p506"He could hear her words distinctly."--p. 506.
The night was so still that, though Sylvia Thorne spoke now in little more than a whisper, he, standing below and gazing up at her, could hear her words distinctly.
"You will not go," she murmured; "you will not go, leaving me here. Ah! well, you are truly brave and daring." Then, releasing the tendrils of a passion flower growing round one of the great pillars, with which she had been playing, she held out her hand while continuing:
"A wilful man must have his way; but, at least, go now. Farewell. Goodnight."
While, as Bevill turned away and went towards the gate, she murmured to herself:
"Lord Peterborough should be proud to call you cousin, to have chosen you as his emissary."
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 ofles villes gagnéesby 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."
Though the approach of the Allies had not taken place within a week from the time when it was supposed to be near, and was at least premature, the two regiments of soldiers--that of La Reine and that of Les Gardes Françaises--as well as two squadrons of the Mousquetaires Noirs, remained in the city. To supply these with temporary barracks some of the large warehouses on the quays had been occupied by the French (who, however, spared all dwelling-houses), and amongst them were Sylvia's warehouses.
But the proximity of these troops had rendered the Weiss Haus no longer an agreeable place of residence to her, and, consequently, she had accepted the oft-repeated invitation of Mynheer Van Ryk and his wife to occupy their house with them. Neither the would-be host or hostess were, however, aware that she had come to the determination of quitting Liége at any moment that an opportunity should arise.
Nor, indeed, would it have been easy for Sylvia to explain her reason for thus desiring to be gone. If she had stated that it was her intention to escape out of the city, the sober-reasoning minds of the Van Ryks would simply have formed the opinion--which was, in absolute fact, the one she had herself long since arrived at--that she was far safer in Liége than she would have been in quitting it and traversing a land now swarming with contending armies.
Yet how would it be possible for her to, on the other hand, inform them that her reason for departing was not that of self-preservation at all, but, instead, of consulting the safety of a man who, in his desire to serve her, no matter what the origin of that desire was, had placed himself in terrible peril?
One person existed, however, who was well aware of all Sylvia's thoughts and intentions; who could understand the nobility of the girl's mind in deciding to quit a place in which she was in no likelihood of danger, simply with the view to the preservation of a man who might at any moment be exposed to the greatest of dangers. Consequently, this person, who was the Comtesse de Valorme, not only admired Sylvia for her intentions, but, since she herself was equally desirous of quitting Liége for her own purposes, had decided not only to render assistance to the undertaking, if it were possible to do so, but also to form one of the fugitives.
"Yet," said Sylvia to the Comtesse, as now they talked over the determination they had both come to, "fresh troubles arise at every step. 'Twas but this afternoon that M. de Belleville"--for so both ladies spoke of Bevill for precaution's sake, though the Comtesse had known for days that he was an Englishman--"confided to me that M. Francbois was once at school with him in Paris, and that he can by no chance have forgotten what his country is nor what his name is."
"Where should the trouble be?" the Comtesse asked. "Francbois is a crafty man, especially when craft may serve his purpose. But here it will serve none. Were he to denounce M de Belleville, it might, in truth, lead to the latter's downfall, but would not enrich him. Your friend would be tried as a spy and----"
"No, no! Say it not!" Sylvia exclaimed, with a shudder, understanding well enough what the next word must have been. "Say it not. Think how nobly, how chivalrously, he has found his way here."
"It would not enrich Francbois," the Comtesse repeated; "therefore he has no reason to betray him."
As she spoke these words, however, Sylvia knew very well that Francbois had not only one reason for betraying Bevill, but had very plainly told her that, if driven to desperation, he would undoubtedly betray him.
Living in the same house that Sylvia was now in, since he too was a connection of the Van Ryks, Francbois had countless opportunities of pressing his suit with her, and these opportunities he did not neglect. And then, after he had discovered that not only was this Englishman, whom he hated in his boyhood, here in Liége under a false name and nationality but, as he had also learnt, was in the habit of seeing Sylvia frequently, he had added to this discovery a very strong suspicion that he was an English admirer, if not lover, of hers. But that there was any intention on their part of quitting Liége he did not as yet imagine. Even so, however, he knew enough.
This Englishman, passing as a Frenchman, was, he admitted, handsome, gallant, anddebonnaire--a man whom any woman might well love and be proud to love. And Sylvia, he remembered, had refused all the addresses that other men had attempted to pay her, including his own. She was ever cold, stately, and almost contemptuous of men's admiration. Yet now, now that this man had appeared, they had been much together, as his own observations had shown him--was it not possible that, in her frequent visits to England with her father, she had met this countryman of hers and learnt to love him, and that now he was here, not only to carry on his suit, but also to be with her in time of trouble? He knew too that, although Bevill had not yet entered Van Ryk's house, he had met Sylvia and the Comtesse on the quays and in the public gardens of the city. He did, indeed, know enough.
Therefore, this very day, he had spoken plainly to the girl--so plainly that, without indulging in any actual threats, he had made her see clearly how much there was to fear from him if she still refused to listen to his protestations, his desire to obtain her hand.
513"This very day he had spoken plainlyto the girl."--p. 513.
"What does he threaten, what hint at?" the Comtesse de Valorme asked as she listened to all that Sylvia told her; while, as she spoke, there was a strange look in her eyes.
"He threatens nothing, yet suggests much. He said but this morning that a word to M. de Violaine, who is in command of the Citadel----"
"Monsieur de Violaine! De Violaine! The Brigadier! Is he in command of the Citadel?"
"Why, yes. So Monsieur Francbois said. Do you know him?"
"Ay, very well, for many years. He is, like me, from the South. So! A hint to him. Well! What is this hint to convey? What harm is it to do?"
"To cause Mr. Brac--M. de Belleville to be arrested as an Englishman passing as a Frenchman, and doubtless, in the French mind, as a spy. To be tried as the latter--to be executed. Ah, no, no, no!" Sylvia concluded. "Not that--surely not that."
"Let him denounce your compatriot to M. de Violaine. Bid him do so when next he makes his vile suggestion. Only, to the defiance add this: ask him if he knows to what faith M. de Violaine belongs; ask him if he knows which man the Governor of the Citadel would deal harder with--an Englishman passing under the garb of a Frenchman, or a Frenchman who is----"
"What?"
"Ah! well, no matter for the present. Also, on second thoughts, do not ask him that. Instead, say: Madame de Valorme is a friend of M. de Belleville. He who injures him incurs her enmity. It will be enough. Now tell me, when do you expect to see your countryman again?"
"He is coming to-night to see us both. Alas! he may not come in open daylight, since he recognises that it is not well for him and Francbois to meet here face to face. But still he would fain see you, since you have promised to leave the city with us, if such a thing can be accomplished; also he comes to tell us how stands the chance of our succeeding."
"When does he come?"
"At nightfall. Knowing that Mynheer keeps his bed of a quinsy, and Madame stays with him, while Francbois has gone to see his friends at the Jesuits' College----"
"Ah! his friends at the Jesuits' College," the Comtesse repeated quietly.
"Monsieur de Belleville will come in by the garden gate. It may be, he says, that he will have discovered some chance, or, at least, have conceived some scheme whereby we shall be enabled to leave the city and make our way to the Allied Forces."
"Does he know my mission, the reason why I so ardently desire to see Lord Marlborough? Does he know why I so long to cast myself at that commander's feet--to beg him, to implore him on my knees to send the long-promised aid of England to those of our persecuted faith in Languedoc? To send it now--now--when France is attacked on all sides, when England and Holland are hemming her in with bands of steel in the north, when Prince Eugene is hurling his armies against her in Italy. For now is the time. Now! Now!"
"He knows," Sylvia said, touching her friend's hand gently. "I have told him."
"And does he know the rest? All. Have you told him that?"
"Oh, do not speak of it! Do not think of it! Ah, Radegonde!" addressing the other by her Christian name. "Do not speak of it, I entreat you."
"Not speak of it! Not think of it!" the Comtesse exclaimed, while as she did so her eyes were wet with tears, her cheeks being also as wet with them as leaves bedashed with rain, her whole frame being shaken with emotion. "As well bid me not dream of it night by night, nor let my existence be broken with unhappy memories. Not think of my father's death--my father, an old, grey-haired, feeble man!--in the dungeons of Nîmes--my father, who, had he not thus died, would have been broken on the wheel. Not think of that! Nor, perhaps of my husband----"
"Oh, Radegonde!"
"----sent to the galleys, beaten, driven to his doom even as he sat lashed to the oar. He! young, gallant, an honest, God-fearing man! And all for what? For what? Because they and thousands like them--all good and true subjects of this tyrant Louis, of this priest-ridden, woman-ridden Louis--did but wish to worship in their own way! Not think of it! My God! shall I ever cease to think of it?"
"Nay, do not weep, I implore you," Sylvia exclaimed. "The English will help; so, too, will all the Netherlands. All who think and worship as those in the South worship will help. And soon, soon, freedom, peace, must come. An end must come to all their sufferings."
"Does he know all this?" the Comtesse asked again when her passionate sorrow had somewhat spent itself. "Does he? If not, he must do so. Otherwise, what will he deem me--me, a Frenchwoman seeking to reach Marlborough, the most hated, the most feared foe of France!"
"He knows," Sylvia whispered, "and, knowing, understands all."
But by now the night was near at hand. Through the great, open, bow-shaped window of the solid Dutch house was wafted the scent of countless summer flowers, the perfume of the roses, now dashed with the evening dews, mingling with that of many others. Also the sounds that summer always brings more plainly to the ears were not wanting; the birds were twittering in the trees ere roosting for the short night; from the Abbey of St Paul the solemn sounds of the great bell boomed softly while the silver-toned carillons joined in unison. In other of the city gardens close by the voices of little children could be heard as they played their last rounds ere going to their beds, all unconscious, or, at least, unheeding, in their innocence that they were in a beleaguered city that, if war's worst horrors rolled that way, might ere long be the scene of awful carnage and see its old streets drenched with blood.
"It is the time, Sylvia," the Comtesse said, "that he should come. Is the gate unlocked?"
"Nay, not yet. I will go and see to it." And Sylvia, passing through the low window and down the steps to the garden, went along the neatly-kept path towards where the gate was.
Then, at the moment she was about to turn the key in the lock, and, next, to leave the solid wooden gate an inch ajar, so that, when Bevill came, he might push it open as he had done more than once since she had taken up her abode in this house, she heard a footstep outside in the lane--one that she had already learnt to know well enough!
"Ah," she exclaimed, turning the key quickly and drawing back the door, while she held out her hand to Bevill a moment afterwards. "Ah! you have come."
"To the moment," he replied, taking her outstretched hand and bending over it. "Did I not say that I would be here before the carillon had finished its chimes? And here am I! Yet--yet--almost I doubted if it were well for me to come to-night----"
"You doubted that!" Sylvia exclaimed, while stopping on their way towards the house to look up at him. "You doubted if you would come! Knowing how we were waiting here, how we were expecting your coming!"
"Ay, knowing what danger lurks near to you; to your desire and that of Madame de Valorme to quit Liége. Also, in a lesser degree, to me, though that matters not----"
"That matters not!" the girl exclaimed, repeating his words again, while in the dusk he could see her starry eyes fixed on his--eyes that resembled the stars themselves gleaming through the mists of summer nights--"that matters not!"
"Danger," he went on, unheeding, though not unobserving, "if Francbois knows my movements, if he knows that we meditate aught like flight from Liége. Have you not told me of his unwelcome desires and hopes--of his----?"
"Hark! Stop!" Sylvia whispered, interrupting him. "Listen. There is another footstep in the lane. It may be he--following, tracking you. And the gate is open! Heavens, he is there! The footfall stops. If his suspicions are aroused he will halt at nothing. He will denounce you!"
"Will he? We will see to that. Go back to the room, welcome him as he returns----"
"But you? You! The danger is yours, not mine."
"I am safe. I fear nothing."
"Ah, yes; when he has entered you can escape, can leave by the door. 'Tis so. Farewell until to-morrow. Farewell." And as swiftly as might be, the tall, graceful form of Sylvia sped back to the room while Bevill, crossing the grass plot, entered an arbour at the side of it.
"Ha!" he said to himself. "Escape! Leave by the door! She does not know me yet. Escape!" and as he spoke he drew still further within the darkness of the arbour.
Neither he nor Sylvia had been too soon in their action. Looking through the interstices of The vines which were trained to grow outside the open woodwork of the arbour, Bevill saw that Francbois was advancing up the path towards the steps leading to the open window of the old room.
As he did so, however, a reflection entered his mind which caused him to wonder if, after all, there was any connection between Francbois' doing so and his own visit. The man lived here with the Van Ryks. Might it not be, therefore, that this was his ordinary way of returning home? A moment later, however, Bevill recognised that this could not be so. The gate was always locked inside at night; as was the case with himself but just now, and on former visits during the week, it had to be unlocked from the inside for entrance to be obtained.
"Francbois comes this way to-night," he muttered, "because he knows, has seen, that I too did so!" and as he so thought he brought his sash a little more round and felt to discover if his sword ran smoothly in its sheath.
Meanwhile, the other had entered through the open window of the room, and had found Sylvia by herself, since the Comtesse must have quitted it for some purpose during the time the girl had gone to unlock the gate. He could see that she was by herself, for the lamp, which had been brought in some time earlier, was turned fully up.
"Mademoiselle is alone," Francbois said, though as he spoke his eyes were peering into the corners of the room that, in spite of the lamp, were in partial darkness; and also peering, as far as possible, behind the great Java screens. "Alone!"
"Apparently," Sylvia replied in the usual indifferent tones she adopted towards this man. "Madame de Valorme was here a moment since."
"Madame de Valorme!" Francbois echoed. "Madame de Valorme alone?"
"Whom else did you expect to see?"
"One whom I had good reason to suppose was here--your 'French' friend, Monsieur de Belleville."
"Your eyes prove to you that your supposition is wrong."
"Surely he has entered the house. I followed behind him on my way here."
"He has not entered the house. That you 'followed' him I do not doubt And, even had he entered the house, which as I tell you he has not done, you are not the master of it. Also, Mynheer Van Ryk, who is, has bade me welcome here any whom I desire to receive."
"It is incredible!" Francbois said. "Incredible. He passed down the lane before me. And--and--that door," pointing to one which led out of the room into a small library or study, "is not fast shut. And there is a light within."
"Monsieur Francbois," Sylvia said very quietly, and now she stood before him drawn to her full height, stately, contemptuous, as an affronted queen might stand, "if you choose to believe your own thoughts as against what I tell you, do so. Look in that room and see if my 'friend,' Monsieur de Belleville, is there. Only, from the moment you have done so, never dare to address one word to me again. There," extending her arm, "is the door. Enter the room and observe for yourself. Afterwards, you will doubtless search the house."
515"'Enter the room and observefor yourself.'"--p. 515.
Vacillating, uncertain how to decide; sure, too, that his eyes had not deceived him, Francbois knew not what to do. If he looked in the room and did not find the Englishman, then his remotest chance with Sylvia was gone for ever; while, if he did find him there, his recollection of Bevill's earlier character told him that he would have to pay a heavy reckoning for his curiosity. Yet, how could the man be there? Would Sylvia have bidden him enter the room had that been so; would she have bidden him do that which must stamp her as utterly untruthful should the Englishman be found?
Still halting, not knowing what to do, he nevertheless took a step or two towards the library door, while observing that Sylvia's glance was fixed contemptuously on him; then, suddenly, he exclaimed, "I will know!" and advanced close to the door.
At that moment it opened wide and the Comtesse de Valorme appeared.
"You see," she said, speaking with withering scorn, "I am the only person the room contains. Now do as Sylvia suggested--search the house."
"Monsieur Francbois need scarcely trouble so far as that," a voice said from the foot of the garden steps, while all turned their eyes on Bevill standing below. "I have heard enough to know that he seeks an opportunity of speaking with me. Monsieur Francbois, I pray you to descend. I, too, must have some talk with you. Afterwards, we can arrange our affairs pleasantly, I do not doubt. You understand?" looking at Francbois.
Francbois, his face become suddenly ashy, as both ladies observed, from the moment he had heard Bevill's voice and saw its owner standing at the foot of the steps, nevertheless did as he was invited and went out to the verandah. Then, seeing that, without any further word or sign, the Englishman was slowly making his way towards the gate, he followed him. Yet once the thought came to his mind as he did so, "If this were not the garden of the house wherein I dwell, if those women were not there, how easy 'twould be--now, as he walks ahead disdainfully--to put him out of my path, for ever." While, as he thus thought, his hand itched to draw the spadroon at his side.
In the room which he had left, the women were now standing at the open window, gazing down at the figures of the retiring men. On Sylvia's face there was a look of intense anxiety, of nervousness--an expression that, on the face of a woman of less heroic mould, might have been construed into one of fear. But, though this look was not, truly, one that depicted fear, the agitation that possessed her whole being was the outcome of fear. Not for herself--that could never be!--but for him--him--the man whose every path, every footstep, was day by day and hour by hour becoming more environed and beset by danger.
"And the bitterness of it all is," she thought to herself, "that the danger need never have arisen. I was safe. Short of this city being besieged by the English and fired by grenades or bombarded, or sacked and destroyed by the French in their rage, naught could harm me. Yet, to protect me, to shield me from harm, as he deemed in his chivalry, danger surrounds his every movement, his whole existence. How-- how--shall I therefore save him, how repay him in turn? If we cannot leave this city, if I cannot save him by the pretence, the make-believe, that he is saving me--oh! what shall become of him? What?"
"They have passed out through the gate," the Comtesse said at this moment. "They----"
"What! is he going to kill him? To force him into a duel?"
"'Twere well he should do so," the Comtesse de Valorme said in a hard, dry voice that sounded strangely in Sylvia's ears, or would have done so had she not been too agitated to observe the tone of the other. "Very well it would."
"Radegonde! How can you speak so of one allied to you, one dwelling beneath the same roof as you? He has not harmed you; he is only dangerous in so far that we fear the harm he may do."
"While Francbois and Monsieur de Belleville inhabit this city there is no safety for your friend. I know Francbois. He is treacherous, subtle as a snake, and--and--it is much to his interests to have M. de Belleville removed from--well, from your companionship."
"Why?" the girl asked, looking at her companion. "Why?" Though, as she spoke, there came to her face the rose-blush that had but recently quitted it.
"You should guess why as easily as I. M. de Belleville," the Comtesse continued quietly, "is the representative of your guardian. Do you imagine that, holding this office, he would look with approval on Francbois' desires to--to--ah! you know what he desires."
"If," said Sylvia, speaking now with her usual calm, "neither my guardian nor Monsieur de Belleville had any existence, M. Francbois' desires would be no nearer their attainment. Ah," she exclaimed suddenly, "what is that? Is it the clash of swords? Listen!"
"I heard nothing. The night is tranquil; there is no sound. Sylvia, you are overwrought, overstrung. What do you fear? Such as Francbois cannot slay one such as he, except by treachery, by betrayal."
"If I fear aught it is that he should slay Francbois. I would not have a gallant gentleman stain his sword with the blood of such as that man is. I would not have Monsieur de Belleville bring fresh trouble, fresh risks of danger on himself."
That Sylvia was, indeed, overwrought must have been the case since, undoubtedly, she could have heard as yet no clash of swords proceeding from the spot which the two men had reached some minutes before.
When Bevill Bracton, followed by Francbois, had passed through the gate giving from the garden into the lane, he had continued for some paces until, arriving beneath the foliage of a tree that protruded over the wall of another property, he halted and, turning round, faced the other. Then he said:
"Monsieur Francbois, you remember me. We were at school years ago at the Lycée Saint Philippe. You have not forgotten?"