After which Bevill gave as much explanation as he considered safe to the more or less bewildered old man.
"Who was the other?" Karl asked, after he had grasped as much as Bevill cared to tell him.
"No friend of mine, I tell you; nor, which concerns you most, of the Jouffrouw."
"Ha! a traitor to his country, no friend to my young mistress. So be it. He is better dead than alive. What shall we do with him? He must not be found till you and the Jouffrouw are safely gone."
"I know not. I am no ghost believer, nor am I afeard of the dead; yet if I stay here another night or so I care not to have this man keeping his silent watch outside the house."
"Leave all to me. I have a tool-house near my cottage; to-night I will remove him there. When you and she and her friend are gone he shall have Christian burial."
"It will bring no harm to you?"
"Nay, nay. I have been a soldier. I can still wield a sword. Also, when the magistrates know of his treachery they will ask few questions. They will think 'twas I who found him in the darkened house and slew him for a robber. All will be well. But-you must go soon, very soon. That tale will only be good if told near to the hour of his death."
CHAPTER XX
No matter though their conquerors lay around the city-for conquerors in one form the French and their auxiliaries were-and no matter whether their grasp would tighten more and more upon the beleaguered place, or be suddenly relieved and loosed by the English and their allies as they advanced near to Liége, the inhabitants did not cease to continue as far as might be their ordinary pursuits, and also their relaxations.
It is true, the business that they did was much curtailed: their silks and satins, spices, and other tropical wares could now no longer reach Liége either by water or land, or, having reached it, could not in many cases enter. Also, it was true, the burghers could neither feast nor drink as copiously as had once been their wont, since food was required for the investors inside and outside the city, who took care to be first served.
But some things there were that neither investment nor a reduction in rations, nor, which was the same thing, a tremendous increase in the price of all rations, could prevent them from enjoying. Such things, to wit, as their walks and promenades along the quays on either side of the river or in the public gardens and places of the city.
For which reason fathers and mothers still took their daughters out of evenings and gave them an airing, and treated them to the coffee drinking beloved of Dutch wives and maidens, while the men smoked solemnly their pipes, since the city was well provisioned with such things as coffee and tobacco, no matter how short it might fall of fresh bread and meat and fish and vegetables.
And, because the heart can ever remain light so long as the most terrible calamities have not yet befallen that can well befall, and can especially do so when the heart is young, the daughters and sons of the honest Liègois would laugh and talk and sip their coffee under the flowering acacias, while, through the eyelits of their masks, the former would cast many a glance of curiosity at those whom they were taught to hate and loathe.
For now that the city, as well as the country that lay around it, was filled with French soldiery, there would sometimes pass before their eyes handsomely accoutred mousquetaires and dragoons, or sometimes a fierce and swarthy Cravate, and sometimes a young cadet of the regiment of Royal-Condé or of the superbly decorated Garde de la Reine. And from the eyes that sparkled behind the half-masks would be shot glances that told of one of two things-or it may be of both! – namely, of hatred for the invader or of that admiration which scarlet or blue, or gold and silver lace, scarcely ever fail to extort.
Beneath the leafy branches of some acacia and ialanthus trees there sat this evening a group of four people watching all the promenaders, native and foreign, who passed before them. One, the chief of the group, was an elderly man who seemed more immersed in intricate thought than concerned in what met his eyes. By his side was a lady, herself no longer young, and, consequently, unmasked; a woman with a sweet, sad face, who might have given to any onlooker the idea that her thoughts were little enough occupied with the affairs of this world-an idea that would, perhaps, have been increased in the minds of those who should regard her by the appearance of delicate health which her face wore.
Next to her were two ladies, each masked and young, though one, if the lower and uncovered portion of the face was sufficient to judge by, was much younger than her companion. For surely the dark, chestnut hair of this latter, as it curled beneath the broad-brimmed, black-feathered hat she wore, while undisfigured by any wig or powder, belonged only to a woman in her first blush of early womanhood. So, too, must have done the tall, slight form clad outwardly in a long, dark-coloured satin cloak, and the slim hands from which the white gauntlets had been withdrawn. Also, the eyes that looked calmly through the eyelets of the mask, the sweet yet grave-set mouth beneath, and the white, smooth chin, would have told that here sat one who was young yet sedate, beautiful but grave.
As for the lady next to her, she too was grave and solemn, and, for the rest, clad much the same as her companion.
"And so," said the elderly gentleman, speaking now, though not until he had looked carefully round the bosquet in which they all sat to see that there was no one about to overhear his words, "and so you are resolved to go-both of you-and to inform your-your cavalier of your determination to-night?"
"Yes," the elder of the two masked ladies replied, "we are resolved. If for no other reason than for the one that, while we remain, he will not go himself. And, ah! he is too brave, too noble, to have his life sacrificed by us. Is it not so, Sylvia?"
"In very truth it is," the girl replied. "If he remains here he does so at imminent deadly peril to himself; and that must not be. I, at least, will not have it so."
"Nor I," said the Comtesse de Valorme.
"I do aver," Madame Van Ryk said now, with a half-smile upon her sad face, "that Mademoiselle de Scudéry and Madame de Lafayette might have drawn inspiration for one of their romances from you. And-how strange a working of chance is here! This cavalier sets forth to rescue a maiden who, in plain fact, needs no rescuer, but in her turn is forced to save the cavalier. Our Netherlanders have no romance. 'Tis pity! They should know this tale."
"Romance or no romance," Sylvia replied, "this gentleman shall throw away no chance of safety, and it rests with me to prevent him from doing so. Ah! ah!" she went on, "if evil should befall him through his hopes of succouring me how should I bear my life?"
Van Ryk shot a glance at his wife as Sylvia spoke thus-a glance that the lady well understood-then he said drily:
"At least he wins a rich reward, a rich guerdon" – and Sylvia started at the word, remembering how the Earl of Peterborough had himself used it, as well as in what sense he had used it-"in having gained your interest in his welfare."
"Should he not gain reward, does he not deserve it, remembering the interest he has testified in my welfare? And he will do so. If I should chance to stand face to face with my Lord Marlborough, he shall know how much 'Monsieur de Belleville' aspires to wear his sword for the Queen."
"And so shall he know it from me," the Comtesse said, "if I, too, find myself before this great commander."
"We go together," Sylvia said. "If I obtain the ear of his lordship so shall you."
"What must be must be," Van Ryk said. "Now, see, the twilight is at hand. Soon it will be dark. I will but call my wife's chair and send her home, and then escort you to your own house. Monsieur de Belleville will doubtless be awaiting your coming-your decision."
Half an hour later the three stood outside the wall of the Weiss Haus, by the side entrance that led past the stables and through the little copse in which, that morning, Bevill had found Sparmann seated dead.
Tapping on the door gently as she sought admission to her own house, Sylvia heard a soft, yet firm footstep on the path a moment later. Another instant and the door was opened, and Bevill stood before them.
Then, when they had all exchanged greetings and Sylvia had asked him how the previous night had passed, receiving for answer the information that, after the storm was over, he had been enabled to sleep, Bevill desired to know where they wished to retire to, there to confer on any plans that she and Madame de Valorme might have decided on.
"Let us remain outside," Sylvia replied, "in one of the arbours. The night is warm, and the sun to-day has dried the wet of last night. Come," she said, addressing the others, "to the bosquet on the lawn. There we can talk in comfort."
Upon which they proceeded along the path that ran through the copse-there was no silent figure now on the seat around the great tree, though Bevill could not refrain from casting one glance at the spot where it had been in the morning-and so reached the arbour the girl had spoken of.
One thing Bevill had determined on, and, in so doing, had also impressed on old Karl, and this was that no word should be uttered to Sylvia of all that had occurred in the house overnight. For he knew, or, at least, already understood, that, should she be made cognisant of these occurrences, no power on earth would prevent her from instantly deciding to set out with him from Liége, so as, thereby, to ensure, if possible, what she would believe to be his safety. Yet in doing this she might not be absolutely ensuring his safety, while, undoubtedly, she would be jeopardising her own. And he would not have that. If Sylvia desired to go, she should go with him in her train, but she should not go on his behalf. Never! He had come there to save her, not to force her to imperil herself by saving him. That must never be. While, for the rest, what mattered it to him now whether he stayed here in danger, or, if she desired it, courted additional danger by going with her? In either case he would be by her side unless disaster came; while, if it came, he would still be near to, it might be, shield and protect her, perhaps to save her. He would leave the decision in her hands, would abide by her determination. He was learning to love her-pshaw! was learning! Nay, he did love her. Nothing should drive him from her. As she decided so it should be-short of her deciding to do aught that should part him from her.
Now that they were all seated in the arbour, Sylvia at once began to unfold her plans by saying:
"Mr. Bracton, the Comtesse and I have decided to quit Liége to-morrow night."
"Ah, yes," he answered, seeing that, beneath the stars now twinkling in the evening sky, another pair of stars, not less bright than those above, were looking into his eyes as though expectant of his reply. "Ah, yes. Yet are you well advised? Have you thought deeply on what you do? You told me but a few days past that you were safe here, being a woman."
"Safe-yes, perhaps. Yet desperately desirous of leaving this war-ridden land, of reaching my own; of imploring the assistance of the Captain-General of our forces to put me in the way of doing so. Also, I desire to snatch the chance of travelling with Madame de Valorme, who is herself resolved to implore Lord Marlborough to-to-ah! you know what her desires are."
"As all know here," the Comtesse said. "There is no need for silence. England has promised help to us poor Protestants in Languedoc, and, for the help that England can give, Lord Marlborough alone can decide. Today, he stands here as England, he is England; he is the one foe whom Louis fears, the one who may bring Louis to his demands. And the time is now. Environed east and west and north and south by his enemies, England's help given in the Cevennes may free us from our sufferings; may enable us at last to worship God in our own way, as his grandsire allowed our people to do. I must see Marlborough. I must! I must!"
"Being resolved," Bevill said, "doubtless your plans for leaving Liége are decided on. How have you determined to quit the city?"
"For our purpose," Sylvia answered, "we are all French. You are M. de Belleville, Madame is truly the Comtesse de Valorme, I am her maid."
"Yet her actual maid is old," Bevill said.
"They will not know that at the gate."
"'Tis best," Van Ryk said now, speaking for the first time, while remarking that the wind was rising and rustling the leaves behind the arbour, "that you leave at a fixed time. The east gate is the last left open, but even for the French themselves that is closed to them and all and every as the clock from St. Lambert's strikes eleven, after which none can enter or pass out. It will be well, therefore, that you should meet the ladies," he continued, addressing Bevill, "ere they reach the gate. If chance is with you all you should be outside in safety ere the hour has struck."
"Where and when shall it be?" Bevill asked.
"By the Prince's palace at ten of the night. Then are our townsmen in their houses and shortly after in their beds, and the streets are therefore well-nigh deserted. Also our invaders," he went on bitterly, "are all called in at sunset, the town is quiet. Beyond your questioning at the gate there will be naught to impede you."
"Is it agreed on?" Sylvia asked of Bevill.
"As you command," he answered, "it shall be. At ten of the night to-morrow I shall be outside the Prince's palace or no longer alive."
"Ah!" exclaimed Sylvia, shuddering at the very thought of Bevill's being no longer in existence twenty-four hours hence. "Never speak nor dream of it. If I thought there was danger of such horrors would I quit Liége?"
An instant after Bevill had spoken he knew that his words were ill-timed. He recognised that to alarm Sylvia at this moment-the moment when she had decided to set out on the road to England-was madness. Madness, because he knew-he could not help but know-that after the episodes of the last night in the now gloomy and deserted Weiss Haus his own life was in serious danger; not from any violence that Francbois might attempt against him-that, he doubted not, he could meet and overthrow-but from his treachery. And though, soldier-like, he thought but little of his life and was willing to freely set it against the prize that success and increase of honour would bring, he was not willing to set it against the sweet, new-born hopes that had sprung to his heart; against the desire to win this beautiful and stately woman for his wife.
"Yet," he mused, even as he heard Van Ryk telling her how he charged himself henceforth with all care of her property and affairs; how, in truth, he would regard himself as her steward and agent in Liége until brighter days should dawn, "yet, if I am betrayed, if I die here, I lose more than my life, more than that life is worth; while she-ah! no-I may not dream nor hope as yet to win what I desire. Though still-still I fain would hope that this life of mine may grow precious to her-that she would as little part from me as I from her. If it should be so! If it should!"
They had all risen now, and were once more making their way towards the thicket by the stables, Mynheer Van Ryk walking with Madame de Valorme and Bevill by Sylvia's side; and as they went, he said to her:
"There is one fear within my heart, one dread that I would have allayed. May I ask a question, hoping to receive an answer to it from you?"
"Ask," Sylvia replied, looking at him in the starlight, while, since she herself was tall, her eyes were not so far from his but that he could gaze easily into them.
"You do not set out upon this journey, do not leave Liége on my account alone!" he said now. "I could not bear to deem that you are going on a perilous journey-for perilous it may be-only to ensure the safety of one who, perhaps foolishly then, placed himself in a position of which there was no need."
"Then-And now?" Sylvia murmured.
"But who now regards the enterprise he undertook as-it may well be so-the happiest, the best determination he ever embarked upon. Ah! answer me, Sylvia."
"I set out to-morrow night," the girl replied, "because I fain would quit Liége-because I would be gone from out of it at once. The place thrusts against my desires, my wishes-ay, all my hopes of-happiness-to come. Ask me no more since I have answered you. Farewell," holding out her slim, white hand to him. "Farewell until to-morrow night. You will not fail, I know."
"I shall never fail you. Farewell. Goodnight."
CHAPTER XXI
The next night was already very quiet, although it still wanted some time ere ten should strike from St. Lambert's and all the other clocks of the city.
Van Ryk had spoken truly when he said that by this time most of the Liégois were in their homes, though some who had not yet retired to them were on the various bridges over the streams running through the city from the Meuse. For the night had grown almost insufferably hot, and the interiors of many of the houses, which were built of timber and stood in narrow, stuffy streets, were not inviting. Also, some few were strolling about or seated on the quays.
Outside the Prince's palace-which was that of the Prince-Bishop-there were, however, scarcely any persons about, and those only beggars, who sometimes at night crept into the outer cloisters to sleep.
In the darkest shadow cast by these cloisters Bevill Bracton sat on La Rose's back while endeavouring to keep her as quiet as was possible, though no efforts could prevent her from pawing the earth, or shaking her bridoon, or snorting impatiently.
His dress, in which at one time he had thought of making some alteration, he had, however, left as it was, since it was neither too handsome nor too conspicuous for a secretary of legation on his travels with a French lady of rank who, if necessity should call for such a declaration, would state that they were family connections.
He had arrived at this spot and taken up the position he now occupied some quarter of an hour ago, and during that time, while casting searching glances to right and left of him to see if there were as yet any signs of the approach of Madame de Valorme's carriage, his mind had been much occupied with all that had transpired since Mynheer Van Ryk had escorted the two ladies to the Weiss Haus.
Yet strange as had been one, or, at least, two, occurrences during the past twenty-four hours, another matter, the recollection of one other incident, dominated his mind more than aught else-the recollection that the last words Sylvia uttered had been almost an avowal of her regard-he dared not yet tell himself that it was an avowal of her love-for him.
"Her voice, her tone, her anxiety to depart from Liége," he had said to himself a hundred times since he parted from the girl, "scarce leaves me room to doubt her sentiments for me, while throwing open the door of a vast, a supreme hope. Ah, if it is so! If, when once we are free of this place, I may dare to speak, and, in speaking, win the reply I fain would receive, what happiness will be mine! With Sylvia for my love, my promised wife; with her safe in England, what may I not undertake in the future? Once more a soldier, as I hope to be, may I not follow where duty summons me, knowing that, if it pleases Providence to spare my life, it will be to find Sylvia awaiting me and ready to fulfil her promise to be my wife when I return."
As he had thought thus during the past hours so he thought again while, statue-like, he sat his steed in the deepest shadows of the palace cloisters and waited to hear the tread of the Comtesse's horses approaching, or to see the carriage emerging from one of the narrow streets that led into the great open space around the palace.
Still, however, he had those other things to occupy his mind-strange things that, had it not been for the overmastering thoughts of the woman he had learnt to love-the woman who, he dared to hope, had either come or was coming to love him-would have never left his mind. Things, occurrences, that now cast a strangely different light on all that had happened during the storm of the first night in the Weiss Haus, and that had raised oft-recurring doubts as to whether he had accurately understood all that had taken place in the darkness of that night.
When Sylvia and the Comtesse de Valorme had departed with Mynheer Van Ryk, Bevill-partly attracted by the beauty of the evening and partly because it was still early, and perhaps, also, because he knew full well that, after Sylvia's last words to him, there would be little likelihood of his sleeping at present-determined to remain outside the mansion for some time before attempting to obtain any rest.
Naturally-as, maybe, needs no telling-his steps were unconsciously directed back to the arbour in which their late conversation had taken place, and, as he approached the spot, the calm tranquillity of the night, the entire absence of the lightest breeze, forced itself upon his attention. Even, however, as this took place he recalled how Van Ryk had said that the wind was rising and rustling the bushes and long grasses; and, while doing so, Bevill wondered why the merchant should have given utterance to such a remark; for, as he thought upon the matter, he knew that no breath of wind had disturbed the air, that not the slightest breeze had blown that would have stirred a leaf.
His faculties aroused by all the necessities for caution which had formed part of his existence since he left England on the undertaking he was now about-faculties that had long since been trained and sharpened in his earlier campaigns-he stood gazing at the bushes and tall, wavy, Eastern grasses which surrounded the arbour, as though in them he might, dark as it was now, discover some natural cause that would have furnished Van Ryck with the supposition that the wind was rising.
Seeing nothing, however, that could suggest any such cause, he walked round those bushes and grasses to the back of the arbour and endeavoured to discover if the reason was to be found there.
At first he could perceive nothing in the darkness, while feeling gently about him with his hands and feet, as those feel to whom the aid of light is denied while they search for aught they may expect to discover.
But, at last, it seemed to Bevill that the grass behind the arbour was strangely flattened down longwise, and, pausing at this discovery, his sharpened instincts were soon at work wondering what this might mean.
"A large dog sleeping here might almost have made for itself a bed," he reflected, "yet there is no dog about the place, nor, even though there were, would it have lain so straight and long. What, therefore, may have done this? What? Perhaps a man."
After which he stooped again, and, placing his hand on the pressed-down grass, discovered that it was warm.
"Something has indeed lain here but recently," Bevill said to himself. "Some eavesdropper who has heard our plans, who knows them all by now, who has it in his power to foil us. Can it have been Francbois?"
Supposing this might well be the case, Bevill determined to search the grounds and afterwards the house as thoroughly as might be, while understanding that, no matter how much he might endeavour to make that search complete, it could by no possibility be so. The gardens were too vast, the house too extensive. As he approached one spot any person whom he sought might easily move to another; chance alone, the luckiest of all chances, could bring him into contact with any lurker who should be about.
Nevertheless, he decided to attempt the search, and, feeling for his pistols, which in no circumstances was he ever separated from, he began to make as thorough an inspection of the place as was possible. Yet, when all was concluded, and when he had been all about the grounds, and had peered into the other arbours and bosquets and behind bushes, and had then once more wandered over the vast, lonely house, he had found nothing. After which, since still he felt sure there had been some listener crouching behind that arbour while the plans of himself and the others were being determined, he brought out a chair on to the lower verandah and, wrapping himself lightly in his cloak, since now the night was growing cool, determined to keep watch as long as possible.
The early summer dawn came, however, and Bevill was still awake, but had seen nothing, whereupon he at last decided that it must have been some animal that had been sleeping behind where they all sat.
An hour or so after this and when he had obtained some refreshing sleep on the great lounge in the hall, old Karl appeared, bringing the usual food which he had received instructions from Sylvia to provide each day so long as Bevill should remain at the Weiss Haus. The gardener carried, however, something else than this in his hand, namely, a three-cornered hat, which he at once said he had found in the path that led from a little wicket gate he alone used, and which opened from the road leading from his cottage to the grounds behind the stables.
"Another hat!" Bevill exclaimed, taking it from the old man's hands and turning it over in his own. "Another! Whose this time?"
To whomsoever it might have belonged, it did not, however, appear to the young man that it was any more likely to have belonged to Francbois than had done the earlier discovered one. If anything, it was an even poorer specimen of headgear than that had been, and was a hat that, though originally not of a common order, gave signs that it might in its existence have passed from one owner to another; from, indeed, a well-to-do man down to one who would be willing to accept it in its final state of usefulness.
"It is very strange," he said, half aloud and half to himself. "Were there three of them here last night, or were there only two, and was Francbois not one of them? Had I two enemies besides him, and still have two with him since Sparmann is gone? It is vastly strange." After which he turned to Karl, and said:
"You have just found this thing. Therefore it was not there last night nor yesterday morning?"
"Ah," the old man replied, "I cannot tell. Yesterday I used not the path at all, having gone first to the Jouffrouw at Mynheer Van Ryk's in the morning; and, last night, I was busy with him," nodding his head towards where the corpse by the stables had been, "after dark."
"What have you done with him?"
"He is gone," Karl said vaguely. "Gone. No matter where. He will not come back to-to-the Weiss Haus or Liége."
By which remark Bevill was led to suppose that the old man had cast Sparmann's body into the river.
"Therefore," the latter said, "we have no knowledge of whether that hat was left behind by one who was here during the storm of the night before, or last night. Yet," turning the thing over in his hands, "surely it must have been the first night. See, it has recently been soaked by rain, the lining is still damp, and last night there was no rain whatever."
"It may be," Karl replied, apparently much astonished at this clear reasoning. "It may be. Therefore, you had three visitors on that night."
"I cannot say. I have but proof of two. The wearers of the two hats at least were here. Yet they may well have been the only visitors; in solemn truth there may not have been three. Though strange it is that, if there were but two, both should have parted with their hats. One must have lost his in the encounter in which he received his death-wound, the other in fleeing away."
For, now, Bevill had grave doubts as to whether Francbois had been at the Weiss Haus at all on the night before the one now past. Still, if it were not Francbois who had mortally wounded Sparmann-while almost of a certainty supposing Sparmann to be another person, namely, himself-who was it? Who was the other enemy he possessed? He knew neither of personal enemy nor spy tracking him, nor of French soldier or official likely to do so.
All the same, there was, there must be, a third enemy, even though Francbois had not been of the number that night, since it was almost certain that neither of those hats would have been worn by him-even as a disguise. There must be two others beside him while Sparmann was alive!
"And still there is more mystery," Bevill mused as the old man stood gazing up at him, "more that is inexplicable. Sparmann did not find his way out through either of the doors, nor, since I followed him as he fled down the stairs, did he do so by the ladder against the balcony. How, then, did that come to pass? Did he hide somewhere in the house until I had opened the door leading to the stables, or was there some window near the ground through which a man wounded to the death might yet escape?"
But no answer came to these reflections. Whatever had taken place in the Weiss Haus, other than all which he already knew, had left no trace behind.
* * * * * * *
Ten had struck, and, next, the quarter, from all the city clocks ere Bevill had concluded these reflections, and still the carriage which he was to accompany to the gate (since, as has been told, it was finally decided that all should leave the city together, or attempt to leave it) had not appeared.
As, however, the half-hour rang out, Bevill perceived it drawing near. On the box he recognised Joseph, he being, doubtless owing to the necessity for a coachman, the only servant whom the Comtesse de Valorme had thought fit to bring with her.
Slowly the carriage drew near until, now, it was almost abreast of where Bevill sat his horse, when, allowing La Rose to advance, he rode up to the side of it and, bowing low to its occupants, asked if all was well with them.
"All is very well," the Comtesse and Sylvia said together, while the latter added, "as we pray it is with you. Ah!" she went on, "how we do pray that the next half-hour will see you safely out of this place."