Turning to look round once more, and to again salute Sylvia as he
reached the gate (at which he found the ancient gardener waiting to
let him out and make all fast when he had gone), he saw that the girl
still stood upon the balcony and, through the darkness of the night,
was looking towards the spot he had now reached. The flare of the
candles in the large candelabra within the hall streamed out of the
great open door, making a patch of light behind Sylvia and causing her
to stand out clearly before his eyes. By this he could perceive that
she was leaning against the pillar and looking down towards where he
was, and that behind her head the passion flowers gleamed white, as
though forming a setting to it.
Then, while doubting whether she could see his action, he nevertheless
raised his three-cornered hat again, and so passed out into the road
between the great gate and the river.
Once beyond the gate, however, he paused, and, dropping his hand to
his sash, took his sword-handle in it and softly drew the blade up and
down in the sheath to make sure that it ran loose and free.
"Francbois," he said to himself as he did so. "Francbois, Emile
Francbois! 'Tis strange I did not recall his name before. And he is
here in Liége. Also, he loves Sylvia, and would be loved by her. So,
so; that way trouble may come. Od's heart!--soon we shall have as good
a comedy here--or will it be a tragi-comedy?--as ever George Farquhar
or Mrs. Centlivre has written. Well, we will see to it."
Continuing his way towards the "Gouden Leeuw," and continuing it
warily too, for he knew not whether from behind some wall, either of
warehouse or solid, comfortable mansion, he might not see in the
moonlight a pair of dark eyes glinting at him, or the phosphorescent
sparkle of a rapier's blade that an instant later might be making
trial of his coat's thickness, he also continued to muse.
"Sparmann at Antwerp and then at St. Trond--what was it seized on that
vagabond and caused him to hold his hand and disappear?--and now
Francbois here! Francbois, who was at the Lycée in Paris with me--the
boy I sometimes beat for his impertinence regarding my countrymen, and
to whom I sometimes gave a trifle for doing my impositions. And I did
not know him this evening! Ah, well, 'tis not so strange either.
Thirteen years have changed him much. If they have done the same for
me, it may be that neither does he know me. And yet--and yet--I would
be sworn he did. One glances not at another as he glanced at me
without having good reason for't."
As Bevill Bracton reflected, so the matter was. This Emile Francbois,
this man who had stared so at him on the Quai as he went towards the
Weiss Haus--this man who had undoubtedly followed him to that house,
and peered in through the bars of the gate while evidently aghast at
discovering that the other, whom he knew to be an Englishman, was also
known to the woman whose love he desired--had been a schoolfellow of
Bevill's in Paris.
And, now, the latter recalled him, as he had done from the moment
Sylvia uttered his name. He recalled the slight, sickly-looking boy
who came from Limousin and dwelt with a priest outside the Lycée--the
boy who told tales of his comrades both inside and outside of school
that often earned for them beatings and punishments. Also, he recalled
how preternaturally clever this boy was, how easily he mastered
lessons and subjects that other scholars stumbled over, and how he
made money by his wits, by doing the lessons and impositions of those
others for them.
"The man is," Bevill continued to muse, "what the boy has been; the
boy is what the man will become. I doubt me not that as Emile
Francbois was, so he is now. Crafty and clever, fawning and malignant.
Ready to obtain money by any unclean trick. He knows my name; he will
not have forgotten it--if he has, he will soon recall it. If there is
aught to be earned by betraying, by denouncing me, then he will do it.
I must find the means of silencing him. Yet how? Shall I give him
money, or, better still, this," and he fingered the quillon of his
sword as thus he meditated.
"So he loves Sylvia, does he?" he went on, as now he drew near the
'Gouden Leeuw,' "and she despises him. Ah! 'tis very well; the game is
afoot. If she does not set out soon for England with me, it is as like
as not that I shall never set out at all. All the same, I will take no
trouble in advance."
After which he entered the inn, though not before he had looked well
around to see if anyone--if Francbois--might be hovering near to spy
on him; and so went to bed and slept peacefully.
Meanwhile, among many others in Liége who that night, as every night,
were full of thoughts and anxieties as to what was soon to take place
either in it or outside it, Sylvia Thorne was one. The Weiss Haus was
closed now for the night, the great hall door barred firmly, with, in
the house, some of her menservants keeping watch by turns. For these
were truly troublous times. At any moment the French might be attacked
by some of the forces of the Allies, in which case they would in all
probability instantly enter the city and quarter themselves wherever
accommodation might be found. Therefore, all property was in imminent
danger; at any moment the burghers old houses might be turned into
barracks and their warehouses into stables, their granaries taken
possession of, and their servants used as the beleaguerers' own.
To-night, however, all was peaceful; the city was very quiet;
excepting only the distant sounds that occasionally reached Sylvia's
ears from the French lines--the call of a trumpet or bugle and,
sometimes, the hoarse challenge of a sentry in the Citadel, or the
Chartreuse, borne towards her on the soft evening breeze--nothing
disturbed those who slept or watched.
Seated in her own room, with the window set open for coolness, Sylvia
was thinking deeply over the sudden appearance of Bevill Bracton, and,
womanlike, she was dreaming over that which never fails to appeal to a
woman's stronger senses--a man's bravery, the more especially when
that bravery has been testified, aroused, on her behalf.
Now, though still she knew that he had set out upon this perilous
journey towards her--this undertaking whose risks had scarce begun as
yet--intent on doing something gallant that should earn the
approbation of Marlborough when it came to his ears, she did not put
that in the balance against him. For, womanlike again, she told
herself that, no matter what his original object might have been in
entering on this task, no matter that he would as willingly have taken
part in some terrible siege or fought unaided against a dozen foemen
as endeavour to assist her, now her own personality was merged in his
great attempt, it must be she, and not his prospects, that would
henceforth be paramount.
Even had Sylvia not thought thus, even had it happened that Bevill
Bracton, sojourning in this beleaguered city, had chanced to hear that
she might stand in need of help, and, hearing, had proffered that
help, she would have admired his prompt, unselfish chivalry as much.
"'I stay here with you,'" she murmured now, repeating the words he had
uttered. "'We leave together or remain together.' Ah, my Lord
Peterborough," she murmured, "you spoke truly when you wrote that you
sent a knight to me, a sentinel to keep watch and ward for me."
She put her hand now to the lace she wore, and, drawing forth the
Earl's letter, read it again, as she had done thrice over since she
had entered the house after hearing the last footfall of Bevill
Bracton in the road when he left her. It ran:
"SWEET SYLVIA,
"War is declared now. Well I know that, placed as you are, your
situation is precarious. You will be alone in Liége; your house, your
goods, your own fair self in jeopardy. For the first two it matters
little. You may close the house up; dispose of the merchandise to some
of the steady burghers amongst whom you dwell. But you--you, my
stately, handsome ward! You must not be left alone. What shall become
of you? Now read, Sylvia. There was with me to-day one who, as Will
Shakespeare says, seeks his reputation--a restoration of it--at the
cannon's mouth. You knew him once; he has played with you oft in your
childhood. 'Tis Bevill Bracton, once of the Cuirassiers, who lost his
colours because our late sour Orange contemned him for wounding of a
Hollander who had insulted his service. He is young, yet steady and
calm; what he attempts to do he will do unless Death seizes on him.
Therefore he will attempt to reach you, to assist you to leave Liége,
to put you in security either in some of _les villes gagnées_ by us,
or in England itself. In return for which, use him; above all, trust
him. He will be your very knight, your sentinel to watch and ward over
you. Accept his service as he proffers it to you, the service of a
gallant gentleman. He seeks his restoration to his calling, I say;
that is the guerdon he aspires to for his pains. It may be that he
will win another, sweeter to wear than either corselet or plume. Yet
of this I would fain not speak. Only, above all, be merciful. Be not
too grave nor solemn--not more so than becomes a maiden placed 'midst
difficulties. Be gracious as you ever are, yet not too kind; above
all, veil those glances that even I, Mordanto, could not resist were I
as young as your cavalier that is to be.
"This for the last. He bears your miniature about him. I will be sworn
he will know your lineaments well long ere he reaches Liége. And still
one more last word. In your fair hands will be all his earthly
chances, even unto his life; his future career, when he has found you.
Make no false step that may mar his plans; hesitate not when he
suggests the road to safety; hamper him not. Follow where he will lead
you; it will not be astray. That soon may I welcome you to Carey Villa
is my prayer. That is if I, who long to draw the sword against these
French once more, be still thwarted and refused. Farewell. Out of my
love for your dead father and mother and your young self, I pray
heaven to prosper you.
"PETERBOROUGH AND MONMOUTH."
Sylvia let the letter fall to her lap as she finished the reading of
it, and sat gazing out of her window across the river beyond the
garden wall, while watching, without seeing, the stars that twinkled
in the skies; while listening to, without hearing, the nightingale
answering his mate or the swirl of the water against the bank.
"All his earthly chances, his life, his career in my hands," she
whispered at last, "when once he has found me. Alas! on me there falls
a heavy charge. And 'hesitate not when he suggests the road to
safety.' Ah, heaven, what shall I do?"
As still she pondered over these words she became almost o'erwrought;
but suddenly it seemed as though some swift decision, some decisive
banishment of all doubt, had come to her mind. Springing up from the
deep chair in which she had been sitting for so long, she went to the
window and out on to the great stone balcony which it, in common with
all the other windows on the front, possessed: and stood there, gazing
towards the city in which, one by one, the lights were rapidly
becoming extinguished.
"His life," she murmured once again, "his earthly chances in my hands.
His--the life, the chances of one so brave and gallant as he! Ah! and
my lord bids me not mar him, not thwart him, but, instead, follow him
where he leads. And still I hesitate--or--do I hesitate?" she went on,
whispering to herself.
Then, an instant later, she exclaimed, "What am I? What? That which I
averred to-night I was not? A selfish woman! Am I that? Am I? Because I
am not in personal danger shall I forget the awful, hideous peril in
which he has placed himself in undertaking this task? Nay, never," she
said now. "Never! Never! Perish the thought! To detain him here, as
detain him I shall if I refuse to go, means detection, ruin, death for
him. Oh! oh! the horror of it! And on my head! But to go--if heaven
above prospers us--may mean at least escape from this place, may
doubtless mean the reaching of the English or Dutch forces. Safety!
Safety for him! I am resolved." While, as Sylvia spoke, she struck the
stone parapet of the balcony lightly with her hand. "Aye, determined.
To-morrow--for to-morrow I shall surely see him--I will tell him so. I
will tell him that I fear for my safety--the pretence is pardonable
where a brave man's life is at stake--that we must go. All, all is
pardonable so that he be saved!"
On the morrow she did see him again, though not as early as she had
anticipated she would do. Yet she knew there was a reason for his
absence, and that a strong one.
From daybreak there had been a strange, unaccustomed stir through all
the city--a stir that made itself noticeable even here on the
outskirts. The Liégeois seemed to have arisen early, even for them,
and were gathering at street corners and on the stoops of their quaint
houses, and under market-halls that stood on high wooden posts. Also,
on the river, there was more movement than usual; boats were passing
up and down more continuously than they had done before; all was life
and movement.
Sylvia, who had herself risen early after a somewhat disturbed night,
was now regarding as much of this as possible from her balcony. On the
opposite bank she could see the rays of the morning sun strike on some
objects that glistened and sparkled beneath it, and recognised what
those things were--breast-pieces, corselets, the lace on scarlet or
blue coats, the scabbards of swords, and, often, the bare swords
themselves. She heard, too, the sounds of drums beating and bugles
sounding; while, from across the water, there came orders, issued in
sharp, decisive tones, and, next, pontoons filled with soldiers
crossing the river and disembarking at various points on the other
side.
After seeing which Sylvia descended to the hall and asked those who
were about downstairs what all the movement and excitement meant.
"It is the French coming into the city, Juffrouw," one of the
servitors replied. "They say the Earl of Athlone's forces draw near,
that Kaiserswörth is taken by the Allies. Also they say----"
"What?" Sylvia exclaimed, impatient of the man's slow, stolid speech.
"That the great English commander, Marlborough, has come; that he is
in Holland; that ere long he will march to relieve Liége."
Sylvia turned away as she heard these words, and went out slowly into
her garden and sat down in an arbour placed half-way between the house
and the great gate.
"Will this," she mused now, "tell for or against his chances--our
chances? The city will be occupied by the French, instead of having
them outside of it. Alas! alas! it will be against those chances. He
runs more risk with the streets and inns full of French officers and
soldiers than with none but the townspeople inside the walls. Also,
the difficulties of exit are multiplied now. Heaven send the English
forces here at once or keep them away until we are safely out of
Liége."
Thinking, pondering thus, the girl sat on for some time, though at
intervals she would return to the house to give some orders or to ask
if there were any further news from outside. In this manner the
morning ran away and the day went on; but, at last, when Sylvia began
to be alarmed at the absence of the man for whose safety she was so
concerned, she saw that he was before her. Raising her eyes, she
observed that he was standing outside the gate gazing in at her.
This gate, as always of late, was kept locked, the key being left in
the lock on the inside; and now, full of some feminine fear or
instinct which seemed to hint that while Bevill was outside the gate
he stood in more danger than if he were inside, with the great
structure between him and those who might seek to harm him, she went
swiftly down and turned the key, while bidding him come in quickly.
Pushing with his shoulder one of the great halves of that gate, he had
soon done as she bid him, while she, holding out her hand to him,
exclaimed:
"You have not--not been--oh! Danger has not threatened you?" seeming
to gasp a little as she spoke.
"Nay, nay; why should you fear?" he replied. "Though that you should
do so is but natural. The French are sending in two of their regiments
the better to hold the town if their out-lines are driven back; yet
you will not be molested?"
"I--" Sylvia said, though now she spoke in a more self-constrained
voice--a voice that, maybe, had in it a colder accent, "was not
concerned for--for--but no matter. I did but deem that with the city
full of French now you might have been--troubled--molested."
"Ah, forgive me. I misunderstood your thoughts. Now," he continued, "I
have brought you news that may be either pleasant to you or otherwise.
Marlborough is in Holland."
"I know," she said, as she led him out of the glare of the sun towards
the cool shade of the hall. "I know. Yet it may be that this news is
none too pleasant. I--I--had resolved last night to quit the city, as
both you and my Lord Peterborough think it best for me to do; to
consult"--and as she spoke her voice seemed even more grave, more cold
than before--"_my safety_. Now it may not be so easy to perform."
"I' faith," Bevill said, with a smile, "easy is not the word. The
gates are barred against all and everyone. Short of being a French
soldier there is no exit from Liége now."