CHAPTER XXVCONFESSIONThearm which now held her was an arm of iron. She was conscious of a great hubbub going on about her: of angry voices and hurrying feet, and a gabble of words which deafened her. Once she saw Gatelet, held back by strong hands; she heard Richard Watts telling those who came up to the café that the daughter of Madame Hélène had been insulted in the place. But of the rest she remembered little, except that the same strong arm led her quickly from the scene, and that she passed through narrow streets, unfamiliar to her, and was taken at length into some house, and into a little sitting-room there. When she asked where she was, an English voice answered her, and an English hand held a glass of wine to her lips.“In the house of those that will take care of you, my dear—and, not a word until you have drunk every drop; not a word, lady.”She obeyed willingly, and looked up to see a kindly old dame, in a white cotton dress, spotlessly clean, and wearing a bonnet which recalled thelanes of England. Richard Watts himself, standing at the dame’s side, watched her approvingly. Everything in that light and airy room was English—the substantial buffet, the guns on the walls, the pictures of hunting scenes, the great flagons of silver. But the gentle face of the woman was the most typical English thing of all.“How good you are to me!” Beatrix said, again and again; “how good it is to hear an English voice!”Old Richard Watts cried “Bravo!”“English voices, English hands—that’s it, young lady. Stand by that and you’ll never come to any harm. Eh, Anne Brown, is the little passenger to stand by that? English voices and English hands—gad’s truth, it’s there in a sentence—the whole of it.”He walked to and fro, cracking his fingers excitedly; but the old dame continued to say, “God bless me!” as she had said ever since her master brought so strange a guest to the house.“In a café? My word! And a Frenchman insulting her; oh, my dear, my dear, that we should hear such things!”Richard Watts took up the story, and told it again enthusiastically.“I was going to see if there was anything left to eat in this city of half-bricks exceptpâté de foiegras, child. If you hadn’t cried out, I’d never have seen you, for I’m as blind as a bat. Then I heard your voice, and looked up. ‘It’s the little passenger, by gad,’ I said. The rest concerned the Frenchman. He was insulting you, eh? Listen to that, Anne Brown; he insulted her. He asked for her answer. I gave it him, old girl—he is reading it now. And lucky I thought of her name. They would have torn us to pieces, the pair of us. But I remembered. Trust old Dick Watts, who has the devil of a memory for names. He remembered. ‘It’s old Hélène’s daughter,’ he said. And they stood by us—gad’s truth, they stood by us.”He helped himself to a glass of wine, and drank it at a gulp. Beatrix, still hot and flushed, and scarce knowing what she did, rose and thanked him once more.“I can never be grateful enough,” she said; “and I must not intrude upon you.”Richard Watts laughed heartily.“Intrude—listen to that, Anne Brown; the little passenger intrudes.”“’Twould be a poor house where you could intrude, miss,” said the old housekeeper decisively. “Let the master send a word to your home, and tell your friends what has happened. We are not going to part with you yet. You’re in no fit stateto walk anywhere, I’m sure, and as for carriages, God bless me, how many days is it since I saw one in this street?”Beatrix answered them in a low voice.“I have no friends,” she said; “there is no one to be anxious about me. It is something else—I cannot tell you—I wish to God I could.”A great sense of loneliness and of her own terrible day overcame her, and she sank into one of the chairs by the table and burst into a flood of passionate weeping. That which no Frenchman in Strasburg could wring from her was to be told in this room, where English friends watched her with tears in their eyes, and everything recalled the home she had lost and the faces in that England she would look upon no more.“I cannot tell you—I must not tell you,” she repeated again and again as the gentle arms of the woman were about her neck and a mother’s voice besought her to trust them. But she told them in the end, word by word, confessing all—Brandon’s danger, his presence in the city; Gatelet’s threat that he would betray him that very night. And when she had done, it was as though some great load of her life had been transferred suddenly to another’s shoulders, and must be borne, as a feather-weight, henceforth, by this giant Englishman,who had come out of the city’s night in the hour of her necessity.Richard Watts heard the story, sentence by sentence, often taking her back a little way in the narrative; always ready with his word of sympathy and encouragement. A quick thinker, he grappled with the situation instantly. It was not her friend that he was called upon to save, but his own—the man he had left at Wörth; the man whose father he had known at Frankfort twenty years ago.“It was like the mad scamp to come here,” he said, when she told him of Brandon’s first visit; “he shouldn’t have done it. The news would have waited. But war breeds folly. We must save him from that folly, little lady. Do you think that the scoundrel down yonder has told anyone else?”She shook her head, smiling through her tears.“I have been too frightened to think, Mr. Watts.”“Of course you have. It was his game to frighten you. I don’t suppose he’s taken anyone into partnership, all the same. That wouldn’t suit him. But he’ll tell all he knows about Brandon now, be sure of it. And we haven’t much time to lose, my child.”She could see that he was very thoughtful. Fora little while she did not venture to speak to him, as he paced the room silently, often taking up his hat, and as often setting it down again. She knew that the danger of that which he undertook was not hidden from him.“If anything should happen to you!” she exclaimed suddenly.“To me, young lady. Oh, don’t bother your head about that. I’m an Englishman; they won’t hurt me.”“And you think that you can save Brandon?”“Ah, that’s another question.”She shuddered.“My God, if they should discover him—those men who killed the German in the café.”“We must see that they do not, little passenger.”He put on his hat and went to the door; but upon the threshold he turned and asked her yet another question:“I shall find you at the Place Kleber to-night?”“Yes; I am going home now.”“Then, if the news is good, I will come there at six o’clock.”He closed the door behind him and went out. The old dame brought her a bowl of soup. She took a few sups of it, and made some excuse. Already she had begun to count the minutes of waiting.
CHAPTER XXVCONFESSIONThearm which now held her was an arm of iron. She was conscious of a great hubbub going on about her: of angry voices and hurrying feet, and a gabble of words which deafened her. Once she saw Gatelet, held back by strong hands; she heard Richard Watts telling those who came up to the café that the daughter of Madame Hélène had been insulted in the place. But of the rest she remembered little, except that the same strong arm led her quickly from the scene, and that she passed through narrow streets, unfamiliar to her, and was taken at length into some house, and into a little sitting-room there. When she asked where she was, an English voice answered her, and an English hand held a glass of wine to her lips.“In the house of those that will take care of you, my dear—and, not a word until you have drunk every drop; not a word, lady.”She obeyed willingly, and looked up to see a kindly old dame, in a white cotton dress, spotlessly clean, and wearing a bonnet which recalled thelanes of England. Richard Watts himself, standing at the dame’s side, watched her approvingly. Everything in that light and airy room was English—the substantial buffet, the guns on the walls, the pictures of hunting scenes, the great flagons of silver. But the gentle face of the woman was the most typical English thing of all.“How good you are to me!” Beatrix said, again and again; “how good it is to hear an English voice!”Old Richard Watts cried “Bravo!”“English voices, English hands—that’s it, young lady. Stand by that and you’ll never come to any harm. Eh, Anne Brown, is the little passenger to stand by that? English voices and English hands—gad’s truth, it’s there in a sentence—the whole of it.”He walked to and fro, cracking his fingers excitedly; but the old dame continued to say, “God bless me!” as she had said ever since her master brought so strange a guest to the house.“In a café? My word! And a Frenchman insulting her; oh, my dear, my dear, that we should hear such things!”Richard Watts took up the story, and told it again enthusiastically.“I was going to see if there was anything left to eat in this city of half-bricks exceptpâté de foiegras, child. If you hadn’t cried out, I’d never have seen you, for I’m as blind as a bat. Then I heard your voice, and looked up. ‘It’s the little passenger, by gad,’ I said. The rest concerned the Frenchman. He was insulting you, eh? Listen to that, Anne Brown; he insulted her. He asked for her answer. I gave it him, old girl—he is reading it now. And lucky I thought of her name. They would have torn us to pieces, the pair of us. But I remembered. Trust old Dick Watts, who has the devil of a memory for names. He remembered. ‘It’s old Hélène’s daughter,’ he said. And they stood by us—gad’s truth, they stood by us.”He helped himself to a glass of wine, and drank it at a gulp. Beatrix, still hot and flushed, and scarce knowing what she did, rose and thanked him once more.“I can never be grateful enough,” she said; “and I must not intrude upon you.”Richard Watts laughed heartily.“Intrude—listen to that, Anne Brown; the little passenger intrudes.”“’Twould be a poor house where you could intrude, miss,” said the old housekeeper decisively. “Let the master send a word to your home, and tell your friends what has happened. We are not going to part with you yet. You’re in no fit stateto walk anywhere, I’m sure, and as for carriages, God bless me, how many days is it since I saw one in this street?”Beatrix answered them in a low voice.“I have no friends,” she said; “there is no one to be anxious about me. It is something else—I cannot tell you—I wish to God I could.”A great sense of loneliness and of her own terrible day overcame her, and she sank into one of the chairs by the table and burst into a flood of passionate weeping. That which no Frenchman in Strasburg could wring from her was to be told in this room, where English friends watched her with tears in their eyes, and everything recalled the home she had lost and the faces in that England she would look upon no more.“I cannot tell you—I must not tell you,” she repeated again and again as the gentle arms of the woman were about her neck and a mother’s voice besought her to trust them. But she told them in the end, word by word, confessing all—Brandon’s danger, his presence in the city; Gatelet’s threat that he would betray him that very night. And when she had done, it was as though some great load of her life had been transferred suddenly to another’s shoulders, and must be borne, as a feather-weight, henceforth, by this giant Englishman,who had come out of the city’s night in the hour of her necessity.Richard Watts heard the story, sentence by sentence, often taking her back a little way in the narrative; always ready with his word of sympathy and encouragement. A quick thinker, he grappled with the situation instantly. It was not her friend that he was called upon to save, but his own—the man he had left at Wörth; the man whose father he had known at Frankfort twenty years ago.“It was like the mad scamp to come here,” he said, when she told him of Brandon’s first visit; “he shouldn’t have done it. The news would have waited. But war breeds folly. We must save him from that folly, little lady. Do you think that the scoundrel down yonder has told anyone else?”She shook her head, smiling through her tears.“I have been too frightened to think, Mr. Watts.”“Of course you have. It was his game to frighten you. I don’t suppose he’s taken anyone into partnership, all the same. That wouldn’t suit him. But he’ll tell all he knows about Brandon now, be sure of it. And we haven’t much time to lose, my child.”She could see that he was very thoughtful. Fora little while she did not venture to speak to him, as he paced the room silently, often taking up his hat, and as often setting it down again. She knew that the danger of that which he undertook was not hidden from him.“If anything should happen to you!” she exclaimed suddenly.“To me, young lady. Oh, don’t bother your head about that. I’m an Englishman; they won’t hurt me.”“And you think that you can save Brandon?”“Ah, that’s another question.”She shuddered.“My God, if they should discover him—those men who killed the German in the café.”“We must see that they do not, little passenger.”He put on his hat and went to the door; but upon the threshold he turned and asked her yet another question:“I shall find you at the Place Kleber to-night?”“Yes; I am going home now.”“Then, if the news is good, I will come there at six o’clock.”He closed the door behind him and went out. The old dame brought her a bowl of soup. She took a few sups of it, and made some excuse. Already she had begun to count the minutes of waiting.
Thearm which now held her was an arm of iron. She was conscious of a great hubbub going on about her: of angry voices and hurrying feet, and a gabble of words which deafened her. Once she saw Gatelet, held back by strong hands; she heard Richard Watts telling those who came up to the café that the daughter of Madame Hélène had been insulted in the place. But of the rest she remembered little, except that the same strong arm led her quickly from the scene, and that she passed through narrow streets, unfamiliar to her, and was taken at length into some house, and into a little sitting-room there. When she asked where she was, an English voice answered her, and an English hand held a glass of wine to her lips.
“In the house of those that will take care of you, my dear—and, not a word until you have drunk every drop; not a word, lady.”
She obeyed willingly, and looked up to see a kindly old dame, in a white cotton dress, spotlessly clean, and wearing a bonnet which recalled thelanes of England. Richard Watts himself, standing at the dame’s side, watched her approvingly. Everything in that light and airy room was English—the substantial buffet, the guns on the walls, the pictures of hunting scenes, the great flagons of silver. But the gentle face of the woman was the most typical English thing of all.
“How good you are to me!” Beatrix said, again and again; “how good it is to hear an English voice!”
Old Richard Watts cried “Bravo!”
“English voices, English hands—that’s it, young lady. Stand by that and you’ll never come to any harm. Eh, Anne Brown, is the little passenger to stand by that? English voices and English hands—gad’s truth, it’s there in a sentence—the whole of it.”
He walked to and fro, cracking his fingers excitedly; but the old dame continued to say, “God bless me!” as she had said ever since her master brought so strange a guest to the house.
“In a café? My word! And a Frenchman insulting her; oh, my dear, my dear, that we should hear such things!”
Richard Watts took up the story, and told it again enthusiastically.
“I was going to see if there was anything left to eat in this city of half-bricks exceptpâté de foiegras, child. If you hadn’t cried out, I’d never have seen you, for I’m as blind as a bat. Then I heard your voice, and looked up. ‘It’s the little passenger, by gad,’ I said. The rest concerned the Frenchman. He was insulting you, eh? Listen to that, Anne Brown; he insulted her. He asked for her answer. I gave it him, old girl—he is reading it now. And lucky I thought of her name. They would have torn us to pieces, the pair of us. But I remembered. Trust old Dick Watts, who has the devil of a memory for names. He remembered. ‘It’s old Hélène’s daughter,’ he said. And they stood by us—gad’s truth, they stood by us.”
He helped himself to a glass of wine, and drank it at a gulp. Beatrix, still hot and flushed, and scarce knowing what she did, rose and thanked him once more.
“I can never be grateful enough,” she said; “and I must not intrude upon you.”
Richard Watts laughed heartily.
“Intrude—listen to that, Anne Brown; the little passenger intrudes.”
“’Twould be a poor house where you could intrude, miss,” said the old housekeeper decisively. “Let the master send a word to your home, and tell your friends what has happened. We are not going to part with you yet. You’re in no fit stateto walk anywhere, I’m sure, and as for carriages, God bless me, how many days is it since I saw one in this street?”
Beatrix answered them in a low voice.
“I have no friends,” she said; “there is no one to be anxious about me. It is something else—I cannot tell you—I wish to God I could.”
A great sense of loneliness and of her own terrible day overcame her, and she sank into one of the chairs by the table and burst into a flood of passionate weeping. That which no Frenchman in Strasburg could wring from her was to be told in this room, where English friends watched her with tears in their eyes, and everything recalled the home she had lost and the faces in that England she would look upon no more.
“I cannot tell you—I must not tell you,” she repeated again and again as the gentle arms of the woman were about her neck and a mother’s voice besought her to trust them. But she told them in the end, word by word, confessing all—Brandon’s danger, his presence in the city; Gatelet’s threat that he would betray him that very night. And when she had done, it was as though some great load of her life had been transferred suddenly to another’s shoulders, and must be borne, as a feather-weight, henceforth, by this giant Englishman,who had come out of the city’s night in the hour of her necessity.
Richard Watts heard the story, sentence by sentence, often taking her back a little way in the narrative; always ready with his word of sympathy and encouragement. A quick thinker, he grappled with the situation instantly. It was not her friend that he was called upon to save, but his own—the man he had left at Wörth; the man whose father he had known at Frankfort twenty years ago.
“It was like the mad scamp to come here,” he said, when she told him of Brandon’s first visit; “he shouldn’t have done it. The news would have waited. But war breeds folly. We must save him from that folly, little lady. Do you think that the scoundrel down yonder has told anyone else?”
She shook her head, smiling through her tears.
“I have been too frightened to think, Mr. Watts.”
“Of course you have. It was his game to frighten you. I don’t suppose he’s taken anyone into partnership, all the same. That wouldn’t suit him. But he’ll tell all he knows about Brandon now, be sure of it. And we haven’t much time to lose, my child.”
She could see that he was very thoughtful. Fora little while she did not venture to speak to him, as he paced the room silently, often taking up his hat, and as often setting it down again. She knew that the danger of that which he undertook was not hidden from him.
“If anything should happen to you!” she exclaimed suddenly.
“To me, young lady. Oh, don’t bother your head about that. I’m an Englishman; they won’t hurt me.”
“And you think that you can save Brandon?”
“Ah, that’s another question.”
She shuddered.
“My God, if they should discover him—those men who killed the German in the café.”
“We must see that they do not, little passenger.”
He put on his hat and went to the door; but upon the threshold he turned and asked her yet another question:
“I shall find you at the Place Kleber to-night?”
“Yes; I am going home now.”
“Then, if the news is good, I will come there at six o’clock.”
He closed the door behind him and went out. The old dame brought her a bowl of soup. She took a few sups of it, and made some excuse. Already she had begun to count the minutes of waiting.