Chapter IX Monsieur de Polignac Presses His Suit
Scenes in Holland—Feeding an Army—A Tulip Bulb—On the Road—The Captain’s Man—A Break-Down—Double Dutch—The Captain Again—A Diversion—An Entry—An Exit—Hospitality—Confidences—Rejected Addresses—Palmam qui Meruit—Persuaded—Adèle
“Hundred barrels pork, tousand quarters flour, five hunderdweight sausages, twenty gallon schnapps, for de garrison of Breda. Ver well, Monsieur de Tilly, de order shall be done.”
Mynheer Jan Grootz put down the paper from which he had been translating, and pushed a pair of horn spectacles up his brow.
“Mynheer Harry,” he continued, “you will see to dis. Such an order yesterday could not have been met—no. But wid Peter Kolp’s man coming from Helmund it is to-day anoder ding. In Helmund, wid Peter Kolp, dere is pork, flour—plenty; yes, my poor vrient Kolp dink dere is too much; he alzo would supply de army. ‘Grootz,’ he say, ‘ask too high prices. As for me, Kolp, I am a cheap man. But Grootz, he is a sad rascal.’ But I tell you dis: dey say my poor vrient Kolp forget his measures and weights, he dink fourteen ounces weigh one pound, and sometimes, dey say, he dink ten barrel bad pork make twelve good; so my poor vrient is not now permitted to contract no more; and he sell me his stores. Truly, he is a cheap man! Zo!”
There was a chuckle of satisfaction in the concluding word.
“You will start early in de morning, Mynheer Harry,” he resumed, “wid ten carts; Helmund is twenty mile beyond Tilburg, and Tilburg fifteen beyond Breda. You will get de stores from Kolp at Helmund and return wid dem to Breda and hand dem over to the commissary dere. Take wid you your man Sherebiah, and Piet Brinker to show you de road; he will pick drivers for de carts. We hear noding of forayers lately; zo I hope you have a safe journey, And, Mynheer Harry, never forget dat poor Kolp cannot count, and do not know good pork from bad, and mistake chalk for flour. You will examine dese little matters wid much care; zo?”
The merchant replaced his glasses on his nose and proceeded to dictate an invoice to one of his clerks. He sat at a desk in a low-pitched room next to the roof of a gabled house near the Gevangen Poort in Bergen-op-Zoom. The lower floors were devoted to the living apartments; the warehouse and offices were at the top, goods being raised and lowered by means of a crane-like apparatus that projected from the wall like a yard-arm. It was not Mynheer Grootz’s home; that was at the Hague; but Bergen-op-Zoom at the head of the eastern arm of the Scheldt was for the present his business head-quarters, conveniently situated in regard to the scattered armies whose wants he had to supply.
It was early in the month of June. For more than three months Harry Rochester had been engaged with the worthy Dutchman, who was kept busy morning, noon, and night in provisioning the allied forces now entering upon a new campaign. He found his employment very much to his taste, and his employer the best of friends. Grootz never alluded to the time when his offer of employment had been slighted, and Harry often smiled as he remembered the pride with which, in the days of his high expectations, he had refused to cast in his lot with a mere merchant. The novelty of the scenes amid which he found himself on his arrival in Holland had banished his ambitions for the time. The flat country, with its dunes and dykes, its endless canals and innumerable windmills; its quaint towns, in which chimneys and steeples and masts seemed so curiously jumbled; the stolid, hospitable people—the men with their big pipes and snuff-boxes, the women with their characteristic head-dress, the girls with the riband of maidenhood at their right brow; the strange customs—the spionnen at the windows, an arrangement of mirrors by which from the upper rooms all that passed in the street below could be seen within; the placard at the door when a child was born; the incessant scrubbing that went on indoors and out; the trekschuiten and pakschuiten that conveyed goods and passengers along the canals, drawn sometimes by horses, more often by a stout mynheer and his vrouw; the storks nesting among the chimney-pots; the stiff formal gardens with their beds of tulips—everything interested him; his low spirits vanished into thin air, and he enjoyed life with a zest he had never known before.
His duties had taken him into many parts of the country. In March he was at the Hague when the Duke of Marlborough returned to resume command of the forces, and he did not even feel a pang when, a humble member of the crowd, he saw the great soldier whose forgetfulness or insincerity had so woefully disappointed him. He knew the potteries of Delft, and the cheese-factories of Gouda; he had heard the great organ of Haarlem, and the sweet carillons of Antwerp, and practised skating for the first time on a frozen arm of the Y. Finding it difficult to get on without a knowledge of Dutch, the only language understood by his teamsters and the country people, he had thrown himself energetically into the study of the language; and he had, besides, picked up a smattering of everyday German phrases from one of his men, a German Swiss. After his natural British diffidence in adventuring on a foreign tongue had worn off, he delighted to air his new accomplishment with the comely juffrouws whom he met in the course of his journeys. He dropped into the routine of the business so rapidly that Mynheer Grootz once told him he was a born merchant—a compliment which, to his own surprise, did not give the least shock to his dignity.
His intelligence and energy completely won the old Dutchman’s confidence, and more than once he had been entrusted with the delivery of supplies to the army in the field. It was not always possible for the military authorities to furnish convoys for these consignments, and they were therefore usually accompanied by well-armed men to guard against the danger of surprise by robbers and freebooters. Many small bands of outlaws were abroad in Holland and Germany, taking advantage of the disturbed state of the country to prey upon the inhabitants, under the pretence of making requisitions for one or other of the contending forces. These marauders terrorized the remoter districts. Hitherto Harry had been fortunate in avoiding any danger of this character. Grootz was as phlegmatic and silent as ever, but he showed in his quiet way that he was pleased with the lad’s unvarying diligence and success.
Harry woke early. The sun was bright but the air cool, and he felt full of vigour, eager to set off on this the longest expedition he had yet taken. Mynheer Grootz was a bachelor, and his breakfast-table was served by a buxom old housekeeper who, after a brief season of jealousy, had capitulated to Harry’s cheerfulness and courtesy. At breakfast the merchant in his slow, ponderous manner repeated his customary warnings to Harry to guard against surprise, and to be punctilious about getting a formal receipt for his supplies from the commissary of the force to which they were to be delivered.
“Here is de paper,” he said, handing it to Harry. “Make him sign it; he may be a count or marquis or someding of de sort, and I trust none of dem.”
Harry laughed. “Put not your trust in princes” seemed to be the prime motto of his host’s business career.
“Very well, Mynheer,” he said.
“And here is a packet I wish you to deliver. Not for de army, dis; no; it is for a vrient of mine dat live a few miles dis side of Helmund. I promised her a tulip bulb; dis is it.”
He handed to Harry a small packet, on which the address was written.
“The Comtesse de Vaudrey,” he read aloud. “That is a French name?”
“Ja! De lady is French, a widow, of a family dat had to leave France because of the persecutions. She is French, but a vrient alzo. If you need help, she will give it.”
“I hope she is not a very great lady. I have met no lady here higher in rank than a burgomaster’s vrouw, and I thought she rather looked down on me.”
“The comtesse is mine vrient,” repeated Grootz in a tone that implied there was no more to be said.
A few minutes afterwards they left the breakfast-room. At the outer door ten empty wagons were already waiting with their drivers, and as Harry prepared to mount to his place on the foremost, Sherebiah came up with the remains of his breakfast in his hand. Grootz repeated his warnings; Harry smiled and waved his good-bye to Gretel the housekeeper, who stood at the door with her hands folded in front of her ample person, and the line of carts moved off.
The Harry Rochester in charge of the convoy was a different being from the pale thin youth who had left England four months before. His work had had the effect of hardening his muscles and developing his physique; and constant exposure to the air and sun had browned his cheeks and brightened his eye. But Sherebiah presented a still greater contrast. From the moment of landing on Dutch soil he had ceased to shave, with the result that his lips and cheeks and chin were now covered with a thick growth of stiff brown hair. Harry did not like the change, but when he asked the reason of this departure from old habit Sherebiah merely said that he had concluded shaving to be a waste of time. The reply was hardly satisfactory, but Sherebiah was never communicative unless he wished to be so, and Harry let the matter drop.
The roads were heavy, and the horses were of the large-limbed variety that spell endurance rather than pace. Empty as the wagons were, only twenty miles were made that day, and Harry decided to stay for the night at the Crown Inn at Breda. The town was garrisoned by four battalions of infantry, four regiments of cavalry, and a regiment of dragoons, and it was for these that the supplies were required. Harry sought out the commissary, and promising to deliver the goods within two days, went for a stroll through the town, leaving Sherebiah to bespeak supper at the inn. He roamed through the winding streets, one of which ended with a windmill; admired the warm-toned old house-fronts; William the Third’s chateau, encircled by the river Merk; and the fine Hervormde Kerk, with its lofty octagon tower and bulbous spire. On returning to the inn he was met by Sherebiah in some excitement.
“What med ’ee think, sir? Who’d ’ee believe I ha’ seed?”
“Well?”
“John Simmons, sir, large as life.”
“Captain Aglionby’s man—the man who got a crack on the head on the Roman road?”
“The very same.”
“I have often wondered how he managed to escape from old Nokes the constable. ’Twas whispered that the captain himself had a hand in it. I suppose he came to this country for safety.”
“Ay, not for riches, so ’twould seem,” replied Sherebiah rather hurriedly. “A’ was down at heel, more like a ragged vagrom than the smart soul as drank his pint at the Berkeley Arms. Mother Joplady couldn’ abide un.”
“Did he see you?”
“Not him. Nor I don’t want to see un, the mumpen cockney.—Supper’s ready, sir.”
Next morning Harry proceeded with his convoy along the Eyndhoven road and arrived late at his destination, Helmund. Almost the whole of the following day was occupied in loading his wagons and procuring extra carts to carry the stores collected by Grootz’s client, Peter Kolp. At his first interview with that “poor friend” of Mynheer Grootz, Harry made it clear that, as a matter of form, the provisions would be carefully tested in quality and quantity, with the result that they were found to be excellent and full weight. It was four o’clock before he was ready to start for Breda. He followed a different route on his return journey. Madame de Vaudrey’s house, Lindendaal, lay on the upper road toward Boxtel—a safer road to travel, as a report had come in that the French had made their appearance near Turnhout, to the south, and were coming apparently in the direction of Eyndhoven.
Unluckily, the convoy had proceeded only a few miles on its return to Breda when, as it was crossing the Aa river, one of the horses took fright and toppled the cart into the water. Fortunately the stream was sluggish and shallow, but Harry saw that it would take some time to extricate the wagon from the mud and collect what part of its load was worth saving. Leaving Piet Brinker in charge of the work, he decided to push on himself with the remainder of the convoy, deliver the packet he carried for Madame de Vaudrey, and wait for the rescued wagon to overtake him. He knew that, with the hospitality universal in Holland, the countess would not allow him to proceed unrefreshed, and he was in truth not a little glad of the opportunity of seeing the lady whom Grootz had so emphatically called his friend. He therefore drove on. The wagon wheels ploughed deep furrows in the heavy sandy roads, and the big Dutch horses plodded on steadily but slowly. The road wound by and by through avenues of elms, pruned of their branches in the Dutch way, and looking to Harry’s English eyes very starved and ugly. At length he came to a wall on the right that appeared to enclose a park of some considerable size. A peasant was passing, whom he hailed, asking in Dutch whether this was the house of Madame de Vaudrey. The man looked stolidly at him without replying. Sherebiah repeated the question, using a different phrase. The Hollander answered at once that this certainly was Lindendaal, the chateau of the French lady. Harry sprang from his wagon, ordered the drivers to draw up by the side of the road, which was here parallel with a narrow canal, and entered the gate accompanied by Sherebiah.
“I’ll tell you one thing that puzzles me, Sherry,” he remarked, as they passed up an avenue bounded on both sides by a breast-high balustrade of stone. “You and I have been in this country the same time, and seen each as much as the other of the people, and yet you have beat me altogether in picking up the language, hard as I have worked at it. I don’t understand it.”
“Ah well, Master Harry,” said Sherebiah, “’tis like that sometimes, so ’tis. You be a scholard, with book larnen and all that; I be, true, a poor common mortal, but mebbe my ear be quicker ’n some.”
“Still, the time is rather short for you to have learnt to speak the language so well as you do. Your knowledge has grown as quickly as your beard.”
“True now, mebbe so; Samson in the Holy Book growed amazen clever wi’ his locks; but I never thowt afore as how it med be the same in these days.”
Harry laughed.
“It looks very English, doesn’t it?” he said, pointing to the house. It was square, with a veranda painted blue, under which were several windows opening to the ground. In front was an open semicircular space, around which were parterres of brilliant flowers; these were separated from the park and orchard by a prolongation of the balustrades that lined the drive. There were dormer windows in the roof, and at one angle rose a kind of belfry surmounted by a weathercock.
“Give me the packet, Sherry; you had better remain at the door while I go in.”
“Ay, or mebbe I med find my lone way to the kitchen?”
“No, no; remain at the door until I have seen Madame de Vaudrey. I can’t have you coquetting with her maids.”
Harry went to the door, which stood open, the afternoon having been warm. A spare, anxious-looking man-servant came in answer to his ring.
“Is Madame de Vaudrey within?” he asked in Dutch.
The man’s accent when he replied in the affirmative left no doubt that he was a Frenchman. Harry explained his errand in French, whereupon the man said in the same language that his mistress was for the moment engaged, but that if Monsieur would wait no doubt she would see him shortly. He led Harry through the wide hall, up a handsome oak staircase into a little ante-room, where, begging him to be seated, he shut the door upon the visitor.
Harry was immediately aware of voices engaged in conversation on the other side of the folding-doors that formed one wall of the room. At first the sounds came to him as murmurs in different tones, but after a time they became louder, and though he could not distinguish the words it was plain that one at least of the speakers was very angry. At length he heard the fierce clanging of a bell below; a few moments after, the manservant came running into the ante-room and threw open the folding-doors. Harry, looking into what was evidently the drawing-room, saw a group of four. One was clearly the lady of the house, short, stout, dressed in a costume little resembling the Dutch housewife’s usual attire. She was very angry, talking vehemently, and gesticulating with her plump white hand. By her side stood a younger lady, half a head taller, slim and graceful, perfectly still and collected, though her cheeks were flushed. Opposite to the two ladies, their backs to the four windows which lit the other end of the room, were two men, one very tall and lean, with thin lips. The other was but little shorter and a good deal stouter. Harry’s attention had been at first attracted to the ladies; the burlier of the two men was the last of the four to be noticed; and it was with a shock of amazement that he recognized in his figure and blotched red face no other than Captain Aglionby.
“Allez-vous-en, allez-vous-en!” the elder lady was repeating. “Quittez ma maison, tout de suite; je vous l’ordonne, je l’exige, je le veux absolument; retirez-vous, messieurs, d’ici, et au plus vite!”
Aglionby laughed. None of the four had yet caught sight of Harry standing back in the darker ante-room. The lady turned to the manservant and ordered him to eject the unwelcome visitors. The servant hesitated to attempt a task clearly beyond his strength. Aglionby put his hand on his sword, and then laughed again brutally as he recognized that he had nothing to fear. All the time the taller man stood quietly watching the scene, occasionally moistening his lips; and the girl remained in the same tense immobility, her eyes never leaving the face of Aglionby.
Harry felt it was time to intervene.
“Perhaps I may be allowed—” he began. At the first word the captain swung round as if on a pivot and stared. His puffed crimson face turned a sea-green as he saw advancing towards him, fresh, lithe, confident, the youth whom he fondly imagined by this time leading a slave’s life in a Barbados plantation. The other man did not stir; but the two ladies looked towards the speaker with a sort of startled surprise. Stepping towards the elder, Harry continued:
“Perhaps I may be allowed to offer my services. If Madame will be so good as to retire, I will—reason with these gentlemen.”
Madame de Vaudrey clasped her hands and looked indecisively at the new-comer, as though doubting the propriety of accepting the intervention of a stranger. Harry was on the point of explaining who he was, when the matter was settled in an unexpected way. The girl moved to her mother’s side and took her by the hand. Then, turning to Harry, she said in clear, cold tones:
“If Monsieur will rid the house of these two men he will do my mother a great service. Come, Mamma!” And then, without another glance at any of the three, she led Madame de Vaudrey, still half-resisting, from the room.
The colour had been gradually returning to Aglionby’s face, and when the ladies had disappeared his purple hue was deeper than ever. But the surprise of Harry’s presence was so great that for the moment the doughty captain was nonplussed; his anger was at boiling-point, but he was clearly at a loss what course to take. His companion stood expectant, a slight smile still on his face—a smile rendered peculiarly disagreeable by a twitching of the mouth that drew one corner perceptibly upwards towards the left ear.
The interval of silence seemed longer than it really was.
“I am sure, gentlemen,” said Harry with great urbanity, “you will see the propriety of at once relieving Madame de Vaudrey of your presence.”
Then the storm broke. Glaring with rage, unable to stand still, stuttering in his speech, Aglionby roared:
“You insolent puppy, you low-born cully, you—how dare you speak to me! What are you doing here? Stap me, I’ll run you through the midriff and rid the world of a bit of vermin!”
“I shall be delighted to give you an opportunity—outside,” said Harry quietly. “Meanwhile, the door is open, and by making your exit you will please not Madame de Vaudrey only, but me and, it appears, yourself.”
“Adsbud, I’ll—I’ll——” stuttered Aglionby, half drawing his sword. Harry had his right hand on the hilt of his own weapon, the third man was still watching the scene, when an unlooked-for diversion occurred. Harry was between the two rooms, the two men opposite him with their backs to the drawing-room windows, which were open. It happened that a flight of steps led up from the garden to a balcony beneath these windows. At this critical moment a fourth man came suddenly into the room from the outside. Before any of the three could perceive what was happening, the new-comer, with a long acrobatic spring, simultaneously imprisoned in his arms the necks of Aglionby and his companion, and half-throttling them dragged them past Harry, through the ante-room, into the corridor, and down the staircase. Harry followed, himself somewhat amazed at their helter-skelter progress—bumping down the stairs, struggling vainly in Sherebiah’s vice-like grip, swaying against the balusters first on one side then on the other, the wood-work creaking and groaning under the pressure. Half-way down the men lost their feet altogether, and were incapable of resisting the rush with which their captor hauled them across the vestibule and through the open door, where he pulled up with a sudden jerk and shot them down the flight of shallow steps on to the drive in front. The whole proceeding scarcely occupied more than half a minute, so sudden had been the onset, so helpless were the two men, gasping half-strangled in Sherebiah’s merciless hug.
Harry ran down the stairs, expecting to find his man engaged in a battle royal before the house. But when he reached the door he saw Aglionby and the Frenchman already halfway down the drive towards the road. They had not waited, then, to demand satisfaction of him. Smiling at his recollection of their headlong descent, he went upstairs again, and was met by Madame de Vaudrey, who had come from another room at the sound of scuffling. She was very pale.
“They are gone, Madame,” said Harry at once, to reassure her.
“Oh, Monsieur, I thank you, I thank you with good heart! Your help at the precise moment was so precious. I cannot thank you too much.”
“It was my servant, Madame—a very useful fellow. He did it all himself. I am glad we happened to be at hand. This unforeseen incident has prevented me, Madame, from explaining my presence here. I have called to leave a packet entrusted to me by Mynheer Grootz, a friend of yours, I think.”
“Oh! it is my tulip bulb. Mynheer Grootz promised to send it me. Yes, he is a friend of mine indeed. But are those men really gone? Will they not overpower your brave servant? They are bad men—oh, they are bad! I fear them.”
“I saw them going down the drive. And my man knows how to take care of himself,” said Harry. “They will not trouble you again at present. And now, Madame, as I have Mynheer Grootz’s packet in the ante-room, if you will allow me to place it in your hands I will take my leave and proceed on my way.”
“Mon Dieu, non!” cried the lady. “You must allow me to give you some refreshment, and your brave man too—if he is really safe! Jean,” she called to the servant, “bring wine and cakes and fruit to the drawing-room. But first see if this gentleman’s servant is safe.”
“He is, Madame,” replied the man at once. “The men from the stables and the garden were coming to the door: Mademoiselle had fetched them: and they were too many for Monsieur de Polignac and the other.”
“How thankful I am! Bring the brave man up with you. Now, Monsieur—I do not know your name?”
“It is Harry Rochester, Madame; I am English.”
“Indeed! Come into the drawing-room and rest. Jean will bring something to eat and drink immediately.”
She led the way into the room, gave Harry a comfortable chair, and sat opposite to him, folding her plump hands on her lap, and heaving a sigh of satisfaction and relief. The servant soon reappeared with a tray, and when Madame de Vaudrey had seen Harry supplied with drink and food that pleased him, she dismissed her man, read the letter Mynheer Grootz had enclosed with his gift, and began to talk.
“You are English? That is interesting. My dear husband’s mother was English, so that my daughter has a little—a very little, of course—English blood in her. I cannot tell you how thankful I am that you came when you did. That is also another debt I owe to Mynheer Grootz. He writes very amiable things of you. I was at my wits’ end, Monsieur Rochestair; I will tell you about it.—Do you like that wine?”
“Thank you, it is excellent.”
“I am so glad! You speak French very well for an Englishman. My daughter wishes to learn English. She takes after her father, not after me. I wonder where she is?”
Harry followed her glance to the door; he too had wondered what had become of the tall girl who had shown so much decisiveness of character at an awkward moment. But she did not appear.
“Well,” continued the amiable hostess, “let me tell you all about it.”
Mynheer Grootz’s recommendation was clearly a passport to her favour. She leant back in her high chair, and in her clear, well-modulated voice told Harry what he was, it must be confessed, curious to hear. It was three years since her husband, the Comte de Vaudrey, died. He was a student, not a man of affairs; and his fortune suffered through his lack of business-like qualities. The estate, a small one, purchased by his father when as a Huguenot he fled from France at the revocation of the Edict of Nantes, was now much encumbered. Monsieur de Vaudrey had bought the best perspective glasses and other expensive scientific instruments, had spent large sums on rare books and specimens, and had so embarrassed himself that he had to apply to the Amsterdam bankers, who advanced him money on a mortgage of the estate. Not long afterwards he died.
“It is only a year ago,” continued Madame de Vaudrey, “that we learnt that we were to have a neighbour. The estate adjoining our own had been in the market for many years, and we heard that it had at last been purchased by a Monsieur de Polignac, a Frenchman, and a Huguenot like ourselves. We were rejoiced at the news; a neighbour of our own race and faith would be so charming, we thought. And so indeed he was, at first. I thought his visits to his estate too few; he was so often at the Hague; when he came to see us he was so debonair, so gracious, that I liked him well. With my daughter, quite the contrary. It was prejudice, I told her; but from the first she looked on him coldly. Then all at once he became a more frequent visitor, and I saw—yes, a mother’s eyes are keen—that he had pretensions to my daughter’s hand. I did not oppose him; he was rich, noble, a Huguenot; but Adèle—certes, Monsieur Rochestair, no maiden could ever have given less encouragement. The first time he was refused he smiled—he does not look well when he smiles, think you?—and said that he would still hope. But though I thought the match a good one, I would not persuade my daughter: she is all I have, Monsieur, and so young. He went away; then a few days ago I am astonished to see him reappear in company with Captain Aglionby, who is visiting him. Now first I begin really to dislike Monsieur de Polignac.”
“Did you know Captain Aglionby before, then?” asked Harry in surprise.
“Yes; that is why. I know him, and I think no friend of his can be a good man. Captain Aglionby stayed for a month in this house some five years ago. No, he was not a welcome guest; he was brought here to recover from a wound he had received in a skirmish near by; ah, Monsieur, he is an odious man! I hate his loud voice, his turbulence, his rodomontade; imagine, three times, Monsieur, three times he intoxicated himself in my house, and excused himself with the plea that he had done so many times with the Czar of Muscovy. He used to force himself into my husband’s study, meddle with his things, spoil his scientific experiments—my husband was discovering a plan to get gold from sea-water, and we should have been so rich! But the odious captain ruined all. I am sure he did, for the experiments came to nothing.”
“Why did you put up with it?”
“Alas! what could we do? My husband was a man of tranquil soul who had lived so long with his books that he could not deal with men. As for me—you see me, a poor helpless woman! and Adèle was then only eleven! judge then my surprise and alarm when I see Captain Aglionby in company with Monsieur de Polignac. Still more to-day, when Monsieur de Polignac comes once more to urge his suit. Adèle refuses him with scorn. And then—oh, the villain!—he tells me he has bought from the Jews of Amsterdam the mortgage on this estate, and if Adèle will not be his wife, then he turns us out—think of it, Monsieur; turns two defenceless women out. This it is that changes me, a weak woman, into a fury, as you see.”
Harry forbore to smile at Madame de Vaudrey’s placid impersonation of a fury.
“They are a couple of villains indeed,” he said. “It was truly fortunate that I came with Sherebiah at the right moment.”
“Yes, indeed; a thousand thanks! And only think of it: just before you came Captain Aglionby, odious man, had dared to hint that when we were thrust out of our home he would do me the honour to marry me. Truly an honour! No, I never forget my dear husband; no, never! Ah, this is the dear brave man, your servant?”
The door had opened, and Sherebiah came in awkwardly, turning his hat between his hands. Madame de Vaudrey rose and, smiling upon him, said:
“I give you a thousand thanks. You are a hero; how strong! how bold!”
Sherebiah bobbed.
“Madame de Vaudrey thanks you,” said Harry.
“’Tis handsome of the lady, sir, and I’m obleeged, and axes you to put my sarvices into French lingo, sir.”
He bobbed again.
“What about Captain Aglionby?” asked Harry.
“Well, sir, I reckon he be madder than a March hare. Nigh to bust hisself, and hot as pepper. Would ha’ slashed me, man o’ peace as I be, if ’tweren’t for half a dozen Dutch coofs wi’ pitchforks and other articles o’ warfare drawn up below, wi’ the young lady at their head. Ay, she be a warrior bold, sure enough: I never seed such a piece of female manliness all my life long. ’Twas with a flashen eye and a pink rose on each pretty cheek her stood and ordered ’em out. Ay, an uncommon upstanden piece o’ womankind her be, to be sure.”
Harry was glad that Madame de Vaudrey’s ignorance of English could not fathom this plain-spoken tribute to her daughter’s charms.
“They are really gone, then?” he said.
“Why, yes, both on ’em; the long beetle chap as well. He be a next-door neighbour, it seems, and a mighty unpleasant neighbour he must be.—Thank ’ee kindly, mum,” he added, as Madame de Vaudrey offered him a glass of wine, “but if ’ee don’t mind, I’d rather wet my whistle with a mug of beer in the kitchen.”
The lady smiled when this was interpreted.
“You English are like the Hollanders in that,” she said. “Certainly. Jean, take the brave man to the kitchen and treat him well.”
Sherebiah pulled his forelock and departed with alacrity.
“We must shortly be going on our way, Madame,” said Harry. “I have a convoy of provisions for the garrison at Breda, and my wagoners are even now growing impatient, I doubt not.”
“But, Monsieur, I cannot hear of it. You cannot reach Breda to-night; and suppose those odious men return? You must be tired. Do me the favour to stay here for the night; and we can find a bed for your man also.”
“But the wagons?”
“Let them go on to the village; it is but half a league away. They can remain at the inn there. Monsieur, I insist; and besides, I have to write a letter of thanks to my friend Mynheer Grootz.”
Harry had no reason for refusing an invitation so cordial. Madame de Vaudrey beamed when he accepted, and, begging to be excused, went off to make arrangements with her servants. Left to himself, Harry looked round the room. It was richly furnished; the tables, cabinets, and chairs were of French make, in highly polished rose-wood; chairs and sofas were covered with crimson velvet, and two cabinets were filled with beautiful porcelain and Dutch china. The pictures upon the walls were all French, except one—a portrait, evidently by a Dutch hand and of a comparatively recent date. It represented a man’s head, with dark complexion and wistful melancholy eyes. Harry was attracted to it by a slight resemblance to his father; not in the features, which were quite unlike, but in the curious sadness of the expression. His thoughts were carried back to his old home at Winton St. Mary, and the quiet life with his father there; a mist came before his eyes, and he fell into a reverie, standing thus before the picture.
So rapt was he in recollection that he did not hear the door open behind him, nor turn to see the entrance of Adèle de Vaudrey. For a moment the girl stood in the doorway, holding the handle. An onlooker would have seen a strange shifting of expression upon her face as she paused in hesitation whether to advance or retire, to speak or to remain silent. It was but for a moment; her lips softened, her long lashes drooped down upon her eyes; and closing the door as noiselessly as she had opened it she slipped away.