye
had penetrated the state of the case.
"Godfrey is a good fellow, Madame; amiable--you know that; he will be
rich some day; he--sings a good song; he--in short, Madame, he is very
fond of Mademoiselle, and--and----"
"And would make a good husband, you think? Well, my dear Harry, I shall
tell Adele that he has written to me, and repeat what you have said in
his behalf; but you know her: she has a mind of her own; and I can only
give her my advice."
And she left Harry in a tormenting perplexity as to what her advice
would be.
It was a week or two before Mynheer Grootz was well enough to leave his
room, and during those days his kind attendants were careful to avoid
all but the most necessary references to what had happened. He was told
that Polignac was dead and the hue and cry was out after Aglionby, and
his convalescence was not retarded by any fears on the ladies' behalf.
One morning, when the doctor allowed him to come downstairs, he sent
Harry to find Madame de Vaudrey. It was time, he said, that the motive
of Polignac's recent attempt should be seriously considered.
"Madame," he said in French, when with Harry they were closeted in the
reception-room, "it has not yet been told you, but we have reason to
believe that Polignac urged his suit upon Adele because he had
information that she is heiress to some estates."
"As she is--heiress to Lindendaal."
"Yes, but the estates in question must be of greater value. Your little
estate here is not of so much worth as to account for Polignac promising
large sums to Aglionby, first on his marriage with Adele, secondly on
her succession to her property. Tell me, Madame, know you of anything
that could give colour to the beliefs of these wretches?"
"Nothing, my friend. My husband, as you know well, was a refugee, an
exile: his family estates in France were confiscated long ago. As for
me, I had nothing but my poor little dowry. No relatives of mine are
owners of estates."
"But on Monsieur le Comte's side: his mother: she was an Englishwoman, I
believe?"
"Yes. I know little of her; she died very soon after the birth of her
only child, my dear husband."
"What was her name?"
"I do not remember. Certainly I have heard it, but it is many years
ago, and English names are so difficult to keep in mind."
"But Monsieur le Comte--had he not some souvenir of his mother?--some
portrait, or heirloom, or family papers?"
"I never saw any. But I have upstairs a box in which I treasure many
little things that were his: perhaps you would like to see it?"
"Certainly. It would be as well."
Madame de Vaudrey sent a servant to a private room in the turret, whence
he returned presently with a leather-covered brass-studded box. After
some search the key was discovered, the box was opened, and the comtesse
took out, one after another, various memorials of her dead husband.
Among them was a bundle of papers tied up with ribbon; this she laid
with trembling hands before her friend.
"You permit me, Madame?" he said.
She nodded through her tears.
Grootz untied the ribbon, and unfolded the topmost paper. A cursory
glance showed that it threw no light on the subject all had at heart.
Several other papers were examined with a like result; then, nearly at
the bottom of the bundle, Grootz came upon a smaller packet separately
tied. The outer wrapper bore, in a faded, delicate handwriting, the
words: "Dernieres letters de la famille de feu ma chere femme". Harry
got up and leant towards him in some excitement.
"Wait, my son," said Grootz; "let us proceed with quietness."
He opened the topmost letter, and read it slowly through.
"It tells us nothing," he said. "It begins 'My dear sister', and ends
'Eustace'. We go to the next."
Unfolding this, he saw at the top the date June 12, 1659, and an address
in London.
"This is in the same hand," he said. "It is cramped; Harry, your eyes
are young; read it, my boy, aloud."
Harry took the letter and read:
"MY DEARE SISTER,
"It will please you to heare the Affaire goes according to our hopes.
The people are well dispos'd to the Gentleman you wot of, & the rule of
the Saintes is abhorr'd of the moste. But businesse of State holds
lesse in your Estimation than the fortunes of your brother, and I have a
peece of Newes that will put your gentle heart all in a Flutter. What
do 'ee think, sweete? You never had a sister: will you thanke me if I
give you one? There! not to keepe you on tenterhooks, I designe--now is
yr heart going pit-a-pat--to wed: ay, Mary, your brother has met his
fate. This daye weeke the Knot is to be ty'd. I knowe the questions
that at this Newes flocke into your mind: is she black or faire, tall or
short, of court or cottage? I am not carefull to answer; you shall love
her, my sweet; 'tis the fairest, dearest ladie lucky man ever wonne,
yonge, freshe, winsome as you could wishe. I dare not, as you may
beleeve, wed in my owne name; 'tis too perilous as yet, my Businesse
being what it is; indeede, Lucy herselfe knows not of my family, for
being so yonge and simple, she might let fall in an unwatch'd moment
what might bring me to the block. She shall knowe all in due season. I
have not open'd my Designe to our brother, for in truthe I find no
reason to truste him; his warm professions of Zeale for us seeme to me
but Flams. I feare he has play'd throughout a Double Game. He stands
exceeding well with the Godly Partie, & having been at Paines to enquire
thro' a sure friend I can heare of nothing done in our behalfe, but
rather of endeavors to feather his owne nest. But enough of that; if
our hopes are crown'd, as praye God they may be speedilie, Nicolas will
have----"
Harry paused as he read the name.
----"Nicolas will have no choice but to quitte the Hall, and make what
Profitte he may of his owne farmes. Ask in yr prayers that the Happie
Daie be hasten'd. And now no more from your righte loving Brother
EUSTACE."
Harry laid the letter down, and looked at Mynheer Grootz.
"Why did you pause?" asked the Dutchman.
"'Twas a thought I had, Mynheer. It may be vain. Before I say more,
will you look at the next paper?"
"He!" exclaimed Madame de Vaudrey, "I am becoming curious."
Mynheer Grootz with the same imperturbable calm unfolded the next paper
of the bundle.
"This," he said, scanning it over his spectacles, "is not a letter; it
is a document. It records the marriage, in the Huguenot church in
Paris, on May 2, 1658, of Louis Marie Honore, Comte de Vaudrey, aged 34,
with Mary Berkeley,"--he pronounced the name in three syllables, foreign
fashion--"aged 22, daughter of John Berkeley Esquire of Winton Hall, in
the county of Wiltshire, England."
"'Tis found!" cried Harry, springing up in excitement. "We call the name
Barkley in England; Madame, Monsieur le Comte was the son of Mr.
Berkeley's sister; he is the squire of my own village Winton St. Mary;
without a doubt it is his estates to which Mademoiselle is heiress. What
a discovery we have made!"
"Stay, Harry," said Mynheer Grootz quietly; "did you not tell me that
your squire has a son?"
"Yes, yes, but now I remember: at home I have heard it said that Mr.
Berkeley was lord of the manor only by default of other heirs: yes, it
comes back to me now: the villagers did not like him; they grudged him
his estate; he was stepson of the former squire, and step-brother of the
lady who became Comtesse de Vaudrey."
"Still I do not understand. The lady had a brother--the gentleman whose
name was Eustace; being employed in state business, to do with the
restoration of your King Charles, I think, he was doubtless the elder of
the two: he would be his father's heir, and his children after him. The
letter, you see, announces his approaching marriage."
"You are right, Mynheer. I heard him talked of, too; he was killed in a
fray with highwaymen on the Dover road, when he was returning from
France, after King Charles came back, to claim his estates. Yes, the
squire's family history is well known in the village; but I never heard
of a Mistress Eustace Berkeley; perhaps the marriage did not take place
after all."
"It would seem so."
"It must be so," cried Harry. "Do you not now see Captain Aglionby's
part? When he stayed with you, Madame, six years ago, he must have
discovered Monsieur le Comte's relationship with Mr. Berkeley; that
explains his hold over the squire; it explains also the scheme arranged
between him and Monsieur de Polignac. Indeed, it is clear as daylight:
the captain bled Mr. Berkeley on pretence of keeping his secret; and he
sold that secret to Polignac."
"The odious man!" exclaimed Madame de Vaudrey, who sat in a state of
perfect amazement as link after link was added to the chain.
"A very villain!" said Grootz, smiting the table. "Madame, it appears
that Adele is indeed the rightful owner of the estates now held by this
miscreant Berkeley, and I, Jan Grootz, will make it my business, as soon
as I am recovered, to see that right is done."
"And it is to Harry that we owe it all! Oh, my dear Harry, Adele shall
thank you! If only my dear husband could have lived to bless you too!"
"Zo!" exclaimed Grootz. "But, Madame, I have a thing to say. Adele
shall thank Harry; yes; but I say tell her nothing until I have been to
London, and with the aid of English law have overthrown the villain
Berkeley. It will be best; yes, it will be best."
"Very well, my friend. Dear Adele! to think of her as lady of an
English manor! She has thought much of her English grandmother: she
will love to live in England; I have no English blood in me, and I dread
the sea; but I must live with her, of course I must."
Grootz compressed his lips.
"Il ne faut pas vendre la peau de l'ours avant de l'avoir tue," he said
sententiously.
*CHAPTER XXVI*
*The New Squire*
Jonahs--Step-brothers--Whose Gain?--The Female Line--The End of the
Story--Treason--The Fleet--In Italy with Eugene--Home--Adele Studies
Geography--Lady Bountiful--Minshull Remembers--A Warning from Mr.
Tape--Mr. Tape at Hungerford--Exit Harry Rochester--At the Gate--A Royal
Feast--What's in a Name?--A Rustic Moralist--Wedding Bells
Giles Appleyard, giving a flick to the off leader, scraped his
well-rasped chin over the stiff collar of his coat and addressed the
outside passenger who had just mounted his coach at Basingstoke.
"Why, Willum Nokes," he said, "'tis many a long day since I set eyes on
your noble frame. How's the wicked world sarven 'ee, Willum?"
"Fairish, Giles coachman, on'y fairish. A've never bin the same man
since that tarrible day when John Simmons gi' me the go-by. Ay, I were
constable then, a-sarven the Queen and Sir Godfrey, and wi' the bodies
of all the souls in Winton Simmary under me. Now I be on'y parish
beadle at Basingstoke, sarvant to pa'son, and rulen over none but the
misbehaven childer in church."
He sighed and shook his head.
"Ay, and th' on'y thing as keeps me above ground is a journey once a
year to th' old place, where I wanders round a-thinken deep things o'
the noble line o' life as used to be."
"Ay, poor soul, 'ee did truly make a gashly fool o' yerself that day,
Willum. Well, better a live fool than a dead 'oss, as you med say."
"An' yerself, Giles--you looks hale an' hearty as ever I seed 'ee."
"Ay, Willum, I goos up an' down the world rain or shine, merry as a
grig."
"'Ee must see a powerful deal o' life, Giles; all sarts an' perditions
o' men, as pa'son sings in church. Who med be your insides to-day, if I
med axe so homely a quest'on?"
"Only two to-day, Willum. There be little travellen for a week or two
arter Christmas. One on 'em be a Dutch skipper; I mind I carried un
once afore; ay, 'twas the same day as young pa'son Rochester and Sherry
Minshull rode a-top, all agwine to Lun'on. Young pa'son be now a sojer,
so 'tis said, an' hob-a-nob wi' the mighty o' the earth. The way o' the
world, Willum; some goos up, like young pa'son; some goos down, like
Willum Nokes; some goos steady, like Giles Appleyard; eh, soul?"
"Ay, 'tis constables goos down, a' b'lieve. But who be your other
inside, coachman?"
"Why, no one an't telled me, but I'd take my affidavy afore any justice
o' peace 'tis a limb o' the law. I knows they sart. They ought to pay
double; for why? 'cause bean't safe to carry; last time I carried a
lawyer fore off wheel broke as we trundled through Winterslow. When I
seed this chap at Angel and Crown this marnen, says I to myself,
'Zooks!' says I, 'what poor mortal soul be agwine to suffer now?'"
For the rest of the journey coachman and passenger exchanged gossip on
their common acquaintances. William Nokes alighted at the Queen's Head,
at Winton St. Mary, and shook his head in sympathy with Mistress Joplady
when he saw the two inside passengers descend from the coach and enter
the inn.
"One a furrener, t'other a lawyer!" he muttered. "Ah! what tarrible
things some poor souls ha' got to putt up wi'!"
Mistress Joplady, however, welcomed both her guests with her wonted
heartiness, and with her own hands plied the warming-pan for their beds.
At ten o'clock next morning the two strangers left the inn together.
One of them carried a small portfolio. They went through the village,
across the common, and, entering the park gates of Winton Hall, walked
up the long drive to the porch and asked whether Mr. Berkeley was at
home. After a few minutes' delay they were invited to step in, and
conducted to a little room in the turret, where they found the squire in
cassock and skull-cap, warming his withered hands at the fire.
"Mr. Berkeley?" said the elder of the two.
"That is my name. What is your business?"
"My name, sir, Jan Grootz. My friend Mr. Swettenham Tape, of Lincoln's
Inn."
"Well?"
"You will permit me to take a chair; dank you! And my friend Mr. Tape;
dank you!"
At the mention of his name, Mr. Berkeley flashed a shrewd glance under
his bushy white eyebrows at the Dutchman, then gripped the arms of his
chair, and waited.
"Mr. Berkeley, my business will not hold you long. You will pardon if I
begin at de beginning and tell you a little history?"
The squire kept his eyes fixed on his visitor, but said nothing. Taking
his silence as permission to proceed, Grootz settled himself in his
chair, with his plump right hand ready to punctuate his sentences.
"Dis history dat I tell you, sir, I hope you will find it interesting.
It is ver much about yourself; you are old man, but of dose old men,
pardon me, who regard demselves as de most interesting subjeck in de
world; zo! De history begin long ago; zixty-vive year indeed, when your
shadow first zink over dis place." Grootz's hand made a comprehensive
sweep. "You were den Nicolas Heller, an eleven-year boy; your moder, a
widow, she had married Mr. John Berkeley, a widower, wid two children,
one"--here the forefinger wagged--"Eustace Berkeley, a nine-year boy; de
oder, Mary, a child four year. On your moder Mr. Berkeley settle de
farms of--of----"
"Winton Chase and Odbury," said Mr. Swettenham Tape, speaking for the
first time.
"Zo; de farms of Winton Chase and Odbury; you took de name Berkeley, and
after your moder dese farms should become yours. Dree years go, your
moder die; Mr. John Berkeley is again a widower, and never marry no
more. War had broke out, he take part wid de king and fight in de vield,
your step-broder alzo whenever he is of age to bear arms. But Nicolas,
poor boy! is not strong, he is always at home to care for de estates;
besides, he do not love de king; no, Nicolas never love nobody--nobody
but himself."
Grootz paused and bent a little forward in his chair; the squire had not
moved a muscle.
"De king is killed, Oliver Cromwell is ruler in de land, and after de
battle of Worcester, Mr. John Berkeley, his son and daughter, go for
safety to France. But Nicolas--he find dat he is a Puritan, a saint in
heart; he give money--it was not his to give--to de Parliament side, and
he speak of his stepfader--of de man, mark you, to whom he owe
everyding--as a traitor, a malignant. At same time he write letters to
de traitor in France telling how he work to keep his estate for him, if
chance come he zall return and enjoy his own. How kind is Nicolas! zo!
"Time flows; de chance come; King Charles wears his fader's crown, but
Mr. John Berkeley is not alive to return alzo. In 1658 he die. But his
son, Nicolas' stepbroder Eustace, what of him? In June 1660 he come
back to claim his inheritance, but he never see his home. No, on de road
he is set upon and murdered."
Still the old man sat rigid in grim silence.
"De murder of Eustace Berkeley, whom do it profit? De men who killed
him?--not zo; dey stay not to empty his pockets. It profit nobody but
Nicolas Berkeley. Dink you not dat is singular? To me it is very
singular. Zo!"
The Dutchman spoke always with the same careful deliberation. His tone
now became stern.
"I come now, Mr. Berkeley, to someding dat interest you more. Mr. John
Berkeley had, not only a son, but alzo a daughter." The keen-eyed
Dutchman noticed a slight twitching of the squire's brow. "Ah, I
thought dat would interest you! De daughter, Mary, marry in Paris de
Comte de Vaudrey, a nobleman, a Huguenot; dat is not long before King
Charles come back. Her broder Eustace risk his life to come to England
on service for his sovereign; he write letters to his sister;
interesting letters; I take leave to read you someding he said."
He took the portfolio from the lawyer's hands, selected a paper from it,
and read the following passage:--
"'I feare he has play'd throughout a Double Game. He stands exceeding
well with the Godly Partie, & having been at Paines to enquire thro' a
sure friend I can heare of nothing done in our behalfe, but rather of
endeavors to feather his owne nest. But enough of that; if our hopes
are crown'd, as praye God they may be speedilie, Nicolas will have no
choice but to quitte the Hall, and make what Profitte he may of his owne
farmes.'
"Zo! dis letter, and oders, was received by Madame la Comtesse de
Vaudrey--dat is, Mary Berkeley--when her husband was absent from Paris.
He return; de poor lady is dying; she leave a little boy. He write to
Eustace from Paris; he get no reply; he write again, dree times in all;
still no reply, and he dink his wife's friends English and care not any
more. As for him, he has pride and keep silence, and believe Eustace
Berkeley is now lord of Winton Hall.
"Zo time pass. Den come trouble to de Huguenots in France, and de Comte
de Vaudrey take refuge wid his son in Holland. He read no English; but
he keep dings dat belong to his wife, among dem de letters of Eustace.
His son Louis marry in Holland a Huguenot lady. Fader, son, both are
dead, but"--he wagged his forefinger impressively--"but Louis Comte de
Vaudrey leave a daughter, Adele, and it is on behalf of Mademoiselle
Adele de Vaudrey I wait upon you to-day. I know well dese dings are not
new to you; I know dat. It is now some years when Captain Aglionby--an
adventurer, a cut-droat--discover how Mademoiselle Adele is related to
de house of Berkeley. Already he know someding of you; he have an uncle
Minshull dat live on your estate. He see a chance to feader his very
bare nest, and he take it. You are de squire, he dink; a rich man; you
will pay well to keep de secret. He come to you; you do pay well; you
become his generous patron, and he do your dirty work. But sometimes
you lose temper, and give him hard words and close your purse. Perhaps,
dink he, he may find yet anoder rich man who will buy de secret. Such a
man is Monsieur de Polignac. Your Aglionby take money from you, and
bargain wid Polignac to get more money when he become by marriage owner
of dis estate and turn you out. But de plan is found out; we have
settle with Polignac; he is dead; we search for Aglionby; he hide
himself; and now, Mr. Berkeley, it is your turn. I come to you to
demand, on behalf of Mademoiselle Adele de Vaudrey, possession of her
property in seven days from dis present day. My friend Mr. Tape of
Lincoln's Inn have copies of all de papers; he will show dem, at proper
time, to your lawyer. De history is now at end, Mr. Berkeley. I dank
you for your zo-patient hearing. It is now to you; zo!"
Mr. Berkeley had spoken never a word. For a few moments he remained
motionless in his chair; then, lengthening his arm, he pulled a
bell-rope at his side. A servant entered.
"Thomas," said the squire in his thin hard voice, "show these gentlemen
to the door."
Grootz and the lawyer glanced at each other. The latter gave a slight
shrug and began to tie up his portfolio. Grootz rose.
"I have de honour, Mr. Berkeley, to wish you good-day."
And with his companion he left the room.
An hour later the village was startled by the news that the squire had
had a stroke. A man had ridden to Salisbury for the physician, and the
gossips at the Queen's Head were already discussing the expected
succession of "young squire" to the estates. But in the afternoon the
report was contradicted. The squire had merely been seized with a
fainting fit; he had recovered and was to all appearance his usual self.
A week passed; Mr. Berkeley had received from Mr. Swettenham Tape of
Lincoln's Inn a formal demand for the surrender of the property, to
which he made no reply. At the end of the week Mr. Tape filed a suit in
chancery. But the mills of the law grind slowly. Grootz had returned
to Holland, a new campaign had opened, and Harry Rochester was with
Prince Eugene in northern Italy before Mr. Swettenham Tape had all his
affidavits sworn.
A few weeks before the case was to be opened before Lord Chancellor
Cowper, a bailiff armed with a warrant, and accompanied by two strong
tipstaves, appeared at the house of a Mistress Consterdine near the
Cockpit, Whitehall. The bailiff gained admittance, and when after some
time he returned to the street he was accompanied by a tall bulky man in
semi-military garb, with whom he and the tipstaves entered a hackney
coach and were driven to Newgate. The prisoner was at once brought
before the magistrate and charged under the name of Ralph Aglionby with
entering into a treasonable conspiracy on behalf of the exiled Stuarts.
In addition to the letters taken in his lodging, other papers that had
been brought from Germany were put in by the Crown, proving Aglionby to
have been in the service of Her Majesty's enemies; and a man Simmons, a
joiner in London, who had received a free pardon, gave evidence that
Aglionby had fought with the Bavarians at Blenheim and elsewhere,
holding a commission in the Elector of Bavaria's forces. His papers
were found to include letters from Mr. Nicolas Berkeley of Winton Hall,
forwarding sums of money to Aglionby in Holland. The sequel to this
discovery was the arrest of Mr. Berkeley at his inn in Soho, and his
inclusion in the indictment for conspiracy.
The trial came on in due course. Captain Aglionby's connection with the
Jacobites was fully established, and he was sentenced to be transported
to the Plantations for twenty years. Mr. Berkeley's complicity was not
so clearly shown, though he could bring no evidence to prove his
statement that the sums remitted to his fellow-prisoner were payment for
private services totally unconnected with the Jacobite cause. The
circumstances were suspicious, and the judge considered that he showed
great lenience in condemning Mr. Berkeley to pay a fine of L500.
Although he had for years enjoyed a large income, he had but little
ready money at command. He had spent large sums in purchasing lands
adjoining the Winton property, and the extravagance of his son had been
a constant drain upon his purse. With the civil action de Vaudrey _v._
Berkeley pending in the court of chancery, he found some difficulty in
borrowing sufficient money to pay his fine.
The chancery suit came on for hearing. The claimants had engaged the
highest counsel of the day, and brought a great array of evidence,
documentary and oral, from Holland. Mr. Berkeley's case was ably
argued, but the evidence was irresistible; the decision was given
against him; he was ordered to produce the title deeds of the property,
and to render an account of all that he had derived from the estates
since his illegal usurpation of them forty-five years before. He wished
to appeal; but, discredited by the result of the trial for conspiracy,
he was unable to raise the necessary funds. He was moving heaven and
earth to overcome his difficulties when payment was demanded of the sum
he had borrowed to meet the fine, and as the money was not forthcoming
he was arrested and thrown into the debtors' prison in the Fleet.
It was December before the case was finally decided. As soon as Mynheer
Grootz was released from his business cares by the armies going into
winter quarters, he accompanied Madame de Vaudrey with Adele and part of
their household to England, and saw them installed in Winton Hall. At
Adele's wish, Mr. Berkeley was not pressed for the costs of the suit he
had lost; but his other creditors were relentless, and determined to
keep him in the Fleet prison until the income from the farms he
inherited from his mother should have enabled him to pay his debts.
It was many months before Harry learnt of the success of Grootz's
efforts on behalf of Adele. In March, 1705, he left Austria with Prince
Eugene for Italy, where the prince's cousin, Victor Amadeus the Second
of Savoy, was maintaining a difficult struggle against Marshal Vendome.
He was with the prince at the indecisive battle of Cassano in August,
and spent the winter in Turin. There letters reached him from England
telling how Adele had taken up her residence at Winton as lady of the
manor, and when he wrote his warm letter of congratulation he said to
himself that his fate was now sealed. At Turin also he received a
letter from Fanshawe reporting his father's death and his own
determination to sell out and live on his estate. This news gave Harry
a fresh pang, for, though he knew that Fanshawe's suit had been again
rejected, he felt that as next-door neighbours Adele and he would see
much of each other, and their constant companionship might at length end
in a match which on many grounds must be considered excellent.
Next year he served Prince Eugene as aide-de-camp at the battle of
Calcinate in April, and again five months later at the brilliant victory
of Turin, when the prince, by his total defeat of the Duke of Orleans
and Marshal Marsin, finally saved Savoy from the clutches of King Louis.
His own services did not go unrewarded. The prince gave him the
colonelcy of an imperial dragoon regiment, and held out hopes that if he
remained in the emperor's service he might before long gain an estate
and a title of nobility. But a few days after the battle, he received
from England a letter which altered the whole course of his life. It
was a short note from Madame de Vaudrey, written at Winton nearly three
months before. Certain circumstances had come to light, wrote the lady,
that rendered his presence at Winton desirable as soon as he could
obtain leave. It was nearly four years since the black day on which he
had left his home so sadly; he was hungry for a sight of the old scenes
and the old faces, and felt something more than curiosity to see Adele
de Vaudrey as lady bountiful of the parish. He went at once to Prince
Eugene with the letter; the prince drew from him the whole story of his
connection with the family of Lindendaal, and with a twinkling eye
consented to his immediate departure for England.
"The French will give us no more trouble here," he said. "My next
battle will be fought on other soil. I said before, you remember, that
you were in love. You thought not. We shall see. Go home; but the war
is not over. I shall hope to see you at the head of your regiment in
the next campaign."
Sherebiah was as much delighted as his master at the thought of seeing
home again.
"To tell 'ee the truth, sir," he said, when Harry ordered him to make
preparations for departure, "I be a-thinken o' Katrinka. I don't feel
happy in my mind at the notion o' her at Winton Simmary wi'out me. Why,
old feyther o' mine, ancient soul as he be, if he knows what a hand
her've got for griddle-cakes--zooks! sir, he'll be a-marryen her
hisself, never thinken as I be more'n a boy."
One October day Harry and Sherebiah embarked at Leghorn for the voyage
home. Their vessel made quick sailing as far as Gibraltar, where Sir
George Rooke had planted the flag of England two years before; but was
beset by contrary winds in the Atlantic, beat about for days in the Bay
of Biscay, and reached Southampton sadly buffeted six weeks after
leaving Leghorn. The travellers lost no time in taking horse, and rode
up to Winton Hall late one November evening. Harry was received with a
warmth of greeting that made him glow with pleasure. Even Adele welcomed
him with more frankness than she had ever before shown him, though he
detected a different constraint, a something new in her manner, that
puzzled him. The evening was spent in talking over old times and the
strange events that had happened since their last meeting. Mynheer
Grootz, Harry learnt, had visited Winton more than once since he had
installed Adele in her property nearly a year before, and was coming
over to spend Christmas with them. Godfrey Fanshawe, now Sir Godfrey,
was a frequent visitor and had been the means of introducing them to
many of the best people in the county, who had welcomed Adele with open
arms. Madame afterwards told Harry privately that Sir Godfrey had once
more proposed to Adele, and been finally refused. Adele herself looked
older and more womanly. She had acquired considerable fluency in
English, and was fond of going about among the villagers, taking the
keenest interest in ways of life and thought so novel to her.
"But the dear girl is not happy," said Madame with a sigh. "No, she is
not happy. I fear she is home-sick. We have sold Lindendaal and repaid
Mynheer Grootz's friend who so generously bought up that odious man's
mortgages. But Adele was happier at Lindendaal than she is here. She
has been restless ever since we came to England, and you would be
surprised to know, Harry, how she throws herself lately into the details
of this horrible war. The _Courant_ comes to us every day by the coach
from London, and the house is littered, perfectly littered, mon ami,
with maps of Italy. Decidedly she is a changed creature."
"Mamma," interrupted Adele, "don't give Monsieur Harry a wrong idea. I
am happy enough, but----"
"He! voila!" exclaimed Madame with a little gesture. "She is happy,
but----"
"And what is this business that required my presence?" said Harry, to
relieve the girl of her manifest embarrassment.
"Oh! Adele must explain that. It has been her affair always."
"Really, Mamma, I think you should explain. You wrote to Monsieur
Harry."
"Eh bien! but it was you who told me what to say. No, I leave it to you:
I have no head for affairs, especially for affairs so complicated. But
it is growing late, and Harry must be tired. We will let him have a
good night's rest: then to-morrow, ma cherie, you can have a whole
morning together."
The morning turned out bright, and after breakfast Adele proposed a walk
round the grounds. Harry was nothing loth, and when Madame did not
offer to accompany them, he concluded that, living in England, she had
decided to conform to English ways. In the course of that ramble Harry
heard a story that amazed him.
During the past year Adele had made many friends among the villagers,
and one friend in particular, old Gaffer Minshull. She had been
specially gracious to him for the sake of Katrinka, who, however quick
she might be in learning how to cook Wiltshire bacon and to sing
Wiltshire songs, was certainly slow in learning Wiltshire English. The
Lady Squire, as he called her, had become a great favourite with the old
man, and, as she grew accustomed to his dialect, he talked to her freely
about the village, the late parson, and the late squire, of whom he was
no longer "afeard". Adele, like everyone else, had always been puzzled
about Mr. Berkeley's hatred of Harry, and she asked the old man whether
he knew of any reason for it beyond his being the son of the squire's
sturdy opponent, Parson Rochester. Minshull confessed that he was as
much perplexed as she. The old squire's man Jock had told him of the
incident witnessed at the park gate on the day of Harry's departure for
London, when, seeing him walk by, Mr. Berkeley had looked as if he had
had a shock; and he remembered that Squire had left the Hall in a
post-chaise the next day, though whither they went Jock never would
tell.
This set Adele thinking. She made further enquiries of the old man.
Had not the squire a brother? At the question Minshull looked hard at
her, and replied with some hesitation that such was the case; he had a
brother, or rather a step-brother. Adele enquired what had become of
him; she knew, for Grootz had made no secret of his discovery; but she
asked in order to get more information. He died, said the old man, on
the Dover road; a fine young man, though he did hold to that false
Charles One and his light son Charles Two. Then insensibly the old man
was led on to talk at large; he seemed anxious to ease his mind of a
burden; and with the garrulity of old age, and being no longer "afeard"
of the squire, he at length poured out the whole pitiful story.
Forty-seven years before, in '59, when he was a Republican trooper and
his regiment was stationed at Blackheath, he was passing one morning
through London on his way back to camp after--he was ashamed to confess
it--a riotous night. Suddenly he was called into a church to witness a
marriage. No one was present save the clergy, bride and bridegroom, and
the other witness, apparently a lady's-maid. In his half-fuddled state
he had no clear recollection of anything beyond the facts that he signed
his name and came away with a guinea.
About a year later, after the Restoration, when his regiment was
gloomily expecting the order for disbandment, he was strolling one
evening in the direction of Shooter's Hill, and attracted by a crowd
about an inn door. A young gentleman had been discovered a few miles
down the road, lying unconscious, and severely wounded. He had been
brought to the inn, and soon afterwards his servant appeared, a
Frenchman, who had fled when his master was attacked by footpads. From
him it was learnt that the name of the wounded man was Berkeley, and
that he was on his way to Winton St. Mary to take possession of the
family estates. Minshull, out of sheer curiosity, asked with many other
bystanders to be shown the unfortunate gentleman, and to his amazement
he recognized him as the bridegroom whose wedding he had witnessed
nearly a year before. A message was sent to Winton St. Mary, and two
days later Mr. Nicolas Berkeley appeared on the scene. Minshull
meanwhile had hung about, partly out of curiosity, partly out of
interest in the man whose murder had followed so quickly upon his
marriage.
The wounded man never recovered consciousness. He died soon after his
brother's arrival. Minshull found an opportunity of speaking to the
squire, and condoled with him on the loss of so handsome a brother, and
on the sad plight of the young widow left to mourn his loss. Mr.
Berkeley had appeared surprised at the mention of a widow, and asked the
trooper to tell him all he knew. This was very little; he could not
remember the church where the marriage had been performed, nor the name
of the bride; all he was sure of was the identity of the bridegroom; he
did not even remember the name Berkeley. The squire had shaken his head
and frowned: a secret marriage!--there was something suspicious in that;
his brother had some reason to be ashamed of his alliance: he would look
into it; but for the present it was best to drop the curtain on the
episode. He had then offered the trooper a situation at the Hall, which
Minshull, with no settled livelihood after nearly twenty years' military
service, eagerly accepted. He received good wages, and by and by a
cottage on the estate. He was well aware that the squire treated him
thus generously to keep his mouth shut, and though many times he had
felt the prick of conscience, he was so comfortable, and, as time went
on, so much afraid of the squire, that he had never broken the tacit
pact between them.
Old Minshull's story worked so powerfully upon Adele's imagination that
she became at length ill at ease. What had become of the bride whose
marriage he had witnessed? Adele remembered how Eustace Berkeley had
spoken of her in his letters to Mary de Vaudrey; she remembered, too,
that he had married under a feigned name. Her uneasiness grew so
intolerable that she persuaded her mother, not without difficulty, to
put the facts before the same lawyer whom Mynheer Grootz had
employed--Mr. Swettenham Tape of Lincoln's Inn. He warned her that
enquiry might result in the loss of her property, but she insisted on an
investigation, and as it promised to be an interesting enquiry, the
attorney took it up with enthusiasm.
One of his first steps was to interrogate Mr. Berkeley's man Jock, who
had driven with his master to Hungerford on that November day three
years before. As the result of the interview, the lawyer himself made a
journey to Hungerford, where he called at the parsonage and had a
conversation with the vicar, enquiring particularly about his
predecessors in the living. He learnt that the former rector had died
in 1680 at the age of sixty-eight, leaving a grandson, his only
daughter's child, a young man of twenty-one who had just taken deacon's
orders. The grandson's name was Rochester. Did the vicar know anything
of the young man's father? Nothing but the vaguest rumours; it was
generally understood that Lucy Rochester's husband had deserted her a
few months after their marriage, and that was naturally a subject on
which the family would say nothing. Was the lady still living? She had
died ten years before her father. If Mr. Tape desired further details,
there was one person who might gratify him if she wished: the wife of
the landlord of the Bear Inn, who had been lady's-maid to Mistress
Rochester.
The attorney hastened to the inn, engaged a room for the night, and took
the first opportunity of having a gossip with Mrs. Pemberton, the
hostess, a comely, pleasant old dame of near seventy years. She had the
keenest recollection of the one romantic incident of her life. Mistress
Lucy!--of course she remembered the sweet pretty creature. She had been
with her in London the year before the King came back, when she was
visiting her aunt. And Mr. Rochester, too--ah! such a handsome young
gentleman; but a wicked deceiver, she feared. He had protected Mistress
Lucy from footpads one evening: that was the beginning of it, and the
end was a marriage, and a sad end it was, for Mr. Rochester went away to
France three months afterwards, on some urgent business which he did not
explain, and he never returned. Mrs. Rochester remained for nearly a
year in London, then returned to her father at Hungerford with her
infant son, a bonny boy who grew up a blessing to her, and became a
parson, and died only three years back at Winton St. Mary, she had
heard.
Mr. Tape asked whether she remembered the church in which the wedding
had taken place. To be sure she did; it was St. Andrew's Undershaft;
she remembered how dark it looked, and how awed the other witness had
appeared to be, a rough soldier who was fetched in from the street, and
was a little overtaken with liquor. And, strange to say, this was the
second time she had been asked about this incident of long ago, a
miserable-looking old gentleman having called upon her three years
before; after talking with her, he had left the house without so much as
asking for a tankard of her home-brewed.
On returning to London, the attorney examined the register of St.
Andrew's Undershaft, and made a copy of the entry of a marriage on June
19, 1659, between Eustace Rochester, bachelor, of St. Andrew's parish,
and Lucy Fleming, spinster, of Hungerford. The information given by
Gaffer Minshull and Mrs. Pemberton was then embodied in affidavits, and
the whole case being complete, Mr. Tape laid the result of his
investigations before Madame de Vaudrey and her daughter, and asked for
their instructions.
Harry had listened to Adele's story, as they rambled round and round the
park, with a strange mixture of emotions. Astonishment was perhaps the
dominant one, but there was also the happiness of knowing something
about his family, and dismay at the knowledge that he, and not Adele,
was the rightful owner of the Berkeley estates.
"Why, then you are my cousin, Adele!" he said.
"Yes, Harry,--and you are head of the family."
"How plain it makes everything! And do you know, I pity the wretched
old man who has lived for nearly fifty years with these crimes on his
conscience. He must have led a miserable life."
"That is why I am glad all is discovered. I should lead a miserable
life too if I found I was enjoying what did not belong to me."
"But that is nonsense, Adele. You don't imagine I shall take the
estates? Not I. The good folks here adore you already; I won't take
from them their lady squire."
"You must."
"No, no! Only weak or foolish sovereigns abdicate, Adele: you are not
weak or foolish. Besides, I have my career. I am on the high road to
preferment. Prince Eugene has given me a regiment, and--I didn't mean
to tell you this--promises me an estate and a title in Austria."
"And you know perfectly well that you would rather be plain Mr.
Berkeley, an English squire, than count or prince or royal highness in
Austria. No; I will not listen to you: if you insist on being an
Austrian--well, I shall give up the estates to the crown: Queen Anne
shall be lady of the manor."
"You cannot: you are not of age, and Madame would never hear of it."
"Mr. Henry Berkeley, I have only two years to wait."
They had come round to the gate leading from the park to the graveyard.
"Come and see the monument the people put up in the church to your
father, Harry," said Adele, with a change of tone. He opened the gate
for her; she passed through, then turned, and said: "It is you or Queen
Anne, Mr. Berkeley."
Harry was on the other side of the gate. They looked into each other's
eyes. He knew her strength of character: he had no doubt that she would
do anything to which she had made up her mind. He was troubled, and,
resting his arms on the upper bar of the gate, stood thus pondering.
"Adele," he said presently, "but for me you would stay at the Hall?"
"If I were the rightful owner, certainly; but now it is clearly
impossible."
"Not quite impossible, Adele, even so."
He waited for an answer, but she was unexpectedly silent, her eyes cast
down.
"Not quite impossible, Adele. If you will not stay for any other
reason--tell me, Adele, will you not stay for my sake?"
Still she made no answer, only looked up with a shy startled glance.
But in that look Harry found courage to repeat his question.
* * * * *
"Never did I ply my fark at such a roaren dinner--never in my born days;
I tells 'ee true, souls."
"Ay, I seed 'ee myself, Lumpy, a-scoopen chidlens an' plum-pudden an'
furmenty into your thropple till I thowt 'ee'd bust. 'Twere noble
eatin', to be sure."
"Ay, Soapy, an' cost a pretty penny, I warrant. Squire Harry be a
different sart o' feller to old Squire as was. Never did he gi' us a
warmen-up, nor never would, if there'd ha' bin farty weddens."
"Why bean't every day a marryen day? 'T'ould keep all our innards warm
an' cosy 'ithout us doen a hand's turn."
"'T'ould be the ruin of a poor stunpoll like 'ee, Jemmy. I'm afeard
'ee'll never be a man, an' if 'ee got your vittles so easy 'ee'd be more
like a fatted calf 'n ever."
"Ah! I knows my dumb brain be weak by natur'. I mind how dazed I were
the black day young pa'son went to Lun'on, and John painter made Mis'ess
Joplady's pictur' the colour o' sut."
"An' it'll be the colour o' sut to-morrer, souls, I gi' my word for
that. They tells me 'tis treason, but John painter do blot out Queen's
yead to-morrer, and inn turns to Berkeley Arms again."
"Like a 'ooman, changes her name at a wedden.--Ah! here be neighbour
Minshull; a scantling o' cheese and a mug o' old stingo for gaffer,
Mistress Joplady; he'll want a summat to comfort un, poor aged soul,
this night o' fearsome joy."
"True, Tom cobbler, I be gone eighty-vive. I ha' seed un home-along,
souls; my boy Sherebiah be a man at last, an' I be proud as a
grandfeyther a'ready. Never did I think my boy an' young pa'son 'd say
the awful words in church the same day. 'I take thee, Addle,' says
Master Harry in a feelin' key, and 'I take thee, Katrinka,' says my boy
when the gentry was done; and they little small words do have a world o'
better or wuss in 'em."
"Ay, gaffer; 'ee can sing 'Now lettest thou thy sarvant depart', wi' a
honest mind, hey!"
"Hoy! Not me! I bean't got no vurther 'n 'My soul doth magnify' yet.
I'll bide a bit longer afore I goos to churchyard, trust me. My boy as
was do say there'll be another wedden afore long; the Dutchman and
Mis'ess Addle's mother be a-comen to't. He've been sweet on her, a'
b'lieve, for many a forlorn day. My boy ha' carried many a noble gift
from the man to th' 'ooman."
"Two furreners makes a better match nor one o' one sart, t'other o'
t'other. Mistress Addle be a goodly maid, nesh as a ripe apple; but her
be French; that you cannet deny; and French and English be like oil and
vinegar."
"And what do mix better in a sallet-dressen?--tell me that, souls."
"Ay, Mistress Joplady, we cannet gainsay 'ee on a matter o' that
homeliness; but what med 'ee say o' the name? Addle! it bean't a very
coaxen name for a squire's lady, be jowned if it be."
"Dear lamb! to take her name in vain! You, Soapy Dick you, we all knows
'ee for a addle-pate; else your hair wouldn' grow so fiery red. What do
a bide-at-home like 'ee know o' high names an' titles? Addle be the
true French for a bloomy cheek--Sherry Minshull telled me so hisself.
Bean't that the true meanen on't, gaffer?"
"Sherry's yead be full o' rare knowledge, Mis'ess. But daze me, name or
no name, 'tis all one: French her were, English her be; and if any
twanken feller do say her bean't good, and comely, and a comforten wife
for young Squire--why, old as I be I'll try the thickness of his poll, I
will so."
"I'll help 'ee, gaffer. My weak head cannet make no goodness out o'
Addle, but her gi' me a zilver zixpence for choppen wood, her did, and
if I cracks a poll wi' 'ee, mebbe her'll gi' me another."
"Ay, hers be a good heart, 'tis true. Why, her went along to Grange and
begged and prayed young Sir Godfrey to putt poor Willum Nokes back into
's ancient place o' constable. And Sir Godfrey he can't refuse her
nothen, for all her have refused he, as 'tis said; and so wi' noo year
poor Willum'll be back in his little small cottage, a-rulen over parish
in the Queen's name once more."
"Such changes as the world do see! Look 'ee, souls, I be eighty-vive,
and I've seed a mort o' things in my time. I ha' growed like a oak from
boy well-nigh to grandfeyther, an' seed six high and mighty sovrans goo
to yearth: two Jameses, two Charleses, Noll Crum'ell, and Dutch Willum
to end the tale. Ay, the world be full o' ups and downs. To think, now,
that old Squire--him as once I were so tarrible afeard on--be now eatin'
the bread and water of affliction in a Lun'on prison-house! And they do
say as how his son Piers be joined in matrimony to a Dutch 'ooman o'
great tonnage, full o' years an' goold pieces. An he were a right youth
a'd pay his old feyther's debts an' set the captive free; but not he, I
warrant: he'll lay out all the goold th' old wife gies un on wigs and
furbelows. And there be Squire Harry--young pa'son as was: who'd a
thowt, when his poor feyther went under ground, 'twas a rightful squire
Bill sexton had dug for, and the boy a-droppen warm tears into his
holler grave ought to ha' been squire that minute in his place? Ay, I
mind the sermon as pa'son spoke out in church fust Sunday arter news
come o' Master Harry bein' true squire. I seed un climb pulpit steps,
and I know'd by the spread o' his petticoats summat awful for poor
sinners was a-comen, an' I felt all leery down the small o' my back.
'God is the judge,' says pa'son in his slow, tarrifyen way: 'he putteth
down one, and setteth up another.' That were the holy text, out of Thy
sarvant David's psa'ms, and daze me if pa'son didn't scarify old Squire
as if 'twas pa'son hisself was choused out o' his rightful proputty.
'Twas a powerful bit o' preachen; every 'ooman there was took wi' a
longen to let the water-drops tummle, but none on 'em durst begin till
Mis'ess Addle's mother set the key. Then 'twas a little Noah's flood;
you mind, souls?--such a fall o' tears bean't seed in Winton Simmary
since pa'son told us Princess Henrietta were dead in France."
"And be Squire Harry a-gwine to gi' up the trade o' killen, and bide at
home wi' poor peaceful folks like we as never slays nowt but pigs and
other beasts o' the field?"
"Ay, 'tis so. My boy do zay he med ha' been a knight or lard at a word
wi' Prince Eugene; but bless 'ee, he've got his lands to look arter, and
we poor folks besides, and like his feyther afore un he have a true
heart for home an' friends. Why, he wouldn' gi' up the charge o' we
poor souls, not to be the Lord's anointed."
"Hark 'ee, Gaffer Minshull; bean't they the bells at last?"
"Ay, 'tis so. Pa'son commanded a peal at zeven o'clock by way o' holy
consolation to bride an' bridegroom. Old Everlasten ha' took his coat
off; 'tis he do call the changes; and i' feck, the bells 'll romp
through a rare randy afore he've done wi' 'em. Now, sonnies, what d'ye
say to wenden out-along an' callen choir and orchestry together? Then
we'll march up t' Hall, and sing 'em a lively ditty as 'll cheer 'em up
arter the Christian doens o' the day. Sackbut, psalteery, an' all sarts
o' music, says the Book; we cannet muster they holy instruments, to be
sure, but wi' fiddle and bass-viol and serpent, and a little bit o'
tribble an' bass, we'll make a shift to raise a goodish randy toon.
What d'ye say, sonnies?"
"Be jowned if it bean't a fine notion for such a old aged martal. Ay,
let's out-along and make all the nise we can."
"A thimbleful afore 'ee goos, souls. Mugs all, an' lift up your hearts
in a noble cheer for Squire an' Lady Squire, wishen 'em long life an' a
happy end. All together now; spet it out o' your wynd-pipes; hurray!
hurray! hurray!"
*CHAPTER XXVII*
*Visitors at Winton Hall*
Weather-bound--A Home Circle--Marlborough Unbends--Of Princes--A Certain
Harry Rochester
One January evening, in the year 1712, a little group was gathered in
the turret-room of Winton Hall. The wind was roaring without; snow had
been falling steadily all day; but within all was warmth and peace. A
big wood fire blazed on the open hearth, lighting up with its ruddy
glare as charming a scene as any English country-house could show. It
was the children's hour; little Eustace Berkeley, a sturdy boy of five,
stood by his mother's knee on one side of the hearth, and on the other,
Mary, two years younger, nestled in her father's arms.
Squire Berkeley looked up from his copy of the _Courant_.
"The duke is dismissed from all his offices, Adele."
"What that mean, Faver?" said the boy instantly.
"The Queen has sent away the great man who fought her battles so
bravely; he will hang up his sword and perhaps never use it again."
"Why did the naughty Queen send the great duke away, Faver?"
"Why naughty tween send dute away?" echoed Mary, a golden-haired fairy,
the image, as Mevrouw Grootz was wont to declare, of Adele at the same
age.
"Because the Queen does not like him as she used to do. She likes
somebody else better, and there are unkind people who whisper in her ear
stories about him that are very likely not true. He is a great man,
Eustace, and there are always little men to say unkind things about the
great."
"Are you a great man, Faver?"
"No, my son; I am a plain English squire, that would rather live here
with you all than in any king's palace."
"But your father might have been a great man," said Mistress Berkeley.
"A great prince----"
"Nay, nay, my dear," interrupted the squire, "leave that story till the
children are older. It is bed-time now, my chicks. Hark how the wind
roars! Think of the little birds out in the cold; they have no warm
cosy cots like yours. In the morning, remember, we are to make a figure
of the great duke in the snow.--But what is that?"
The deep-toned house-bell had clanged in the hall below.
"'Tis late for a visitor, and in this snowstorm too!"
He threw open the door, and stood waiting. In a few moments a man
appeared.
"An't please 'ee, sir, a coach be snowed up a hunnerd yards or so beyond
church, an' the travellers be come afoot to axe if 'ee'll give 'em
shelter."
"Of course! I will come down. Tell Dick to take a couple of horses and
haul the coach out of the drift, and ask Sherebiah to prepare some hot
cordial."
He followed the man downstairs. Just within the doorway stood two white
figures muffled up to the ears in long cloaks. They doffed their
snow-laden hats as Harry appeared, and the elder came forward.
"I crave your pardon, sir," he said in smooth mellow tones that revived
old memories and quickened Harry's pulse--"I crave your pardon for
troubling you at such an unseasonable hour, but my coach is blocked in a
drift a hundred yards or so beyond the church, and as my friend Lord
Godolphin is far from well, I have come to ask your hospitality until we
can free the coach and return to the inn. I am the Duke of
Marlborough."
"Your grace is heartily welcome. But pray do me the honour to accept
beds for the night. The inn is near a mile away, and you are cold and
wet. Let me remove your things. I have already sent a man to bring
your coach to my stables, and there is a good fire above."
"I thank you. I cannot resist your invitation. To whom are we indebted
for our welcome?"
"Henry Berkeley, my lord; this is Winton Hall."
"Ah! I remember the name. There was some little romance, if I mistake
not, about the inheritance a few years since. Thank you, Mr. Berkeley!
this is indeed a haven of refuge to worn-out travellers."
Divested of their outer garments and provided with slippers, the two
noblemen preceded their host up the stairs. At the door of the
turret-room he advanced a few paces.
"My dear, his grace the Duke of Marlborough and Lord Godolphin. They
are our guests to-night."
Mistress Berkeley rose and made a sweeping curtsy, blushing prettily,
and throwing a half-startled, half-amused glance at her husband. The
children made round eyes of wonder.
"Madame, 'tis a charming welcome. We were driving to my lord Pembroke's
at Wilton Park, and were besnowed. 'Tis indeed a delightful
transformation."
He patted the children's cheeks playfully. Lord Godolphin, who was
evidently ill, had already thrown himself wearily into a chair.
"Well, my little man, what is your name?" asked Marlborough of the boy.
"Eustace Berkeley, sir."
"A pretty name, egad. And what would you like to be when you are a man,
eh?"
"A soldier, and wear a red coat, and a sword, and fight for the Queen."
"A proper answer, indeed. Well, if you grow strong, and do what your
father and mother tell you, you may be a soldier one day, and
perhaps--who knows?--a great man."
"I do not want to be a great man."
"Why not, my boy?"
"Faver says people are not kind to great men, and the Queen likes
somebody else better, and sends them away."
"A little philosopher already, Mr. Berkeley," said my lord, smiling at
the child. "Well, well, my little fellow, be a good man; not even the
Queen could wish you better than that."
"'Tis the children's bed hour, my lord," said Mistress Berkeley. "I
pray you excuse me."
As mother and children left the room, Sherebiah, who as butler at Winton
Hall had settled down as a very comfortable man of peace, entered with a
tray on which were silver tankards of mulled wine. The good fellow
looked not a day older than when he had led Katrinka to the altar six
years before. He placed the tray on a table and silently withdrew. The
guests sipped the grateful liquor and sat in tired silence gazing into
the fire.
Presently Mistress Berkeley returned.
"Supper is served, my lords," she said.
"A sweet word to famished men."
The duke offered her his arm and led the way to the supper room,
followed by Lord Godolphin and Harry. At the table he kept up an
animated conversation with his hostess, yielding as all men did to the
charm of a rarely gracious personality. Lord Godolphin was as little
inclined to talk as to eat. When the cloth was removed, and Sherebiah
had placed bottles on the table and left the gentlemen to themselves,
Marlborough crossed his knees and said:
"Egad, Mr. Berkeley, you are a lucky man, with such a wife and such
children. We could not have fared more happily--eh, my lord?"
"Nay indeed," replied Godolphin, thawing a little. "We could never have
reached Wilton to-night. The wind, hark you, is gaining in fury--a
sorry night for travellers."
"Ay; that poor wretch at Basingstoke is well quit of his troubles. A
sad case, Mr. Berkeley; but too common, I fear. 'Twas a broken soldier;
they had clapt him in the stocks as a vagrant; never in my life saw I a
more piteous object. He was outside the inn, and hailed me as we
alighted to dine and change horses. Had fought at Blenheim, he told me,
captain in a Hanoverian regiment, Aglionby by name, and lately returned
from the Indies. We had him released; but the poor fellow was even worse
than he seemed; for he died of a sudden before we left the inn. He was
on his way to this very village to see a cousin, I bethink me he said.
'Tis thus we serve the men who have fought our battles."
There was a note of bitterness in Marlborough's voice.
"Your pity, I fear, was ill-deserved, my lord," said the Squire. "I
know the man. He fought at Blenheim, indeed, but on the other side, and
for treasonable practices was sent some six years ago on a long term to
the Plantations. He must have escaped."
"Poor wretch! He had a miserable end. In spite of what you tell me,
Mr. Berkeley, I pity him. Such is the fate of too many loyal soldiers
also, the innocent victims of war. You who live a quiet country life
have certainly chosen the better part. The prizes of court and camp are
in the end but Dead-Sea fruit. 'Put not your trust in princes': 'tis
the truest of warnings, as we old stagers--eh, my lord?--have reason to
know."
A cheerful fire, good fare, and a fine vintage of much-travelled Madeira
had completed the good impression made by the host. The elder men began
to talk freely, with none of the constraint which the presence of a
younger man and a stranger might in other circumstances have produced.
Harry was amused to find that the passage of years had altered him
beyond recognition, and wondered when a suitable opportunity would occur
of recalling himself to the recollection of his guests. All at once
Lord Godolphin said:
"'Tis strange, Mr. Berkeley, that I am for the second time detained in
this village by an accident. My host on that occasion was, I think, a
Mr. Fanshawe. Is he still living? It was ten years ago."
"Sir Godfrey Fanshawe is dead, my lord; his son now owns the Grange."
"It all comes back to me. We were travelling to London--Frank and I,
Jack--and our coach broke down as we left a cricket match. Sir Godfrey
Fanshawe was good enough to give us beds for the night, and we had gone
but a few miles on the road next morning when we were pulled up by a
fallen tree, and in a trice were looking down the muzzles of
half-a-dozen horse pistols. I had sent some of my young men ahead to
arrange a change of horses; the others bolted, and there we were in the
midst of the gang. 'Twas an uncommonly tight place; Frank, always handy
with his pistol, got in a shot, but in another half-minute we should
have been stripped or worse when there came from the wall at our left a
wild hullabaloo worse than a dozen Thames bargemen touting for a fare.
The rascals turned tail and bolted; over the wall sprang a man and a
boy, and egad, I remember now how I laughed when they told me they'd
done the trick betwixt 'em. 'Twas a rare flam. And the boy----"
"I think, my lord----" began Harry, feeling somewhat uncomfortable; but
Marlborough, setting his glass down on the table, bent forward and
interrupted.
"Egad, Godolphin, you bring things back to me. The boy--we were always
going to do something for him. He found his way to the Low Countries,
and showed himself a lad of mettle. I came across him once or twice;
noted him--for the second time, by the way--for an ensigncy, and found
that he was already a cornet in a Dutch regiment. He did well with
Eugene, I believe. Rochester--that was his name--Harry Rochester. I
wonder what became of him! Certainly he owed nothing to
patronage--yours or mine. Wasn't he the son of the parson here? Mr.
Berkeley, has he ever revisited these parts? 'Pon my soul, I should
like to meet him again."
"I was about to explain, your grace, that--I am that Harry Rochester."
* * * * * * * *
*A Selection from the Catalogue of*
*G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS*
*Complete Catalogues sent
on application*
*The Light Brigade
in Spain*
*or*
*The Last Fight of Sir John Moore*
*By Herbert Strang*
Author of "Tom Burnaby," etc.
With a Preface by Lieut.-Col. WILLOUGHBY VERNER.