Had Philip Wouvermans lived half a century later than he did, the
splendid brush he wielded would have found greater scope in the region
he knew so well than it ever obtained, superb as his work was. For
now, over all that portion of Europe known generically as the
Netherlands, or Low Countries, there was the movement and the
colouring this master delighted in--armies marching and fro, encamping
one night at one place and at another on the next, bivouacking here
to-day and there to-morrow, attacking or attacked, conquering or being
repulsed. Armies, regiments, even small detachments, were clad
sometimes in the royal blue of France, sometimes in the scarlet of
England; while, intermixed with the former, might be seen the yellow
grey of Spain or the dark green of Bavaria; and, with the latter, the
snuff-brown of Holland or the pale blue of Austria. As they marched
along the roads, singing the songs of the lands from which they drew
their birth, or across fields, the ripened corn and wheat were
trampled under their and their chargers' feet or beneath the coarse,
iron-bound wheels of their gun carriages, since, now that war was over
and around all, the luckless peasants and landowners found but little
opportunity of reaping those fields.
Yet neither was it the passage of these armies alone that disturbed
those unfortunate dwellers in the scene of contest, since, sometimes,
their fields and orchards and copses would witness some small yet
sanguinary conflict between the hostile forces. On such occasions
their downtrodden corn would become dyed crimson; the branches of
their fruit trees would be cut down by whistling musket bullets or
heavy cannon balls; their copses, sought out for shelter, would become
the death-bed of many a gallant man whose eyes had opened to the light
in lands far distant from those in which they finally closed. And
then, routed, the vanquished would not march but rush along the roads
once more, the victors would hurry after them in furious pursuit, and
the unhappy owners of the soil and all it bore would be left bemoaning
the ruin that had befallen them, ruin that the passage of years could
alone repair.
Amid such scenes as these the Comtesse de Valorme and Sylvia were
passing now as gradually they drew near to Maestricht, where, as they
had learnt, they would, even if they did not come into touch with some
portion of the English army, at least discover something as to its
whereabouts. They knew this, they had learnt it, by words overheard
outside inns at which they halted at nights; by witnessing the frantic
gestures and listening to the excited talk of the half-Brabant,
half-Guelderland boors as they discussed the coming of the English and
others. Also, they had learnt by now that to make their way easily
along these roads it were best they should be anything but French; for
the English were sweeping like a tornado through all the land, the
French were in most instances retreating or fortifying themselves in
old towns and castles; the English, for whom all Netherlanders had
been looking so long, were at hand at last.
Therefore, from now, neither Sylvia nor the Comtesse spoke in anything
but English, excepting only when the native dialect was necessary to
cause their desires to be understood, when Sylvia, whose long
residence in Liége had enabled her to be well acquainted with the
local dialects, used that.
"There is no news of the approach of the allied forces as yet?" the
Comtesse asked, as Sylvia, looking out of a carriage they had taken
possession of when they had discarded the rough country _charrette_,
drew in her head after a slight conversation with a peasant.
"None," the girl answered wearily. "None. And during all this time
they may have----" and she paused, shuddering.
"Nay, dear heart," the Comtesse said, her English clear and distinct
as it had been when she astonished Bevill by addressing him in it.
"Nay, have no fear. I--I--extorted from De Violaine--Heaven help me! I
was but endeavouring to play on his memories of the past for our, for
your sake--the knowledge that he could not yet be brought to trial. I
myself have no fear of that."
"I myself cannot but have fears; for he has won my heart, my love. Oh!
Radegonde, had it been you who loved him, you whom he loved, you could
not be as calm as now you are."
"It may be so," the Comtesse said softly. "Doubtless it would have
been so had it chanced that I had learned to love him--if he had
learned to love me," and then was silent.
Something, however, some strange inflection in her voice caused Sylvia
to look round at her companion, when, seeing that the Comtesse's face
was averted, and that she was gazing out of the window, she added:
"Ah! forgive me. Who am I, a girl who has but now found happiness in a
man's love, to speak thus to you who have suffered so--to you whose
own heart died with M. de Valorme?"
But the Comtesse, beyond a whispered "Yes," said no more.
That, however, these two women, always good friends and companions and
now united in one great desire--the desire of saving the life of a man
who possessed in their eyes the greatest charm that can, perhaps,
appeal to woman's nature, that of heroism--should cease to talk of him
as much as they thought of him, is not to be supposed. While, as they
so thought and also talked, each was reflecting on every chance
favourable and unfavourable that might tell for or against their hero.
"Who was this spy, I wonder," Sylvia said now, "of whom Francbois
spoke? The man whom he accused Bevill of slaying that night in the
Weiss Haus? Radegonde, did he confide in you?"
"No more than in you," the Comtesse answered. "Surely, too, he would
have chosen the woman he loved for his confidante?"
"Or, rather, have doubly feared to confide in that woman and to,
thereby, bring fresh misery to the heart he had but just won for his
own."
"Ah, yes," the Comtesse said, again in a low voice. "Doubtless that
was his reason."
Returning, however, to the matter of the spy, Sylvia, who thought that
in this man's death might lurk some deeper danger to Bevill than even
that which was threatened by his obtaining entrance into a town
beleaguered by the French, and by his doing so under a false name, as
well as doubly threatened through a letter from Lord Peterborough
being found in his possession--asked again:
"Not even in your journey from Louvain to Liége did he mention him?"
"Yes, if this man is the same as he who sought to have him detained,
first at Antwerp and afterwards at St. Trond; if, too, Emile Francbois
has not coined one further lie in his desire to ruin him. Yet you know
all this as well as I, Sylvia. You have learnt from Mr. Bracton of his
escape from Antwerp on the horse, with the passport of Le Blond, and
of how, after seeing the man again at St. Trond, he left the place
next morning before I did so, though that man had then disappeared and
had not even returned to his lodging at the inn where they both put
up."
"Yes, that I know. He told me more than once of his escapes from the
broken soldier, Sparmann, who had become a spy in the service of his
country's enemies, as also he told me how he hated passing under a
false name, a false guise, no matter how good the cause was. Ah!" she
went on, "his honour, his full sense of honour shone forth in every
regret he uttered, even while he acknowledged how good was the cause
which compelled the subterfuge. It must be Sparmann who was wounded to
the death in my house, though not by Bevill, since he denies it. Yet,
had he in truth slain the man who sought to slay him, it would have
been no crime."
"He did not slay him. His every action, his every tone, when Francbois
denounced him as having done so, was a testimony to the truth of his
denial; though, since both Sparmann and Francbois were each working to
the same end, were each in that lonely deserted house, intent on
slaying Bevill--Mr. Bracton--why should they fight, why should each
attempt to slay the other?"
"Ah!" murmured Sylvia, "if we could but know that--which, alas! we
never shall, since Sparmann is dead, and Francbois will never utter
aught but lies--then that heavy charge against him would be removed."
"It is in truth the heaviest, if not the one that will bear hardest of
all against him."
"Which, then, is the worst?"
"The possession of Lord Peterborough's letter. Sylvia," the Comtesse
said, strangely agitated as she thought on all that threatened Bevill.
"If the Allies have not taken Liége ere he is tried, I dread to think
of what may befall him. I pray God that Lord Marlborough may already
be on his road."
After which both women became so overcome and, indeed, almost
hysterical by the terror of what might happen to Bevill, that for a
time they could speak no more, but, instead, took refuge in tears.
They could not, however, cease their endeavours to discover what
chances there were of Marlborough being somewhere in the immediate
neighbourhood. They recognised that, even if he were near and they
could reach him and obtain speech with him, the mission on which they
came could have but little, if indeed it had any, influence on his
plans, all-absorbing though that mission was to them. Only they were
distracted with grief and horror of what was impending in Liége, and
in their distraction clutched at the only hope in the existence of
which they could believe.
The carriage was at this time passing through one of those many
plantations of young trees that, from far-off times, it has been the
custom of the inhabitants of this rich marshy soil to plant at regular
intervals, with a view to always providing themselves with vast stocks
of timber for building as well as fuel. But since the road, if it were
worthy of the name, was not only a muddy track but also encumbered by
logs of felled wood that had been thrown across it by some of the many
contending forces with the intention of impeding the progress of their
rivals, the vehicle proceeded but slowly when it proceeded at all, and
often enough the wheels stuck fast.
Looking out of the window as an obstruction once more occurred for
about the tenth time since the carriage had entered this plantation,
or young forest, Sylvia suddenly uttered an exclamation; while,
drawing in her head, she said in a tone that the Comtesse could not
mistake for aught but one of joy:
"They are here! We have found them! Heaven above be praised!"
"Here? Who?" the Comtesse also exclaimed. "The English? The Allies?"
"Some of them at least. Oh! Radegonde, I have seen their scarlet
coats, and, on one, the gorget of our dragoon officers. Yet, alas!
alas! they are retiring; he who wears the gorget has disappeared
behind a larger tree than all the others."
"Cry out then! Cry to him! Call him back! Let us do anything to arrest
their attention. If we fail to speak with them now we may not find
their commander for days."
"No, no; we need not," Sylvia again exclaimed now. "They have observed
us. They are coming towards us, doubtless to see what this carriage
contains. Two officers. And they _are_ English. Thank God!"
As she said, so it was. The two officers now approaching the carriage
had seen it long before Sylvia had perceived them, and were at once
inspired with the scouts'--for such they and their men were--proper
sense of duty, namely, to discover what was the business of everyone
with whom they might chance to come into contact. But--as the phrase
which had sprung into use when the century, still so young, had but
just dawned, ran--"It was seventeen hundred and war time," and, above
almost all else, in war time prudence is necessary. Therefore, on
seeing the carriage approach, the officers had retreated behind the
great tree, while their troopers had ridden deeper into the plantation
and, from there, the former had been able to observe who and what were
those inside the vehicle.
"Women!" one said to the other. "Dangerous enough sometimes, when
armed for our subjection and clad in velvet and Valenciennes, yet
harmless here, unless they be spies of the enemy. No matter, 'tis our
duty to discover who and what they are." Whereupon the officers turned
their horses' heads towards the carriage, and the animals picked their
way through what was almost a quagmire until they reached it.
[Illustration: "Their laced hats in hand, the two young men drew near
the window."]
Their laced hats in hand, the two young men bowed gracefully as they
drew near the window, after which the captain, speaking in fair
French, though not such as Bevill Bracton spoke, asked in a gentle,
well-bred voice if there were any directions or assistance they could
give mesdames to aid them on their route? But, ere he had concluded
his courteous speech, he halted in it and finished it in but a
shambling manner; for his eyes, discreetly as he had used them to
observe the equal, though different, beauty of each woman, had told
him that one at least of those before him was not seen for the first
time. And that one--the Comtesse--was herself gazing fixedly at him.
"Madame travels far; madame's journey is not yet concluded," he
murmured. "Madame has left Liége."
"It is so, monsieur," the Comtesse said speaking in English. "I
understand monsieur. It was outside St. Trond that he saw me when his
late brother officer, Mr. Bracton, joined me," while as she spoke she
felt Sylvia start.
"That is the case, madame. But madame still travels on, though
unaccompanied by Bracton. Another companion," he said, with a faint
but respectful smile, "has usurped his place. Does he still remain in
Liége; has he not yet succeeded in that which he desired to
do--namely, in removing the lady he went to seek from out the grasp of
our good friends the French?"
It was not, however, Madame de Valorme who answered his question, but,
instead, her companion.
"Sir," said Sylvia--and as the captain's glance was drawn to her as
she spoke he saw that her large grey eyes were full of a sadness that,
to his mind at least, by no means obscured her beauty--"I am the woman
he went to seek."
"You? Yet you are here alone. Where, then, is he?"
"Alas! alas! he is a prisoner. He--oh! it is hard to tell, to utter.
He did all that man might do, but he was denounced to M. de Violaine
by a vile spy who recognised him, and--and--ah! God help him, he is a
prisoner in the citadel; and I--I--am free--I who should be by his
side in safety or in danger. I who should be as much a prisoner as
he."
Bewildered, the young man looked from Sylvia to the Comtesse and then
back to Sylvia, while muttering, "We heard something of that spy and
what he attempted on him at Antwerp and St. Trond----"
"That is not the man. He is dead----"
"Bracton slew him at last!"
"No, no! Another--some other did so. Perhaps the man who finally
betrayed him," the Comtesse de Valorme said, since Sylvia seemed now
almost incapable of speaking, so agitated had she become. After which,
seeing that the captain of dragoons appeared to be totally unable to
gather the meaning of what had happened, though recognising the danger
in which Bevill stood, the Comtesse at once proceeded to give him as
brief, though clear, an account of all that had occurred in Liége as
it was possible to do. And, also, she told him their fears for what
might still occur ere long. But one thing she did not tell
him--namely, of how her own original desire of reaching Marlborough
with a view to imploring his influence that aid might be sent to the
Cevennes had, for the moment, given place to a far greater desire--the
desire of in some way obtaining Bevill's earthly salvation, the
salvation of a man whose life, though now bound up in that of Sylvia's
as Sylvia's was in his, had become very precious to her.