UNITED.
All through Picardy, from Artois to the Ile de France, from Normandy
to Champagne, the wheat was a-ripening early that year, the trees in
the orchards and gardens of the rich, fruitful province had their
boughs bent to the earth with their loads, and, so great was the
summer heat, the cattle stood in the rivers and pools for coolness, or
sought shelter under the elms and poplars dotted about by the river's
banks.
Yet, heat notwithstanding, the great bare road that runs from Calais
through Boulogne, Abbeville, and Amiens, as well as through Clermont
and Chantilly and St. Denis to Paris, had still its continuous traffic
to which neither summer nor winter made much difference, except when
the snows of the latter belated many diligences and waggons--for it
was the high road between the coast and the capital. And thus it was
now, in this hot, broiling June of 1746. Along that road, passing each
other sometimes, sometimes breaking down, sometimes, by the
carelessness of drunken drivers or postillions, getting their wheels
into ditches and sticking there for hours, went almost every vehicle
that was known in the France of those days. Monseigneur's carriage,
drawn by four or six stout travelling roadsters--wrenched for the
occasion from the service of Monseigneur's starving tenants--and
with Monseigneur within it looking ineffably bored at the heat and
the dust and the inferior _canaille_ who obtruded themselves on his
vision--would lumber by the diligence, or Royal Post, farmed from
Louis the well-beloved--so, loved, perhaps, because he despised his
people and said France would last his time, which was long enough!--or
be passed by a _desobligéant_, or chaise for one person, or by a fat
priest on a post-horse, or by a travelling carriage full of
provincials _en route_ for Paris. Also, to add to the continuous
traffic on this road in that period, were _berlins à quatre chevaux_,
carriers' waggons loaded with merchandise either from or to England,
countless horsemen civil and military, and innumerable pedestrians,
since the accomplishment of long journeys on foot, with a wallet slung
on the back, was then one of the most ordinary methods of travelling
amongst the humbler classes.
Seated in the _banquette_, or hooded seat, attached to the back of the
diligence from Calais to Amiens, on one of these broiling days in June
of 1746, were Kate Fane--as now she alone would describe herself or
allow herself to be styled--and her father. They had crossed from
England in the ordinary packet-boat a day or two before, and were at
this moment between Abbeville and Amiens, at which latter place they
proposed to remain for the present at least. To look at her none
would have supposed that, not more than a week or two before, this
golden-haired girl, now dressed in a plain-checked chintz, with, to
protect her head from the heat, a large flapping straw hat, had been
discarded by the man whom she had imagined to be her husband; had been
told that she was, possibly, no lawful wife. For she looked happier,
brighter at this time than she had ever done since she went through
a form of marriage with the Viscount Fordingbridge, because--though
not in the way that he had falsely insinuated--she was free of him.
"What was it Archie said to ye?" asked her father as the diligence
toiled up a small hill, the road of which was shaded by trees from the
burning sun. "What was it he said to ye in the letter you got at
Calais? Tell me again; I like not to think that my daughter has been
flouted and smirched by such a scoundrel as that. Lawfully married,
humph! Lawfully married, he said, eh?"
"Lawfully married enough, father," Kate replied. "Lawfully enough to
tie me to him for ever as his wife. But," she went on, "lawful or not
lawful, nothing shall ever induce me to see him, to speak with him
again."
"Read me the letter," said Fane; "let me hear all about it."
"Nay, nay," answered his daughter, "time enough when we get to Amiens,
when we shall all meet again. Oh, the joyful day! The blessed chance!
To think that to-night we shall all of us be together once more! All!
all! Just as we used to be in the happy old times in the Trousse
Vache," and she busied herself with taking a little wine and water
from a basket she had with her, and a bunch of grapes and some chipped
bread, and ministering to the old man.
So, as you may gather from her words, those who had been in such peril
in England were back safe in France. Bertie Elphinston had crossed,
disguised, of course, as a drover, unmolested by "infernal sloops o'
war and bomb-ketches"--to use honest McGlowrie's words--or anything
else. And, also, the Sholtos had come in the same way, finding,
indeed, so little let or hindrance in either the river or on the sea,
that they began to think the English King's rage and hate against all
who had taken part in the late rebellion were slacked at last. They
were, in truth, not nearly glutted yet, and the safe, undisturbed
passage which they had been fortunate enough to make was due to that
strange chance which so often preserves those who are in greatest
danger.
Still, they were over, no matter how or by what good fortune, and that
night--that afternoon, in another hour's time--all would meet at the
Inn, _La Croix Blanche_, in Amiens.
At Calais Kate had learned the welcome tidings; a letter had been
given into her hands by no less a person than the great Dessein
himself--hotel-keeper, _marchand-de-vin_, job-master, and letter of
coaches, chaises, and post-horses, and plunderer of travellers
generally!--and in it was news from Father Sholto, as he might safely
be called here in France, and from Bertie and Douglas.
Sholto's letter told her all she desired to know, viz., that
Fordingbridge's suggestion of his being a priest was a lie, "the
particulars of which," the Jesuit wrote, "I will give you at Amiens
when we meet." Bertie's, on the other hand, told her--manfully and, of
course, as a woman would think, selfishly--that he regretted that it
was an implied lie. "Because," wrote he, "had it been the truth, we
might have become man and wife within twenty-four hours of meeting,
and now we are as far apart as ever." Some other details were also
given, such as that Father Sholto was in residence for the time being
at the Jesuit College, and that Bertie had rejoined his regiment and
was now on duty at the Citadel. Douglas was at the _Croix Blanche_,
and would take care that suitable rooms were kept for them, though,
since it happened to be the great summer fair-time, the city was full
of all kinds of people, and rooms in fierce demand at every hostelry.
These letters, received by Kate as they landed from the packet-boat in
the canal at Calais, were sufficient to prompt her to lose no time in
hastening onward--north. The diligence, she found, left the hospitable
doors of Monsieur Dessein at five o'clock on summer mornings, and did
the distance of sixty miles to Amiens in eleven hours, which Dessein
spoke of approvingly--and falsely--as being the fastest possible.
Still they could not afford anything that was faster--for they had
little money in their purse these days. Therefore, at dawn, they
clambered into the _banquette_, which happened to be vacant, and set
out upon their road.
And now, as the diligence skirted the river Somme, and drew near to
Picquigny, the towers of the cathedral _Nôtre Dame d'Amiens_ came into
sight, and the ramparts of the city. And, because it was fair-time,
the roads were full of people of all kinds streaming towards it; of
market people, with their wares, and waggons of fruit and vegetables,
and poultry, of saltimbanques and strolling actors, strong men, fat
women, dwarfs, and giants--since in those days fairs were not much
different from what they are now, only the play was a little rougher
and the speech a little coarser even among the lowest.
Nevertheless, amidst the ringing of the cathedral bells, as well as
those of the Collegiate Church and Amiens' fourteen parish churches,
the diligence arrived at last, and only one hour late, at the office
of the _Poste du Roi_, and there, walking up and down in front of it,
were Bertie and Douglas, both in their uniforms, and waiting for them.
"How did you know, Mr. Elphinston," Kate asked, glad of the bustle and
confusion in the streets caused by the fair and by the arrival of the
diligence, "that we should come to-day? We might not have crossed from
England for another week--nay, another month, for the matter of that."
"We should have been here all the same," Bertie replied. "I am not on
duty at this time in the day, and Douglas would have come every
afternoon. We have watched the arrival of the diligence, Kate, for the
last week--since--ever since you wrote to say you were about to set
out."
"I did not know I told Archie that."
"No, but you told me. Have you forgotten all you wrote to me, Kate?"
"No," she said, in a low voice, and with her soft blush. "Yet,
remember, Ber----Mr. Elphinston--we are as far apart as ever. Archie
says I am, in truth, that man's wife."
"I remember," he replied; "I must remember," and he led the way into
the inn, which was close by the _Poste du Roi_.
The young men had been fortunate enough to secure a room for
themselves and the new arrivals, where they could sit as well as take
their meals apart, in spite of the inn being crowded. Nay, those who
crowded it now were scarcely of the class who require sitting-rooms,
nor, in some cases, bedrooms even; many of them being very well
satisfied to lie down and take their rest in the straw of the stables.
For among the customers of _La Croix Blanche_ were horse-dealers from
Normandy and from Flanders; the performers at the booths, the
strolling actors, mendicant friars--if friars they were!--vendors of
quack medicines, and all the _olla-podrida_ that went to make up a
French fair. These cared not where they slept, while of those who
sought bedrooms there were _commis voyageurs_, ruffling gentlemen of
the road, bedizened with tawdry lace, and with red, inflamed faces
beneath their bag-wigs _à la pigeon_--on whom the local watch kept
wary eyes--large purchasers of woollen ribbons and ferrets, serges,
stuffs, and black and green soap for the Paris market, in the
production of all of which things Amiens has ever been famous, as well
as for its _pâti de canard_. Nor did any of these people require
private rooms for the consumption of their food, but, instead, ate
together at the ordinary, or fed in the kitchen among the scullions
and their pots and pans.
Therefore, undisturbed, or disturbed only by the cries that arose from
below, as evening came on and the guests' table became crowded,
Douglas and Bertie ministered to the wants of Kate and her father, and
compared notes of the passages they had made across from England. Also
they spoke of their future, Kate's being that which needed the most
discussion.
"Prince Edward is safe," said Bertie, "of this there is no doubt. He
is known by those of this country, though by none in England, to be
secure with Cluny in the mountain of Letternilichk, near Moidart. Off
Moidart is the 'Bellona,' a Nantes privateer, with three hundred and
forty men on board, and well armed. She will get him away, in spite of
Lestock's squadron, which is hovering about between Scotland and
Brittany. Now, Kate, when he arrives in Paris, as he will do shortly,
his household will be a pleasant one. Your place must be there."
"In the household of the prince!" exclaimed Kate.
"Ay! in the household of the prince. Nay, never fear. You will not be
the only woman. The Ladies Elcho and Ogilvie will be with you; also
old Lady Lochiel. Oh, you will be a bonnie party! While, as for Mr.
Fane, some place must also be found."
"But who is to find these places?" she asked.
"Archie," replied Douglas. "He has interest enough with Tencin to do
anything. Indeed, from finding a post at court to obtaining a _lettre
de cachet_, he can do it."
"Why," said Bertie to him aside, noticing that he turned pale as he
spoke, "did you shiver then, Douglas, as I have seen you do before
now? You do not fear a _lettre de cachet_ for Vincennes or the
Bastille--and--and--we are not talking of the man at whose name I have
seen you shiver before."
"I--I do not know," his companion replied. "It must be that I am fey,
or a fool, or both. Yet, last night I dreamt that Archie was asking
the minister for a _lettre de cachet_ to consign someone--I know not
whom--to the Bastille, and--and--I woke up shivering as I did just
now."
"It could not be for you, at least," answered the other.
"Perhaps," replied Douglas, moodily, "for someone who had injured me.
Who knows?"
Whatever reply his stronger-minded friend might have made to this
gloomy supposition, which was by no means the first he had known
Douglas to be subjected to, was not uttered since at that moment
Archibald Sholto himself entered the room.
His greetings to Kate were warm and, at the same time, brotherly. He,
too, remembered how for years the little party assembled now in _La
Croix Blanche_ had all been as though one family; he remembered the
black spot that had come amongst them; that to Fordingbridge, whom he
himself had introduced into Fane's house, was owing most, if not all,
of the evil that had befallen them. Also he recalled that, but for
Fordingbridge's treachery, neither he, nor Bertie, nor Douglas would
have been forced to flee out of England for their lives; that Kate
would never have forfeited her position nor have had the foul yet
guarded suggestion hurled against her that she was no wife, but only a
priest's mistress. Then, when their first welcomes and salutations
were over, he spoke aloud to her on the subject that, above all,
engrossed their minds.
"Kitty," he said, "is Fordingbridge gone mad? For to madness alone can
such conduct as his be attributed."
"I do not know," she replied. "I cannot say. All I know is that he is
a villain and a traitor--that I have done with him for ever. Yet he
must be mad when he throws out so extraordinary a hint as that he is a
priest. He could not have been a priest, and you not know it--could
he?"
Up from the guests' room below there came the hubbub of those at
supper, the shouts of the copper captains for more petits pigolets of
wine, mixed with the clattering of plates and dishes, the calls of
other travellers for food, and the general disturbance that
accompanies a French inn full of visitors, as Father Sholto answered
gravely:
"My child, he might have been a priest and I not know it; God might
even have allowed so wicked a scheme to enter his heart as that, being
one, he should go through a form of marriage with an innocent woman.
But, my dear, one thing is still certain, he was not, is not, a
priest--I know it now beyond all doubt; you are as lawfully his wife
as it is possible for you to be."
"What--what, then, was the use of such a statement, such a lie, added
to all the others which--God forgive him!--he has already told since
first he darkened our door?"
"The gratification of his hate, his revenge against you and all of us.
He hated you because you had never loved him, and had at last come to
despise him; he hated Bertie because you had always loved him" (as he
spoke, the eyes of those two met in one swift glance, and then were
quickly lowered to the table at which they sat); "he hated me because
I knew him. And, remember, until he had put himself in the power of
Douglas and Sir Charles Ames by insinuating himself to be what he was
not--a priest--he thought that I should soon be removed from his path
for ever. Once in the power of the English Government, my tongue would
have been silenced; it would have been hard to prove, perhaps, that he
was not a priest; that you were a lawful married woman."
"Yet, surely, it could have been proved in some way. And--and--of what
avail such a lie to him? Knowing he is not a priest, he would not have
dared to take another wife."
"Perhaps," replied Sholto, "he had no desire to take another. If he is
not mad, he had but one wish, to outrage and insult you, and thereby
avenge himself upon you. Moreover, he must have some feelings still
left in him--your very renunciation of him may have led to his denial
of you."
"How have you found for certain that he is no priest?"
"In the easiest manner. A letter to the 'General' at Rome, another to
the 'Provincial' at Lisbon, and, lo! a reply from each to the effect
that neither under the name of Simeon Larpent nor the title of
Viscount Fordingbridge had anyone been ever admitted to the Society of
Jesus. At St. Omer, I knew, of course, such a thing could not have
happened; nay, I knew more: I knew that neither as novice nor acolyte,
even, had Fordingbridge ever been admitted, nor had he submitted to
any of those severe examinations which all must pass through ere they
can become these alone. As for priest--well, it was impossible,
impossible that he could be one and I not know it, never have heard of
it."
"So, Kate," whispered Bertie to her, "you are still Lady
Fordingbridge. As far apart as ever--as far apart as ever."
"Surely," said she to him, as now they talked alone and outside the
general conversation that was going on, "surely it is better so. I
have renounced him, it is true; willingly I will never see nor speak
to him again; he and I are sundered for ever. Yet--yet--Bertie," and
for the first time now, after so long, she called him frankly by the
old, familiar name, "I could never have come to you had I been that
other thing. You could not have taken such as I should have been for
your wife."
He looked at her, but answered no word. Then he sighed and turned
away.
They sat far into the evening talking and making plans, while still,
through the warm summer night, the noise of the crowded city came in
at their windows and nearly deafened them. And this is what they
decided upon for the future.
The troop to which Bertie Elphinston belonged in the Regiment of
Picardy would be removed, later on, to quarters at St. Denis, and at
about the same time Douglas would rejoin his regiment in Paris, while
his brother Archibald was about to depart for St. Omer, where he
should remain for some time. He had, he said, nothing more to do now
in the world, since the restoration he had hoped so much from had
failed altogether. Therefore, because at present there was no need for
Kate to go to Paris, and because, also, her father became more and
more ailing every day, they decided to remain at Amiens, to live
quietly there in lodgings, and to have at least the friendship of the
two young men to cheer them. There was still a little money left from
the sale of Doyle Fane's fencing school in Paris--indeed, it had never
been touched since Kate's marriage--which would suffice for their
wants, especially since Amiens was cheaper than Paris to reside in.
Then, when the time came, they would all move on to the capital, and
there, as they told each other, try to forget the black, bitter year
which had come and separated them all from the happy life they had
once led together.
"Only," said Bertie once again that night to her, ere he went back to
the Citadel, "only, still we are parted; the gulf is ever between us.
O Kate, Kate! if it were not for that."
And once more for reply she whispered:
"'Tis better so, better than if it had been as he, that other, said.
At least I am honest; if--if freedom ever comes, no need for you to
blush for me."
"Nay," he said, "none could do that, knowing all. For myself, Kate, I
would it had been as the wretch said. Then the bar would not be
there."
"But the blot would."
With which words she left him and the others, going with her father to
the rooms prepared for them.
Meanwhile, as now the full night was upon them, the hubbub and the
uproar grew greater in the inn. Back from the booths and open-air
theatres came the mummers and the mountebanks, the mendicant friars
with their pills and potions, balsams, styptics, and ointments, the
Norman and Flemish horse dealers--the latter drunk and shouting for
more drink--and all the rest. And they distributed themselves about
the _Croix Blanche_, as, indeed, they were doing in every other
hostelry in Amiens, and laughed and shrieked and howled and cursed as
they sought their beds in the straw or the garrets, and turned the
ancient city into a veritable pandemonium.
"I will walk with you a part of the way," said Douglas to his brother
and Bertie as they rose to depart. "This narrow street is hot and
stuffy, especially with the fumes that arise from the revellers below.
The night air will be cool and refreshing before sleep."
And buckling on his sword he went down with them, and out through the
still crowded inn yard.
At the Jesuit College he parted with Archibald, and went on a little
farther with Bertie, and then, saying that he was refreshed with the
coolness, bade him also good-night.
"It is good for us all to be together again, Bertie, boy, is it not?"
he exclaimed as they shook each other by the hand; "good to think
that, with but a few intervals of separation when on service, we shall
scarcely ever be parted more. Nothing is wanting now but that you and
Kate could come together lawfully."
"That," replied the other, "seems never likely to be permitted to us.
Well, we must bear it, hard as it is. Yet, Douglas, I am as honestly
glad as you can be that we are safe back in France with all our
troubles over."
"Yes," replied Douglas, "with our troubles over. Yet I wonder where
that rogue ingrain, Fordingbridge, is?"
He was soon to know.