The weather that, through the latter part of June and July, had held
so fine, had changed at last. With that persistency which for
centuries has caused all in the Netherlands to say that their climate
is the worst in Europe, or at least the most unreliable, a rainy
season had again set in accompanied by considerable cold. The rivers
were so swollen now that, in the case of all the great ones, the
usually slow, turgid streams had turned into swirling volumes of
water, resembling those which, in mountainous regions, pour forth from
their icy sources; even the smaller waterways had overflowed their
banks and submerged the low-lying fields around them. Thus, except in
some particular instances, all military operations had come to an end
for the time; the thousands of soldiers who composed the rival armies,
and were drawn from half the countries in Europe, lay idle in their
tents--when they had any--or in some town they had possessed
themselves of; or, in many cases, on the rain-soaked ground.
Of these armies none suffered worse than did the principal portion of
the English forces--namely, that under the Earl of Marlborough. For
the torrid heat of July was all gone now--that heat of which, but a
week or so before, Marlborough had made mention in one of his frequent
letters to his wife, while adding the hope that it would ripen the
fruit in their gardens at St. Albans, the gardens so dear to him since
he knew well enough that she walked in them daily and thought always
of him. For whatever John Churchill's faults might be, and whatever
the faults of his beautiful but shrewish wife might be, neither failed
in their absorbing love for one another--the love that had sprung into
their hearts when he was but a colonel and gentleman of the bedchamber
to the Duke of York and she a maid of honour to the Duchess.
The heat and fine weather were gone, and for refuge, there was little
but the open left for the English troops. It was true Kaiserswörth was
taken at this time, Breda was occupied by the English, Maestricht was
the same, and Nimeguen had been long in our hands; but with these
exceptions Marlborough, with 60,000 men under his command, lay almost
entirely in the open. His lordship was at this time at Grave on the
Meuse on his way to Venloo, there to attempt the siege and capture of
that town, it lying some forty-five miles south of Grave and fifty
miles north of Liége.
But however impassable, or almost impassable, the roads were at this
present moment, traffic on them, other than that caused by the French
and allied armies, had not ceased, for the sufficient reason that it
could by no possibility do so. Along every road there streamed wagons
and provisions, which, since the latter were to be offered to the
first would-be purchasers, were in little danger of being seized as
contraband of war by either side, especially as both the contending
forces paid for what they appropriated, though, as often as not, the
payment was not what the vendors demanded.
Horsemen were also frequent on these same roads, since, provided they
were neither soldiers nor spies, nor bearers of despatches or
disguised letters, as was soon apparent if they were stopped and
searched rigorously, they were not molested, though in many cases the
errands upon which they rode were more harmful than even secret news
might have been. For many of these men were, under the assumed titles
of suttlers and army agents, nothing more nor less than professional
gamblers and "bankers," who, once they had got within the lines of
either army, contrived not only to strip the officers of all the ready
money they possessed, but also, in cases where they knew the standing
and family of many of these officers, to lend them money (which they
afterwards won back from them) at exorbitant rates of interest, the
payment of which frequently crippled them or their families for years.
Besides these, there haunted the neighbourhood of the armies, like
ghouls or vampires, or those vultures which can scent bloodshed from
afar, a class of women, most of whom were horribly bedizened and
painted hags, who followed, perhaps, one of the most dreadful trades
to which women have ever turned their attention. But, though they
passed along these roads under false names and sometimes titles, and
rode in good hired vehicles and, as often as not, in handsome ones
that were their own property, they presented a different appearance
when a battle had taken place. For then their silks and satins, their
paint and patches, their lace and jewels, and also their pinchbeck
titles of marchionesses and countesses and baronesses, were discarded,
and they stood forth as they really were--as women still in women's
garb, it is true, yet in all else furies. With knives in their
girdles; with, in outside pockets or bags, the hilts of pistols and
some times--nay, often--rude surgical instruments bulging forth; with,
too, more than one gold-laced coat buttoned across them, or with the
sleeves knotted and with their other pockets crammed with scraps of
lace and costly wigs, and miniatures and gold pieces, they stood forth
as those earthly cormorants, _les chercheuses des morts_, and, in most
cases, as the murderesses of the living. With their knives or pistols
they put an end to the lives of wounded men, whom they afterwards
robbed of their money and trinkets, and, also with those knives, they
scalped the dying, since hair was valuable. Likewise, with their
surgical instruments they wrenched the teeth, also valuable, out of
dying or dead men's heads; while, if the wounded were still able to
protect themselves, they played another part, that of the Good
Samaritan, and offered them a drink of Nantz or usquebaugh, which
generally finished the business, since it was usually poisoned.
Along a road between Venloo and Grave, over which a dyke had
overflowed from the heavy rains, so that the horses passing over it
were fetlock deep in mud, there went now a vehicle, or, rather, rough
country cart, springless and having for shelter nothing but a rough
covering of coarse tarred canvas supported on bent lathes. Seated on
the shaft of this cart was an old man who, out of tenderness for the
value of the beast that drew it, if not for the beast itself, never
proceeded at any but the slowest pace possible. Inside, under the
awning or cover, were Sylvia and Madame de Valorme, who, as is now
apparent, had managed to escape out of Liége.
Yet it had been hard to do, and doubly hard to these two women, who,
the soul of honour, had to deal with one other--De Violaine--who was
himself a mirror of honour and loyalty.
And still they had done it.
In common with many other escapes recorded in past and even present
days, theirs had been accomplished in the most simple manner, namely,
by simplicity itself. Indeed, captives who, with their appearance
unknown to their warders, had walked out of their prisons, both before
and after this time; men who had been known to stroll out of such
places as the Bastille, or Vincennes, or Bicêtre, and sometimes from
English prisons and lockups, as well as he who, on the road to the
guillotine, had escaped by the simple device of dropping out of the
back of the _charrette_ and then crying "_Vive la Revolution!_" and
"_À bas les aristocrats!_" had not done so more easily than had these
two women.
Only, it had taken time for Sylvia and the Comtesse to arrange their
plans, and time, they soon knew, was of all things the most precious.
For De Violaine, who had one morning come down to the Comtesse de
Valorme from the citadel with a view to asking her why she had
jeopardised her own freedom by espousing the desires of the
Englishman, had confessed that, though Bevill could not at present be
brought to trial, his peril was still extreme.
"De Boufflers is here," he said; "he has come to draw off all troops
that can be spared, as well as to examine the state of defence in
which Liége is."
"To draw off the troops!" the Comtesse and Sylvia both exclaimed,
while the latter felt her heart sink within her at his words. "Is Lord
Marlborough not coming?"
"Alas! it is because he is coming, mademoiselle, that it is done. We
who are French desire to oppose your general in every way, so that he
shall not reach Liége," and De Violaine sighed as he spoke; for he
knew as well as De Boufflers that, if Marlborough appeared before
Liége with one-fifth of those 60,000 men who were now under his
command, the city would probably fall an easy prey to him.
"Why should this prevent an innocent or, at least, a harmless man from
being put to his trial and released?" the Comtesse asked. "What evil
has he, in truth, done? He has but committed a gallant action in
attempting to carry away to safety the compatriot whom he loves, the
woman who loves him."
Now, in one way, Sylvia and the Comtesse had thrown dust in the
Governor's eyes from the beginning; they had concealed from him the
knowledge that Sylvia and Bevill had not been lovers when first the
latter made his way into Liége--the one piece of information, as they
shrewdly guessed, which might stand as Bevill's excuse, his
justification, for doing that which he had done.
"And," the Comtesse continued, "beyond this, what sin against France
has Mr. Bracton committed? Is the fact that he, being an Englishman,
should also be a Protestant a crime?"
"Nay, nay," De Violaine said; "that is no crime, else you and I are
criminals; but----"
"But what?"
"There are other matters that may weigh heavily against him. Ah!
mademoiselle," he cried suddenly, hearing a slight exclamation issue
from Sylvia's lips while noticing that the rich colouring had fled
from her cheeks, and that she seemed about to swoon, "I beseech of you
to take this calmly. All may be well yet."
"What are these other matters, monsieur? On my part, I beseech you to
tell me," Sylvia almost gasped.
"I--I? Nay, what need to tell? He may be absolved by the court that
tries him; his attempt to save the woman he loved may justify all. We
of our land are sometimes self-sacrificing in our love," with a swift
glance at Madame de Valorme; "we should scarcely bear hardly on a foe
for being so."
Other glances that De Violaine did not see had, however, been
exchanged as he spoke thus--the glances of the two women as he uttered
those words, "his attempt to save the woman he loved may justify all."
Glances that conveyed to each the thought that was in the other's
mind--the understanding that, in no circumstances, must it ever be
known that the love had come to Bevill and Sylvia after they had met
in Liége, and not before. If that were known or discovered, one of
their principal hopes for his escape was gone. Also, as each of those
women flashed the signal to the other, each remembered, and in
remembering thanked Heaven, that even that base and crawling creature,
Francbois, believed the love to be of an earlier origin than Bevill's
arrival. Thence, therefore, sprang the hope that one frail chance in
his favour might still remain, and that, from this secret, aid might
be forthcoming.
In an instant, however, since glances are almost as swift as lightning
itself, the episode had passed and Sylvia had asked once more:
"What are those other matters? Ah! do not torture me with concealment.
You--surely you, must, noble as you appear to be--must have loved some
woman once, have won the desired love of some true woman. Think, I
implore you, think if her feelings had ever been wrung as mine are
now, if she had ever been distraught as I am, how your heart would
have been stirred with misery for her. Ah," she cried again, unable to
restrain her sobs, "if you cannot pity me, at least show pity for my
grief, my misfortune."
"From my heart I pity you, mademoiselle," De Violaine said, while as
he spoke his voice was calm as ever, though, nevertheless, both women
knew that the calmness was but due to self-control. "Even though," and
now it seemed as if he braced himself to utter the next words, "I
may--never--have known what love is; above all, have--never--known
what it is to win the desired love of some true woman. Yet is pity
shown to those who suffer, to those who fear, by placing our hand upon
the sore, by telling them where the evil lurks?"
"What we know is less than awful imaginings. Let me learn the worst
against the man I love," Sylvia continued, and now she was drawn to
her full height once more; except that her cheeks were still wet with
recent tears she was herself again. Tall, upright, almost commanding,
beautiful as ever, she stood before De Violaine, and, in her nobility
of nature, seemed to issue an order he dared not disregard. "Let me
know the worst. I will not live in further suspense."
"A letter has been found upon him."
"A letter! What letter?" her thoughts flying back fondly to the one he
had brought from her guardian--the letter that had commended Bevill
Bracton so much to her regard--the letter she had kept and read a
hundred times.
"A letter from one who is our bitterest foe--a restless, intriguing
man seeking ever his country's glory and aggrandisement at the expense
of ours; ever intriguing against us, setting those who are well
disposed to us against us----"
"Who is this man, perchance?"
"The Earl of Peterborough."
"Ah! and is he all that you say? He is my guardian, and was my
father's dearest, earliest friend."
"Your guardian! Your father's dearest friend!" De Violaine repeated,
while inwardly he said to himself, "This must never be known.
Otherwise, Heaven help her! She will stand in almost as much danger as
her lover stands now, should it be discovered that she is
Peterborough's ward."
But aloud he said, "In that letter Mr. Bracton"--De Violaine knowing
Bevill's proper name by this time as well as Sylvia or Madame de
Valorme knew it--"is addressed as 'cousin' by the Earl. Is he that?"
"He is," Sylvia replied fearlessly. "Some degrees removed, yet still
his cousin."
"He could scarcely own a worse kinsmanship--in--in De Boufflers'
eyes," De Violaine muttered once more--to himself.
To himself he had muttered these words, yet words were not needed to
tell either of the others that here was a circumstance which must tell
hardly, cruelly, against Bevill. They understood that by some act of
forgetfulness, some inadvertency, he must have kept about him a letter
that prudence should have warned him to destroy the instant he had set
foot in the neighbourhood of the French; and now--now it would tell
against him with awful force. They could not doubt this to be the
case; no further doubt could exist in either of their minds. De
Violaine's face, as he thought to himself that the unfortunate
prisoner could scarce claim kinship with a more dangerous man in the
eyes of France than the Earl of Peterborough, had been enough to tell
them all, to banish all hope from their hearts.