THE BATTLE OF THE STRONG, Complete

[A ROMANCE OF TWO KINGDOMS]

By Gilbert Parker

CONTENTS:

 THE INVASION

 ELEVEN YEARS AFTER ELEVEN YEARS AFTER

 IN FRANCE--NEAR FIVE MONTHS AFTER

 IN JERSEY FIVE YEARS LATER IN JERSEY FIVE YEARS LATER

 DURING ONE YEAR LATER DURING ONE YEAR LATER

 IN JERSEY--A YEAR LATER

INTRODUCTION

This book is a protest and a deliverance. For seven years I had writtencontinuously of Canada, though some short stories of South Sea life, andthe novel Mrs. Falchion, had, during that time, issued from my pen. It looked as though I should be writing of the Far North all my life. Editors had begun to take that view; but from the start it had neverbeen my view. Even when writing Pierre and His People I was determinedthat I should not be cabined, cribbed, and confined in one field; thatI should not, as some other men have done, wind in upon myself, untilat last each succeeding book would be but a variation of some previousbook, and I should end by imitating myself, become the sacrifice to thegod of the pin-hole. 

I was warned not to break away from Canada; but all my life I had beenwarned, and all my life I had followed my own convictions. I wouldrather not have written another word than be corralled, bitted, saddled, and ridden by that heartless broncho-buster, the public, which wants aman who has once pleased it, to do the same thing under the fret of whipand spur for ever. When I went to the Island of Jersey, in 1897, it wasto shake myself free of what might become a mere obsession. I determinedthat, as wide as my experiences had been in life, so would my writingbe, whether it pleased the public or not. I was determined to fulfilmyself; and in doing so to take no instructions except those of my ownconscience, impulse, and conviction. Even then I saw fields of workwhich would occupy my mind, and such skill as I had, for many a year tocome. I saw the Channel Islands, Egypt, South Africa, and India. In allthese fields save India, I have given my Pegasus its bridle-rein, and, so far, I have no reason to feel that my convictions were false. Iwrite of Canada still, but I have written of the Channel Islands, I havewritten of Egypt, I have written of England and South Africa, and mypublic--that is, those who read my books--have accepted me in all thesefields without demur. I believe I have justified myself in not acceptingimprisonment in the field where I first essayed to turn my observationof life to account. 

I went to Jersey, therefore, with my teeth set, in a way; yet happilyand confidently. I had been dealing with French Canada for some years, and a step from Quebec, which was French, to Jersey, which was NormanFrench, was but short. It was a question of atmosphere solely. Whatevermay be thought of The 'Battle of the Strong' I have not yet met aJerseyman who denies to it the atmosphere of the place. It could hardlyhave lacked it, for there were twenty people, deeply intelligent, immensely interested in my design, and they were of Jersey familieswhich had been there for centuries. They helped me, they fed me withdialect, with local details, with memories, with old letters, withdiaries of their forebears, until, if I had gone wrong, it would havebeen through lack of skill in handling my material. I do not thinkI went wrong, though I believe that I could construct the book moreeffectively if I had to do it again. Yet there is something in loosenessof construction which gives an air of naturalness; and it may be thatthis very looseness which I notice in 'The Battle of the Strong' has hadsomething to do with giving it such a great circle of readers; thoughthis may appear paradoxical. When it first appeared, it did not make theappeal which 'The Right of Way' or 'The Seats of the Mighty' made, butit justified itself, it forced its way, it assured me that I had doneright in shaking myself free from the control of my own best work. The book has gone on increasing its readers year by year, and whenit appeared in Nelson's delightful cheap edition in England it had animmediate success, and has sold by the hundred thousand in the last fouryears. 

One of the first and most eager friends of 'The Battle of the Strong'was Mrs. Langtry, now Lady de Bathe, who, born in Jersey, and come ofan old Jersey family, was well able to judge of the fidelity of the lifeand scene which it depicted. She greatly desired the novel to be turnedinto a play, and so it was. The adaptation, however, was lacking inmuch, and though Miss Marie Burroughs and Maurice Barrymore played init, success did not attend its dramatic life. 

'The Battle of the Strong' was called an historical novel by manycritics, but the disclaimer which I made in the first edition I makeagain. 'The Seats of the Mighty' came nearer to what might properlybe called an historical novel than any other book which I have writtensave, perhaps, 'A Ladder of Swords'. 'The Battle of the Strong' is notwithout faithful historical elements, but the book is essentially aromance, in which character was not meant to be submerged by incident;and I do not think that in this particular the book falls short of thedesign of its author. There was this enormous difference between lifein the Island of Jersey and life in French Canada, that in Jersey, tradition is heaped upon tradition, custom upon custom, precept uponprecept, until every citizen of the place is bound by innumerable cordsof a code from which he cannot free himself. It is a little island, andthat it is an island is evidence of a contracted life, though, in thiscase, a life which has real power and force. The life in French Canadawas also traditional, and custom was also somewhat tyrannous, but itwas part of a great continent in which the expansion of the man and ofa people was inevitable. Tradition gets somewhat battered in a new land, and even where, as in French Canada, the priest and the Church have suchsupervision, and can bring such pressure to bear that every man mustfeel its influence; yet there is a happiness, a blitheness, and anexhilaration even in the most obscure quarter of French Canada whichcannot be observed in the Island of Jersey. In Jersey the custom of fivehundred years ago still reaches out and binds; and so small is the placethat every square foot of it almost--even where the potato sprouts, and the potato is Jersey's greatest friend--is identified with someodd incident, some naive circumstance, some big, vivid, and strikinghistorical fact. Behind its rugged coasts a little people proudly holdby their own and to their own, and even a Jersey criminal has morefriends in his own environment than probably any other criminal anywheresave in Corsica; while friendship is a passion even with the pettinessby which it is perforated. 

Reading this book again now after all these years, I feel convinced thatthe book is truly Jersiais, and I am grateful to it for having broughtme out from the tyranny of the field in which I first sought for ahearing. 

NOTE

A list of Jersey words and phrases used herein, with their English orFrench equivalents, will be found at the end of the book. The Norman andpatois words are printed as though they were English, some of them beingquite Anglicised in Jersey. For the sake of brevity I have spoken of theLieutenant-Bailly throughout as Bailly; and, in truth, he performed allthe duties of Bailly in those days when this chief of the Jurats of theIsland usually lived in England. 

PROEM

There is no man living to-day who could tell you how the morning brokeand the sun rose on the first day of January 1800; who walked in theMall, who sauntered in the Park with the Prince: none lives who heardand remembers the gossip of the moment, or can give you the exactflavour of the speech and accent of the time. Down the long aisle ofyears echoes the air but not the tone; the trick of form comes to us butnever the inflection. The lilt of the sensations, the idiosyncrasy ofvoice, emotion, and mind of the first hour of our century must now passfrom the printed page to us, imperfectly realised; we may not knowthem through actual retrospection. The more distant the scene, the moreuncertain the reflection; and so it must needs be with this tale, whichwill take you back to even twenty years before the century began. 

Then, as now, England was a great power outside these small islands. She had her foot firmly planted in Australia, in Asia, and inAmerica--though, in bitterness, the American colonies had broken free, and only Canada was left to her in that northern hemisphere. She hashad, in her day, to strike hard blows even for Scotland, Ireland, andWales. But among her possessions is one which, from the hour itscharter was granted it by King John, has been loyal, unwavering, andunpurchasable. Until the beginning of the century the language of thisprovince was not our language, nor is English its official languageto-day; and with a pretty pride oblivious of contrasts, and a simplicityunconscious of mirth, its people say: "We are the conquering race; weconquered England, England did not conquer us. "

A little island lying in the wash of St. Michael's Basin off the coastof France, Norman in its foundations and in its racial growth, it hasbeen as the keeper of the gate to England; though so near to Franceis it, that from its shores on a fine day may be seen the spires ofCoutances, from which its spiritual welfare was ruled long afterEngland lost Normandy. A province of British people, speaking still theNorman-French that the Conqueror spoke; such is the island of Jersey, which, with Guernsey, Alderney, Sark, Herm, and Jethou, form what wecall the Channel Isles, and the French call the Iles de la Manche. 

CHAPTER I

In all the world there is no coast like the coast of Jersey; sotreacherous, so snarling; serrated with rocks seen and unseen, torturedby currents maliciously whimsical, encircled by tides that sweep upfrom the Antarctic world with the devouring force of a monstrousserpent projecting itself towards its prey. The captain of these tides, travelling up through the Atlantic at a thousand miles an hour, entersthe English Channel, and drives on to the Thames. Presently retreating, it meets another pursuing Antarctic wave, which, thus opposed in itsstraightforward course, recoils into St. Michael's Bay, then plunges, asit were, upon a terrible foe. They twine and strive in mystic conflict, and, in rage of equal power, neither vanquished nor conquering, circle, mad and desperate, round the Channel Isles. Impeded, impounded as theyriot through the flumes of sea, they turn furiously, and smite thecliffs and rocks and walls of their prison-house. With the frenziedwinds helping them, the island coasts and Norman shores are battered bytheir hopeless onset: and in that channel between Alderney and Cap de laHague man or ship must well beware, for the Race of Alderney is one ofthe death-shoots of the tides. Before they find their way to the mainagain, these harridans of nature bring forth a brood of currents whichceaselessly fret the boundaries of the isles. 

Always, always the white foam beats the rocks, and always must man gowarily along these coasts. The swimmer plunges into a quiet pool, thesnowy froth that masks the reefs seeming only the pretty fringe ofsentient life to a sleeping sea; but presently an invisible hand reachesup and grasps him, an unseen power drags him exultingly out to themain--and he returns no more. Many a Jersey boatman, many a fishermanwho has lived his whole life in sight of the Paternosters on the north, the Ecrehos on the east, the Dog's Nest on the south, or the Corbiereon the west, has in some helpless moment been caught by the unsleepingcurrents which harry his peaceful borders, or the rocks that have eludedthe hunters of the sea, and has yielded up his life within sight of hisown doorway, an involuntary sacrifice to the navigator's knowledge andto the calm perfection of an admiralty chart. 

Yet within the circle of danger bounding this green isle the love ofhome and country is stubbornly, almost pathetically, strong. Isolation, pride of lineage, independence of government, antiquity of law andcustom, and jealousy of imperial influence or action have combined tomake a race self-reliant even to perverseness, proud and maybe vain, sincere almost to commonplaceness, unimaginative and reserved, withthe melancholy born of monotony--for the life of the little country hascoiled in upon itself, and the people have drooped to see but just theirown selves reflected in all the dwellers of the land, whichever way theyturn. A hundred years ago, however, there was a greater and more generallightness of heart and vivacity of spirit than now. Then the song of theharvester and the fisherman, the boat-builder and the stocking-knitter, was heard on a summer afternoon, or from the veille of a winter nightwhen the dim crasset hung from the roof and the seaweed burned in thechimney. Then the gathering of the vraic was a fete, and the ladsand lasses footed it on the green or on the hard sand, to the chanceflageolets of sportive seamen home from the war. This simple gaiety washeartiest at Christmastide, when the yearly reunion of families tookplace; and because nearly everybody in Jersey was "couzain" to hisneighbour these gatherings were as patriarchal as they were festive. 

 . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. . 

The new year of seventeen hundred and eighty-one had been ushered inby the last impulse of such festivities. The English cruisers lately inport had vanished up the Channel; and at Elizabeth Castle, Mont Orgueil, the Blue Barracks and the Hospital, three British regiments had takenup the dull round of duty again; so that by the fourth day a generallethargy, akin to content, had settled on the whole island. 

On the morning of the fifth day a little snow was lying upon the ground, but the sun rose strong and unclouded, the whiteness vanished, andthere remained only a pleasant dampness which made sod and sand firmyet springy to the foot. As the day wore on, the air became more amiablestill, and a delicate haze settled over the water and over the land, making softer to the eye house and hill and rock and sea. 

There was little life in the town of St. Heliers, there were few peopleupon the beach; though now and then some one who had been praying besidea grave in the parish churchyard came to the railings and looked outupon the calm sea almost washing its foundations, and over the darkrange of rocks, which, when the tide was out, showed like a vastgridiron blackened by fires. Near by, some loitering sailors watchedthe yawl-rigged fishing craft from Holland, and the codfish-smellingcul-de-poule schooners of the great fishing company which exploited thefar-off fields of Gaspe in Canada. 

St. Heliers lay in St. Aubin's Bay, which, shaped like a horseshoe, hadNoirmont Point for one end of the segment and the lofty Town Hill foranother. At the foot of this hill, hugging it close, straggled the town. From the bare green promontory above might be seen two-thirds of thesouth coast of the island--to the right St. Aubin's Bay, to the leftGreve d'Azette, with its fields of volcanic-looking rocks, and St. Clement's Bay beyond. Than this no better place for a watchtower couldbe found; a perfect spot for the reflective idler and for the sailormanwho, on land, must still be within smell and sound of the sea, and lovesthat place best which gives him widest prospect. 

This day a solitary figure was pacing backwards and forwards upon thecliff edge, stopping now to turn a telescope upon the water and nowupon the town. It was a lad of not more than sixteen years, erect, well-poised, having an air of self-reliance, even of command. Yet itwas a boyish figure too, and the face was very young, save for the eyes;these were frank but still sophisticated. 

The first time he looked towards the town he laughed outright, freely, spontaneously; threw his head back with merriment, and then glued hiseye to the glass again. What he had seen was a girl of about five yearsof age with a man, in La Rue d'Egypte, near the old prison, even thencalled the Vier Prison. Stooping, the man had kissed the child, andshe, indignant, snatching the cap from his head, had thrown it into thestream running through the street. Small wonder that the lad on the hillgrinned, for the man who ran to rescue his hat from the stream wasnone other than the Bailly of the island, next in importance to theLieutenant-Governor. 

The lad could almost see the face of the child, its humorous anger, itswilful triumph, and also the enraged look of the Bailly as he rakedthe stream with his long stick, tied with a sort of tassel of office. Presently he saw the child turn at the call of a woman in the Place duVier Prison, who appeared to apologise to the Bailly, busy now dryinghis recovered hat by whipping it through the air. The lad on the hillrecognised the woman as the child's mother. 

This little episode over, he turned once more towards the sea, watchingthe sun of late afternoon fall upon the towers of Elizabeth Castle andthe great rock out of which St. Helier the hermit once chiselled hislofty home. He breathed deep and strong, and the carriage of his bodywas light, for he had a healthy enjoyment of all physical sensations andall the obvious drolleries of life. A broad sort of humour was writtenupon every feature; in the full, quizzical eye, in the width ofcheek-bone, in the broad mouth, and in the depth of the laugh, which, however, often ended in a sort of chuckle not entirely pleasant. Itsuggested a selfish enjoyment of the odd or the melodramatic side ofother people's difficulties. 

At last the youth encased his telescope, and turned to descend the hillto the town. As he did so, a bell began to ring. From where he was hecould look down into the Vier Marchi, or market-place, where stoodthe Cohue Royale and house of legislature. In the belfry of thiscourt-house, the bell was ringing to call the Jurats together for ameeting of the States. A monstrous tin pan would have yielded as muchassonance. Walking down towards the Vier Marchi the lad gleefullyrecalled the humour of a wag who, some days before, had imitated thesound of the bell with the words:

"Chicane--chicane! Chicane--chicane!"

The native had, as he thought, suffered somewhat at the hands of thetwelve Jurats of the Royal Court, whom his vote had helped to elect, andthis was his revenge--so successful that, for generations, when the bellcalled the States or the Royal Court together, it said in the ears ofthe Jersey people--thus insistent is apt metaphor:

"Chicane--chicane! Chicane--chicane!"

As the lad came down to the town, trades-people whom he met touchedtheir hats to him, and sailors and soldiers saluted respectfully. Inthis regard the Bailly himself could not have fared better. It was notdue to the fact that the youth came of an old Jersey family, nor byreason that he was genial and handsome, but because he was a midshipmanof the King's navy home on leave; and these were the days when England'ssailors were more popular than her soldiers. 

He came out of the Vier Marchi into La Grande Rue, along the streamcalled the Fauxbie flowing through it, till he passed under the archwayof the Vier Prison, making towards the place where the child hadsnatched the hat from the head of the Bailly. 

Presently the door of a cottage opened, and the child came out, followedby her mother. 

The young gentleman touched his cap politely, for though the woman wasnot fashionably dressed, she was distinguished in appearance, with anair of remoteness which gave her a kind of agreeable mystery. 

"Madame Landresse--" said the young gentleman with deference. 

"Monsieur d'Avranche--" responded the lady softly, pausing. 

"Did the Bailly make a stir? I saw the affair from the hill, through mytelescope, " said young d'Avranche, smiling. 

"My little daughter must have better manners, " responded the lady, looking down at her child reprovingly yet lovingly. 

"Or the Bailly must--eh, Madame?" replied d'Avranche, and, stooping, heoffered his hand to the child. Glancing up inquiringly at her mother, she took it. He held hers in a clasp of good nature. The child was sodemure, one could scarcely think her capable of tossing the Bailly's hatinto the stream; yet looking closely, there might be seen in her eyes aslumberous sort of fire, a touch of mystery. They were neither blue norgrey, but a mingling of both, growing to the most tender, greyish sortof violet. Down through generations of Huguenot refugees had passedsorrow and fighting and piety and love and occasional joy, until inthe eyes of this child they all met, delicately vague, and with thewistfulness of the early morning of life. 

"What is your name, little lady?" asked d'Avranche of the child. 

"Guida, sir, " she answered simply. 

"Mine is Philip. Won't you call me Philip?"

She flashed a look at her mother, regarded him again, and then answered:

"Yes, Philip--sir. "

D'Avranche wanted to laugh, but the face of the child was sensitive andserious, and he only smiled. "Say 'Yes, Philip', won't you?" he asked. 

"Yes, Philip, " came the reply obediently. 

After a moment of speech with Madame Landresse, Philip stooped to saygood-bye to the child. "Good-bye, Guida. "

A queer, mischievous little smile flitted over her face--a second, andit was gone. 

"Good-bye, sir--Philip, " she said, and they parted. Her last wordskept ringing in his ears as he made his way homeward. "Good-bye, sir--Philip"--the child's arrangement of words was odd and amusing, andat the same time suggested something more. "Good-bye, Sir Philip, " had adifferent meaning, though the words were the same. 

"Sir Philip--eh?" he said to himself, with a jerk of the head--"I'll bemore than that some day. "

CHAPTER II

The night came down with leisurely gloom. A dim starlight pervadedrather than shone in the sky; Nature seemed somnolent and gravelymeditative. It brooded as broods a man who is seeking his way througha labyrinth of ideas to a conclusion still evading him. This sense ofcogitation enveloped land and sea, and was as tangible to feeling ashuman presence. 

At last the night seemed to wake from reverie. A movement, a thrill, ranthrough the spangled vault of dusk and sleep, and seemed to pass overthe world, rousing the sea and the earth. There was no wind, apparentlyno breath of air, yet the leaves of the trees moved, the weather-vanesturned slightly, the animals in the byres roused themselves, andslumbering folk opening their eyes, turned over in their beds, anddropped into a troubled doze again. 

Presently there came a long moaning sound from the tide, not loud butrather mysterious and distant--a plaint, a threatening, a warning, aprelude?

A dull labourer, returning from late toil, felt it, and raised his headin a perturbed way, as though some one had brought him news of a far-offdisaster. A midwife, hurrying to a lowly birth-chamber, shivered andgathered her mantle more closely about her. She looked up at the sky, she looked out over the sea, then she bent her head and said to herselfthat this would not be a good night, that ill-luck was in the air. "Themother or the child will die, " she said to herself. A 'longshoreman, reeling home from deep potations, was conscious of it, and, turninground to the sea, snarled at it and said yah! in swaggering defiance. A young lad, wandering along the deserted street, heard it, beganto tremble, and sat down on a block of stone beside the doorway of abaker's shop. He dropped his head on his arms and his chin on his knees, shutting out the sound and sobbing quietly. 

Yesterday his mother had been buried; to-night his father's door hadbeen closed in his face. He scarcely knew whether his being locked outwas an accident or whether it was intended. He thought of the time whenhis father had ill-treated his mother and himself. That, however, hadstopped at last, for the woman had threatened the Royal Court, andthe man, having no wish to face its summary convictions, thereafterconducted himself towards them both with a morose indifference. 

The boy was called Ranulph, a name which had passed to him throughseveral generations of Jersey forebears--Ranulph Delagarde. He was beingtaught the trade of ship-building in St. Aubin's Bay. He was not beyondfourteen years of age, though he looked more, so tall and straight andself-possessed was he. 

His tears having ceased soon, he began to think of what he was to doin the future. He would never go back to his father's house, or bedependent on him for aught. Many plans came to his mind. He would learnhis trade of ship-building, he would become a master-builder, then ashipowner, with fishing-vessels like the great company sending fleets toGaspe. 

At the moment when these ambitious plans had reached the highest pointof imagination, the upper half of the door beside him opened suddenly, and he heard men's voices. He was about to rise and disappear, but thewords of the men arrested him, and he cowered down beside the stone. Oneof the men was leaning on the half-door, speaking in French. 

"I tell you it can't go wrong. The pilot knows every crack in the coast. I left Granville at three; Rulle cour left Chaussey at nine. If he landssafe, and the English troops ain't roused, he'll take the town and holdthe island easy enough. "

"But the pilot, is he certain safe?" asked another voice. Ranulphrecognised it as that of the baker Carcaud, who owned the shop. "OlivierDelagarde isn't so sure of him. "

Olivier Delagarde! The lad started. That was his father's name. Heshrank as from a blow--his father was betraying Jersey to the French!

"Of course, the pilot, he's all right, " the Frenchman answered thebaker. "He was to have been hung here for murder. He got away, andnow he's having his turn by fetching Rullecour's wolves to eat up yourgreen-bellies. By to-morrow at seven Jersey 'll belong to King Louis. "

"I've done my promise, " rejoined Carcaud the baker; "I've been to threeof the guard-houses on St. Clement's and Grouville. In two the men aredrunk as donkeys; in another they sleep like squids. Rullecour he canmarch straight to the town and seize it--if he land safe. But will hestand by 's word to we? You know the saying: 'Cadet Roussel hastwo sons; one's a thief, t'other's a rogue. ' There's twoRullecours--Rullecour before the catch and Rullecour after!"

"He'll be honest to us, man, or he'll be dead inside a week, that'sall. "

"I'm to be Connetable of St. Heliers, and you're to beharbour-master--eh?"

"Naught else: you don't catch flies with vinegar. Give us yourhand--why, man, it's doggish cold. "

"Cold hand, healthy heart. How many men will Rullecour bring?"

"Two thousand; mostly conscripts and devil's beauties from Granville andSt. Malo gaols. "

"Any signals yet?"

"Two--from Chaussey at five o'clock. Rullecour 'll try to land at Gorey. Come, let's be off. Delagarde's there now. "

The boy stiffened with horror--his father was a traitor! The thoughtpierced his brain like a hot iron. He must prevent this crime, and warnthe Governor. He prepared to steal away. Fortunately the back of theman's head was towards him. 

Carcaud laughed a low, malicious laugh as he replied to the Frenchman. 

"Trust the quiet Delagarde! There's nothing worse nor still waters. He'll do his trick, and he'll have his share if the rest suck theirthumbs. He doesn't wait for roasted larks to drop into his mouth--what'sthat!" It was Ranulph stealing away. 

In an instant the two men were on him, and a hand was clapped to hismouth. In another minute he was bound, thrown onto the stone floor ofthe bakehouse, his head striking, and he lost consciousness. 

When he came to himself, there was absolute silence round him-deathly, oppressive silence. At first he was dazed, but at length all that hadhappened came back to him. 

Where was he now? His feet were free; he began to move them about. Heremembered that he had been flung on the stone floor of the bakeroom. This place sounded hollow underneath--it certainly was not the bakeroom. He rolled over and over. Presently he touched a wall--it was stone. Hedrew himself up to a sitting posture, but his head struck a curvedstone ceiling. Then he swung round and moved his foot along the wall--ittouched iron. He felt farther with his foot-something clicked. Now heunderstood; he was in the oven of the bakehouse, with his hands bound. He began to think of means of escape. The iron door had no inside latch. There was a small damper covering a barred hole, through which perhapshe might be able to get a hand, if only it were free. He turned round sothat his fingers might feel the grated opening. The edge of the littlebars was sharp. He placed the strap binding his wrists against thesesharp edges, and drew his arms up and down, a difficult and painfulbusiness. The iron cut his hands and wrists at first, so awkward was themovement. But, steeling himself, he kept on steadily. 

At last the straps fell apart, and his hands were free. With difficultyhe thrust one through the bars. His fingers could just lift the latch. Now the door creaked on its hinges, and in a moment he was out on thestone flags of the bakeroom. Hurrying through an unlocked passageinto the shop, he felt his way to the street door, but it was securelyfastened. The windows? He tried them both, one on either side, but whilehe could free the stout wooden shutters on the inside, a heavy iron barsecured them without, and it was impossible to open them. 

Feverish with anxiety, he sat down on the low counter, with hishands between his knees, and tried to think what to do. In the numbhopelessness of the moment he became very quiet. His mind was confused, but his senses were alert; he was in a kind of dream, yet he was acutelyconscious of the smell of new-made bread. It pervaded the air of theplace; it somehow crept into his brain and his being, so that, as longas he might live, the smell of new-made bread would fetch back upon himthe nervous shiver and numbness of this hour of danger. 

As he waited, he heard a noise outside, a clac-clac! clac-clac! whichseemed to be echoed back from the wood and stone of the houses in thestreet, and then to be lifted up and carried away over the roofs andout to sea---clac-clac! clac-clac! It was not the tap of a blind man'sstaff--at first he thought it might be; it was not a donkey's foot onthe cobbles; it was not the broom-sticks of the witches of St. Clement'sBay, for the rattle was below in the street, and the broom-stick rattleis heard only on the roofs as the witches fly across country fromRocbert to Bonne Nuit Bay. 

This clac-clac came from the sabots of some nightfarer. Should he make anoise and attract the attention of the passer-by? No, that would notdo. It might be some one who would wish to know whys and wherefores. Hemust, of course, do his duty to his country, but he must save hisfather too. Bad as the man was, he must save him, though, no matter whathappened, he must give the alarm. His reflections tortured him. Why hadhe not stopped the nightfarer?

Even as these thoughts passed through the lad's mind, the clac-clac hadfaded away into the murmur of the stream flowing by the Rue d'Egypteto the sea, and almost beneath his feet. There flashed on him at thatinstant what little Guida Landresse had said a few days before as shelay down beside this very stream, and watched the water wimpling by. Trailing her fingers through it dreamily, the child had said to him:

"Ro, won't it never come back?" She always called him "Ro, " because whenbeginning to talk she could not say Ranulph. 

Ro, won't it never come back? But while yet he recalled the words, another sound mingled again with the stream-clac-clac! clac-clac!Suddenly it came to him who was the wearer of the sabots making thispeculiar clatter in the night. It was Dormy Jamais, the man who neverslept. For two years the clac-clac of Dormy Jamais's sabots had not beenheard in the streets of St. Heliers--he had been wandering in France, a daft pilgrim. Ranulph remembered how these sabots used to pass andrepass the doorway of his own home. It was said that while Dormy Jamaispaced the streets there was no need of guard or watchman. Many a timehad Ranulph shared his supper with the poor beganne whose origin no oneknew, whose real name had long since dropped into oblivion. 

The rattle of the sabots came nearer, the footsteps were now in frontof the window. Even as Ranulph was about to knock and call the poorvagrant's name, the clac-clac stopped, and then there came a sniffingat the shutters as a dog sniffs at the door of a larder. Following thesniffing came a guttural noise of emptiness and desire. Now there wasno mistake; it was the half-witted fellow beyond all doubt, and hecould help him--Dormy Jamais should help him: he should go and warn theGovernor and the soldiers at the Hospital, while he himself would speedto Gorey in search of his father. He would alarm the regiment there atthe same time. 

He knocked and shouted. Dormy Jamais, frightened, jumped back intothe street. Ranulph called again, and yet again, and now at last Dormyrecognised the voice. 

With a growl of mingled reassurance and hunger, he lifted down the ironbar from the shutters. In a moment Ranulph was outside with two loavesof bread, which he put into Dormy Jamais's arms. The daft one whinniedwith delight. 

"What's o'clock, bread-man?" he asked with a chuckle. 

Ranulph gripped his shoulders. "See, Dormy Jamais, I want you to goto the Governor's house at La Motte, and tell them that the French arecoming, that they're landing at Gorey now. Then to the Hospital and tellthe sentry there. Go, Dormy--allez kedainne!"

Dormy Jamais tore at a loaf with his teeth, and crammed a huge crustinto his mouth. 

"Come, tell me, will you go, Dormy?" the lad asked impatiently. 

Dormy Jamais nodded his head, grunted, and, turning on his heel withRanulph, clattered up the street. The lad sprang ahead of him, and ranswiftly up the Rue d'Egypte, into the Vier Marchi, and on over the TownHill along the road to Grouville. 

CHAPTER III

Since the days of Henry III of England the hawk of war that broods inFrance has hovered along that narrow strip of sea dividing the islandof Jersey from the duchy of Normandy. Eight times has it descended, and eight times has it hurried back with broken pinion. Among thesetruculent invasions two stand out boldly: the spirited and gallantattack by Bertrand du Guesclin, Constable of France; and the freebootingadventure of Rullecour, with his motley following of gentlemen andcriminals. Rullecour it was, soldier of fortune, gambler, ruffian, andembezzler, to whom the King of France had secretly given the mission toconquer the unconquerable little island. 

From the Chaussey Isles the filibuster saw the signal light which thetraitor Olivier Delagarde had set upon the heights of Le Couperon, where, ages ago, Caesar built fires to summon from Gaul his devouringlegions. 

All was propitious for the attack. There was no moon--only a meagrestarlight when they set forth from Chaussey. The journey was made inlittle more than an hour, and Rullecour himself was among the firstto see the shores of Jersey loom darkly in front. Beside him stood themurderous pilot who was leading in the expedition, the colleague ofOlivier Delagarde. 

Presently the pilot gave an exclamation of surprise and anxiety--thetides and currents were bearing them away from the intendedlanding-place. It was now almost low water, and instead of an immediateshore, there lay before them a vast field of scarred rocks, dimly seen. He gave the signal to lay-to, and himself took the bearings. The tidewas going out rapidly, disclosing reefs on either hand. He drew incarefully to the right of the rock known as L'Echiquelez, up througha passage scarce wide enough for canoes, and to Roque Platte, thesouth-eastern projection of the island. 

You may range the seas from the Yugon Strait to the Erebus volcano, andyou will find no such landing-place for imps or men as that field ofrocks on the southeast corner of Jersey called, with a malicious irony, the Bane des Violets. The great rocks La Coniere, La Longy, Le GrosEtac, Le Teton, and the Petite Sambiere, rise up like volcanic monumentsfrom a floor of lava and trailing vraic, which at half-tide makes thesea a tender mauve and violet. The passages of safety between theseranges of reef are but narrow at high tide; at half-tide, when thecurrents are changing most, the violet field becomes the floor of a vastmortuary chapel for unknowing mariners. 

A battery of four guns defended the post on the landward side of thisbank of the heavenly name. Its guards were asleep or in their cups. Theyyielded, without resistance, to the foremost of the invaders. But hereRullecour and his pilot, looking back upon the way they had come, saw the currents driving the transport boats hither and thither inconfusion. Jersey was not to be conquered without opposition--no armyof defence was abroad, but the elements roused themselves and furiouslyattacked the fleet. Battalions unable to land drifted back with thetides to Granville, whence they had come. Boats containing the heavyammunition and a regiment of conscripts were battered upon the rocks, and hundreds of the invaders found an unquiet grave upon the Banc desViolets. 

Presently the traitor Delagarde arrived and was welcomed warmly byRullecour. The night wore on, and at last the remaining legions werelanded. A force was left behind to guard La Roque Platte, and then thejourney across country to the sleeping town began. 

With silent, drowsing batteries in front and on either side of them, the French troops advanced, the marshes of Samares and the sea on theirleft, churches and manor houses on their right, all silent. Not yet hada blow been struck for the honour of this land and of the Kingdom. 

But a blind injustice was, in its own way, doing the work of justice. On the march, Delagarde, suspecting treachery to himself, not withoutreason, required of Rullecour guarantee for the fulfilment of hispledge to make him Vicomte of the Island when victory should be theirs. Rullecour, however, had also promised the post to a reckless youngofficer, the Comte de Tournay, of the House of Vaufontaine, who, under the assumed name of Yves Savary dit Detricand, marched with him. Rullecour answered Delagarde churlishly, and would say nothing till thetown was taken--the ecrivain must wait. But Delagarde had been drinking, he was in a mood to be reckless; he would not wait, he demanded animmediate pledge. 

"By and by, my doubting Thomas, " said Rullecour. "No, now, by the bloodof Peter!" answered Delagarde, laying a hand upon his sword. 

The French leader called a sergeant to arrest him. Delagarde instantlydrew his sword and attacked Rullecour, but was cut down from behindby the scimitar of a swaggering Turk, who had joined the expedition asaide-de-camp to the filibustering general, tempted thereto by promisesof a harem of the choicest Jersey ladies, well worthy of this cousin ofthe Emperor of Morocco. 

The invaders left Delagarde lying where he fell. What followed thisoblique retribution could satisfy no ordinary logic, nor did it meet thedemands of poetic justice. For, as a company of soldiers from Grouville, alarmed out of sleep by a distracted youth, hurried towards St. Heliers, they found Delagarde lying by the roadside, and they misunderstood whathad happened. Stooping over him an officer said pityingly:

"See--he got this wound fighting the French!" With the soldiers was theyouth who had warned them. He ran forward with a cry, and knelt besidethe wounded man. He had no tears, he had no sorrow. He was only sick anddumb, and he trembled with misery as he lifted up his father's head. Theeyes of Olivier Delagarde opened. 

"Ranulph--they've killed--me, " gasped the stricken man feebly, and hishead fell back. 

An officer touched the youth's arm. "He is gone, " said he. "Don't fret, lad, he died fighting for his country. "

The lad made no reply, and the soldiers hurried on towards the town. 

He died fighting for his country! So that was to be the legend, Ranulphmeditated: his father was to have a glorious memory, while he himselfknew how vile the man was. One thing however: he was glad that OlivierDelagarde was dead. How strangely had things happened! He had come tostay a traitor in his crime, and here he found a martyr. But was not hehimself likewise a traitor? Ought not he to have alarmed the townfirst before he tried to find his father? Had Dormy Jamais warnedthe Governor? Clearly not, or the town bells would be ringing and theislanders giving battle. What would the world think of him!

Well, what was the use of fretting here? He would go on to the town, help to fight the French, and die that would be the best thing. Heknelt, and unclasped his father's fingers from the handle of the sword. The steel was cold, it made him shiver. He had no farewell to make. Helooked out to sea. The tide would come and carry his father's body out, perhaps-far out, and sink it in the deepest depths. If not that, thenthe people would bury Olivier Delagarde as a patriot. He determined thathe himself would not live to see such mockery. 

As he sped along towards the town he asked himself why nobody suspectedthe traitor. One reason for it occurred to him: his father, as the wholeisland knew, had a fishing-hut at Gorey. They would imagine him on theway to it when he met the French, for he often spent the night there. He himself had told his tale to the soldiers: how he had heard the bakerand the Frenchman talking at the shop in the Rue d'Egypte. Yes, butsuppose the French were driven out, and the baker taken prisoner andshould reveal his father's complicity! And suppose people asked why hehimself did not go at once to the Hospital Barracks in the town and tothe Governor, and afterwards to Gorey?

These were direful imaginings. He felt that it was no use; that the liecould not go on concerning his father. The world would know; the onething left for him was to die. He was only a boy, but he could fight. Had not young Philip d'Avranche; the midshipman, been in deadly actionmany times? He was nearly as old as Philip d'Avranche--yes, he wouldfight, and, fighting, he would die. To live as the son of such a fatherwas too pitiless a shame. 

He ran forward, but a weakness was on him; he was very hungry andthirsty-and the sword was heavy. Presently, as he went, he saw a stonewell near a cottage by the roadside. On a ledge of the well stood abucket of water. He tilted the bucket and drank. He would have liked toask for bread at the cottage-door, but he said to himself, Why should heeat, for was he not going to die? Yet why should he not eat, even if hewere going to die? He turned his head wistfully, he was so faint withhunger. The force driving him on, however, was greater than hunger--heran harder. .. . But undoubtedly the sword was heavy!

CHAPTER IV

In the Vier Marchi the French flag was flying, French troops occupiedit, French sentries guarded the five streets entering into it. Rullecour, the French adventurer, held the Lieutenant-Governor of theisle captive in the Cohue Royale; and by threats of fire and pillagethought to force capitulation. For his final argument he took theGovernor to the doorway, and showed him two hundred soldiers withlighted torches ready to fire the town. 

When the French soldiers first entered the Vier Marchi there was DormyJamais on the roof of the Cohue Royale, calmly munching his bread. Whenhe saw Rullecour and the Governor appear, he chuckled to himself, andsaid, in Jersey patois: "I vaut mux alouonyi l'bras que l'co, " whichis to say: It is better to stretch the arm than the neck. The Governorwould have done more wisely, he thought, to believe the poor beganne, and to have risen earlier. Dormy Jamais had a poor opinion of a governorwho slept. He himself was not a governor, yet was he not always awake?He had gone before dawn to the Governor's house, had knocked, had givenRanulph Delagarde's message, had been called a dirty buzard, and beensent away by the crusty, incredulous servant. Then he had gone to theHospital Barracks, was there iniquitously called a lousy toad, and hadbeen driven off with his quartern loaf, muttering through the dough theisland proverb "While the mariner swigs the tide rises. "

Had the Governor remained as cool as the poor vagrant, he would not haveshrunk at the sight of the incendiaries, yielded to threats, and signedthe capitulation of the island. But that capitulation being signed, andnotice of it sent to the British troops, with orders to surrender andbring their arms to the Cohue Royale, it was not cordially received bythe officers in command. 

"Je ne comprends pas le francais, " said Captain Mulcaster, at ElizabethCastle, as he put the letter into his pocket unread. 

"The English Governor will be hanged, and the French will burn thetown, " responded the envoy. "Let them begin to hang and burn and bedamned, for I'll not surrender the castle or the British flag so long asI've a man to defend it, to please anybody!" answered Mulcaster. 

"We shall return in numbers, " said the Frenchman, threateningly. 

"I shall be delighted: we shall have the more to kill, " Mulcasterreplied. 

Then the captive Lieutenant-Governor was sent to Major Peirson at thehead of his troops on the Mont es Pendus, with counsel to surrender. 

"Sir, " said he, "this has been a very sudden surprise, for I was madeprisoner before I was out of my bed this morning. "

"Sir, " replied Peirson, the young hero of twenty-four, who achieveddeath and glory between a sunrise and a noontide, "give me leave to tellyou that the 78th Regiment has not yet been the least surprised. "

From Elizabeth Castle came defiance and cannonade, driving backRullecour and his filibusters to the Cohue Royale: from Mont Orgueil, from the Hospital, from St. Peter's came the English regiments; from theother parishes swarmed the militia, all eager to recover their belovedVier Marchi. Two companies of light infantry, leaving the Mont esPendus, stole round the town and placed themselves behind the invaderson the Town Hill; the rest marched direct upon the enemy. Part went bythe Grande Rue, and part by the Rue d'Driere, converging to the point ofattack; and as the light infantry came down from the hill by the Rue desTres Pigeons, Peirson entered the Vier Marchi by the Route es Couochons. On one side of the square, where the Cohue Royale made a wall to fightagainst, were the French. Radiating from this were five streets andpassages like the spokes of a wheel, and from these now poured thedefenders of the isle. 

A volley came from the Cohue Royale, then another, and another. Theplace was small: friend and foe were crowded upon each other. Thefighting became at once a hand-to-hand encounter. Cannon were useless, gun-carriages overturned. Here a drummer fell wounded, but continuedbeating his drum to the last; there a Glasgow soldier struggled witha French officer for the flag of the invaders; yonder a handful ofMalouins doggedly held the foot of La Pyramide, until every one was cutdown by overpowering numbers of British and Jersiais. The Britishleader was conspicuous upon his horse. Shot after shot was fired athim. Suddenly he gave a cry, reeled in his saddle, and sank, mortallywounded, into the arms of a brother officer. 

For a moment his men fell back. 

In the midst of the deadly turmoil a youth ran forward from a groupof combatants, caught the bridle of the horse from which Peirsonhad fallen, mounted, and, brandishing a short sword, called upon hisdismayed and wavering followers to advance; which they instantly didwith fury and courage. It was Midshipman Philip d'Avranche. Twentymuskets were discharged at him. One bullet cut the coat on his shoulder, another grazed the back of his hand, a third scarred the pommel of thesaddle, and still another wounded his horse. Again and again the Englishcalled upon him to dismount, for he was made a target, but he refused, until at last the horse was shot under him. Then once more he joined inthe hand-to-hand encounter. 

Windows near the ground, such as were not shattered, were broken bybullets. Cannon-balls embedded themselves in the masonry and the heavydoorways. The upper windows were safe, however: the shots did not rangeso high. At one of these, over a watchmaker's shop, a little girl was tobe seen, looking down with eager interest. Presently an old man came inview and led her away. A few minutes of fierce struggle passed, and thenat another window on the floor below the child appeared again. She saw ayouth with a sword hurrying towards the Cohue Royale from a tangled massof combatants. As he ran, a British soldier fell in front of him. Theyouth dropped the sword and grasped the dead man's musket. 

The child clapped her hands on the window. 

"It's Ro--it's Ro!" she cried, and disappeared again. 

"Ro, " with white face, hatless, coatless, pushed on through the melee. Rullecour, the now disheartened French general, stood on the steps ofthe Cohue Royale. With a vulgar cruelty and cowardice he was holding theGovernor by the arm, hoping thereby to protect his own person from theBritish fire. 

Here was what the lad had been trying for--the sight of this manRullecour. There was one small clear space between the English and theFrench, where stood a gun-carriage. He ran to it, leaned the musket onthe gun, and, regardless of the shots fired at him, took aim steadily. A French bullet struck the wooden wheel of the carriage, and a splintergashed his cheek. He did not move, but took sight again, and fired. Rullecour fell, shot through the jaw. A cry of fury and dismay went upfrom the French at the loss of their leader, a shout of triumph from theBritish. 

The Frenchmen had had enough. They broke and ran. Some rushed fordoorways and threw themselves within, many scurried into the Rue desTres Pigeons, others madly fought their way into Morier Lane. 

At this moment the door of the watchmaker's shop opened and the littlegirl who had been seen at the window ran into the square, calling out:"Ro! Ro!" It was Guida Landresse. 

Among the French flying for refuge was the garish Turk, Rullecour'sally. Suddenly the now frightened, crying child got into his path andtripped him up. Wild with rage he made a stroke at her, but at thatinstant his scimitar was struck aside by a youth covered with the smokeand grime of battle. He caught up the child to his arms, and hurriedwith her through the melee to the watchmaker's doorway. There stood aterror-stricken woman--Madame Landresse, who had just made her way intothe square. Placing the child, in her arms, Philip d'Avranche staggeredinside the house, faint and bleeding from a wound in the shoulder. Thebattle of Jersey was over. 

"Ah bah!" said Dormy Jamais from the roof of the Cohue Royale; "nowI'll toll the bell for that achocre of a Frenchman. Then I'll finish mysupper. "

Poising a half-loaf of bread on the ledge of the roof, he began toslowly toll the cracked bell at his hand for Rullecour the filibuster. 

The bell clanged out: Chicane-chicane! Chicane-chicane!

Another bell answered from the church by the square, a deep, mournfulnote. It was tolling for Peirson and his dead comrades. 

Against the statue in the Vier Marchi leaned Ranulph Delagarde. Anofficer came up and held out a hand to him. "Your shot ended thebusiness, " said he. "You're a brave fellow. What is your name?"

"Ranulph Delagarde, sir. "

"Delagarde--eh? Then well done, Delagardes! They say your father was thefirst man killed. We won't forget that, my lad. "

Sinking down upon the base of the statue, Ranulph did not stir or reply, and the officer, thinking he was grieving for his father, left himalone. 

ELEVEN YEARS AFTER

CHAPTER V

The King of France was no longer sending adventurers to capture theoutposts of England. He was rather, in despair, beginning to wind inagain the coil of disaster which had spun out through the helplessfingers of Neckar, Calonne, Brienne and the rest, and was in the end tobind his own hands for the guillotine. 

The Isle of Jersey, like a scout upon the borders of a foeman's country, looked out over St. Michael's Basin to those provinces where the warof the Vendee was soon to strike France from within, while England, andpresently all Europe, should strike her from without. 

War, or the apprehension of war, was in the air. The people of thelittle isle, living always within the influence of natural wonder andthe power of the elements, were deeply superstitious; and as news ofdark deeds done in Paris crept across from Carteret or St. Malo, asmen-of-war anchored in the tide-way, and English troops, against thehour of trouble, came, transport after transport, into the harbour ofSt. Heliers, they began to see visions and dream dreams. One peasantheard the witches singing a chorus of carnage at Rocbert; another saw, towards the Minquiers, a great army like a mirage upon the sea; othersdeclared that certain French refugees in the island had the evil eye andbewitched their cattle; and a woman, wild with grief because her childhad died of a sudden sickness, meeting a little Frenchman, the Chevalierdu Champsavoys, in the Rue des Tres Pigeons, thrust at his face with herknitting-needle, and then, Protestant though she was, made the sacredsign, as though to defeat the evil eye. 

This superstition and fanaticism so strong in the populace now and thenburst forth in untamable fury and riot. So that when, on the sixteenthof December 1792, the gay morning was suddenly overcast, and a blackcurtain was drawn over the bright sun, the people of Jersey, working inthe fields, vraicking among the rocks, or knitting in their doorways, stood aghast, and knew not what was upon them. 

Some began to say the Lord's Prayer, some in superstitious terror ran tothe secret hole in the wall, to the chimney, or to the bedstead, or dugup the earthen floor, to find the stocking full of notes and gold, whichmight, perchance, come with them safe through any cataclysm, or startthem again in business in another world. Some began fearfully to singhymns, and a few to swear freely. These latter were chiefly carters, whose salutations to each other were mainly oaths, because of theextreme narrowness of the island roads, and sailors to whom profanitywas as daily bread. 

In St. Heliers, after the first stupefaction, people poured into thestreets. They gathered most where met the Rue d'Driere and the Rued'Egypte. Here stood the old prison, and the spot was called the Placedu Vier Prison. 

Men and women with breakfast still in their mouths mumbled their terrorto each other. A lobster-woman shrieking that the Day of Judgment wascome, instinctively straightened her cap, smoothed out her dress ofmolleton, and put on her sabots. A carpenter, hearing her terrifiedexclamations, put on his sabots also, stooped whimpering to the streamrunning from the Rue d'Egypte, and began to wash his face. A dozenof his neighbours did the same. Some of the women, however, went onknitting hard, as they gabbled prayers and looked at the fast-blackeningsun. Knitting was to Jersey women, like breathing or tale-bearing, life itself. With their eyes closing upon earth they would have gone onknitting and dropped no stitches. 

A dusk came down like that over Pompeii and Herculaneum. The tragedy offear went hand in hand with burlesque commonplace. The grey stone wallsof the houses grew darker and darker, and seemed to close in on thedumfounded, hysterical crowd. Here some one was shouting command toimaginary militia; there an aged crone was offering, without price, simnels and black butter, as a sort of propitiation for an imperfectpast; and from a window a notorious evil-liver was frenziedly cryingthat she had heard the devil and his Rocbert witches revelling in theprison dungeons the night before. Thereupon a long-haired fanatic, once a barber, with a gift for mad preaching, sprang upon the Pompe desBrigands, and declaring that the Last Day was come, shrieked:

 "The Spirit of the Lord is upon me! He hath sent me to proclaim liberty to the captives, and the opening of the prison to them that are bound!"

Some one thrust into his hand a torch. He waved it to and fro in hiswild harangue; he threw up his arms towards the ominous gloom, and withblatant fury ordered open the prison doors. Other torches and candlesappeared, and the mob trembled to and fro in delirium. 

"The prison! Open the Vier Prison! Break down the doors!Gatd'en'ale--drive out the devils! Free the prisoners--the poorvauriens!" the crowd shouted, rushing forward with sticks and weapons. 

The prison arched the street as Temple Bar once spanned the Strand. Theycrowded under the archway, overpowered the terror-stricken jailer, and, battering open the door in frenzy, called the inmates forth. 

They looked to see issue some sailor seized for whistling of a Sabbath, some profane peasant who had presumed to wear pattens in church, someprofaner peasant who had not doffed his hat to the Connetable, or someslip-shod militiaman who had gone to parade in his sabots, therebyoffending the red-robed dignity of the Royal Court. 

Instead, there appeared a little Frenchman of the most refined andunusual appearance. The blue cloth of his coat set off the extremepaleness of a small but serene face and high round forehead. The hair, abeautiful silver grey which time only had powdered, was tied in a queuebehind. The little gentleman's hand was as thin and fine as a lady's, his shoulders were narrow and slightly stooped, his eye was eloquent andbenign. His dress was amazingly neat, but showed constant brushing andsigns of the friendly repairing needle. 

The whole impression was that of a man whom a whiff of wind would blowaway; with the body of an ascetic and the simplicity of a child. The face had some particular sort of wisdom, difficult to define andimpossible to imitate. He held in his hand a tiny cane of the sortcarried at the court of Louis Quinze. Louis Capet himself had given itto him; and you might have had the life of the little gentleman, but notthis cane with the tiny golden bust of his unhappy monarch. 

He stood on the steps of the prison and looked serenely on themuttering, excited crowd. 

"I fear there is a mistake, " said he, coughing a little into hisfingers. "You do not seek me. I--I have no claim upon your kindness; Iam only the Chevalier Orvilliers du Champsavoys de Beaumanoir. "

For a moment the mob had been stayed in amazement by this small, rarecreature stepping from the doorway, like a porcelain coloured figurefrom some dusky wood in a painting by Claude. In the instant's pause theChevalier Orvilliers du Champsavoys de Beaumanoir took from his pocketa timepiece and glanced at it, then looked over the heads of the crowdtowards the hooded sun, which now, a little, was showing its face again. 

"It was due at eight, less seven minutes, " said he; "clear sun again wasset for ten minutes past. It is now upon the stroke of the hour. "

He seemed in no way concerned with the swaying crowd beforehim--undoubtedly they wanted naught of him, and therefore he didnot take their presence seriously; but, of an inquiring mind, he wasabsorbed in the eclipse. 

"He's a French sorcerer! He has the evil eye! Away with him to the sea!"shouted the fanatical preacher from the Pompe des Brigands. 

"It's a witch turned into a man!" cried a drunken woman from her window. "Give him the wheel of fire at the blacksmith's forge. "

"That's it! Gad'rabotin--the wheel of fire'll turn him back to a hagagain!"

The little gentleman protested, but they seized him and dragged himfrom the steps. Tossed like a ball, so light was he, he grasped thegold-headed cane as one might cling to life, and declared that he wasno witch, but a poor French exile, arrested the night before for beingabroad after nine o'clock, against the orders of the Royal Court. 

Many of the crowd knew him well enough by sight, but they were toodelirious to act with intelligence now. The dark cloud was lifting alittle from the sun, and dread of the Judgment Day was declining; butas the pendulum swung back towards normal life again, it carried with itthe one virulent and common prejudice of the country--radical hatred ofthe French--which often slumbered but never died. 

The wife of an oyster-fisher from Rozel Bay, who lived in hourly enmitywith the oyster-fishers of Carteret, gashed his cheek with the shell ofan ormer. A potato-digger from Grouville parish struck at his head witha hoe, for the Granvillais had crossed the strait to the island theyear before, to work in the harvest fields for a lesser wage than theJersiais, and this little French gentleman must be held responsible forthat. The weapon missed the Chevalier, but laid low a centenier, who, though a municipal officer, had in the excitement lost his head like hisneighbours. This but increased the rage against the foreigner, and wasanother crime to lay to his charge. A smuggler thereupon kicked him inthe side. 

At that moment there came a cry of indignation from a girl at an upperwindow of the Place. The Chevalier evidently knew her, for even in hishard case he smiled; and then he heard another voice ring out over theheads of the crowd, strong, angry, determined. 

From the Rue d'Driere a tall athletic man was hurrying. He had on hisshoulders a workman's hand basket, from which peeped a ship-builder'stools. Seeing the Chevalier's danger, he dropped his tool-basket throughthe open window of a house and forced his way through the crowd, roughlyknocking from under them the feet of two or three ruffians who opposedhim. He reproached the crowd, he berated them, he handled them fiercely. By a dexterous strength he caught the little gentleman up in his arms, and, driving straight on to the open door of the smithy, placed himinside, then blocked the passage with his own body. 

It was a strange picture: the preacher in an ecstasy haranguing thefoolish rabble, who now realised, with an unbecoming joy, that the LastDay was yet to face; the gaping, empty prison; the open windows crowdedwith excited faces; the church bell from the Vier Marchi ringing analarm; Norman lethargy roused to froth and fury: one strong man holdingtwo hundred back!

Above them all, at a hus in the gable of a thatched cottage, stood thegirl whom the Chevalier had recognised, anxiously watching the affray. She was leaning across the lower closed half of the door, her hands inapprehensive excitement clasping her cheeks. The eyes were bewildered, and, though alive with pain, watched the scene below with unwaveringintensity. 

Like all mobs this one had no reason, no sense. They were baulked intheir malign intentions, and this man, Maitre Ranulph Delagarde, was thecause of it--that was all they knew. A stone was thrown at Delagarde ashe stood in the doorway, but it missed him. 

"Oh-oh-oh!" the girl exclaimed, shrinking. "O shame! O you cowards!" sheadded, her hands now indignantly beating on the hus. Three or four menrushed forward on Ranulph. He hurled them back. Others came on withweapons. The girl fled for an instant, then reappeared with a musket, asthe people were crowding in on Delagarde with threats and execrations. 

"Stop! stop!" cried the girl from above, as Ranulph seized ablack-smith's hammer to meet the onset. "Stop, or I'll fire!" she calledagain, and she aimed her musket at the foremost assailants. 

Every face turned in her direction, for her voice had rung out clearas music. For an instant there was silence--the levelled musket hada deadly look, and the girl seemed determined. Her fingers, herwhole body, trembled; but there was no mistaking the strong will, theindignant purpose. 

All at once in the pause another sound was heard. It was a quick tramp, tramp, tramp! and suddenly under the prison archway came running anofficer of the King's navy with a company of sailors. The officer, withdrawn sword, his men following with cutlasses, drove a way through themob, who scattered before them like sheep. 

Delagarde threw aside his hammer, and saluted the officer. The littleChevalier made a formal bow, and hastened to say that he was not atall hurt. With a droll composure he offered snuff to the officer, whodeclined politely. Turning to the window where the girl stood, thenew-comer saluted with confident gallantry. 

"Why, it's little Guida Landresse!" he said under his breath--"I'd knowher anywhere. Death and Beauty, what a face!" Then he turned to Ranulphin recognition. 

"Ranulph Delagarde, eh?" said he good-humouredly. "You've forgotten me, I see. I'm Philip d'Avranche, of the Narcissus. "

Ranulph had forgotten. The slight lad Philip had grown bronzed, andstouter of frame. In the eleven years since they had been together atthe Battle of Jersey, events, travel, and responsibility had altered himvastly. Ranulph had changed only in growing very tall and athletic andstrong; the look of him was still that of the Norman lad of the isle, though the power and intelligence of his face were unusual. 

The girl in the cottage doorway had not forgotten at all. The words thatd'Avranche had said to her years before, when she was a child, came toher mind: "My name is Philip; call me Philip. "

The recollection of that day when she snatched off the Bailly's hatbrought a smile to her lips now, so quickly were her feelings moved oneway or another. Then she grew suddenly serious, for the memory of thehour when he saved her from the scimitar of the Turk came to her, andher heart throbbed hotly. But she smiled again, though more gently and alittle wistfully now. 

Philip d'Avranche looked up towards her once more, and returned hersmile. Then he addressed the awed crowd. He did not spare his language;he unconsciously used an oath or two. He ordered them off to theirhomes. When they hesitated (for they were slow to acknowledge anyauthority save their own sacred Royal Court) the sailors advanced onthem with drawn cutlasses, and a moment later the Place du Vier Prisonwas clear. Leaving a half-dozen sailors on guard till the town corpsshould arrive, d'Avranche prepared to march, and turned to Delagarde. 

"You've done me a good turn, Monsieur d'Avranche, " said Ranulph. 

"There was a time you called me Philip, " said d'Avranche, smiling. "Wewere lads together. "

"It's different now, " answered Delagarde. 

"Nothing is different at all, of course, " returned d'Avranchecarelessly, yet with the slightest touch of condescension, as heheld out his hand. Turning to the Chevalier, he said: "Monsieur, Icongratulate you on having such a champion"--with a motion towardsRanulph. "And you, monsieur, on your brave protector"--he again salutedthe girl at the window above. 

"I am the obliged and humble servant of monsieur, and monsieur, "responded the little gentleman, turning from one to the other witha courtly bow, the three-cornered hat under his arm, the right footforward, the thin fingers making a graceful salutation. "But I--Ithink--I really think I must go back to prison. I was not formally setfree. I was out last night beyond the hour set by the Court. I lost myway, and--"

"Not a bit of it, " d'Avranche interrupted. "The centeniers are too freewith their jailing here. I'll be guarantee for you, monsieur. " He turnedto go. 

The little man shook his head dubiously. "But, as a point of honour, Ireally think--"

D'Avranche laughed. "As a point of honour, I think you ought tobreakfast. A la bonne heure, monsieur le chevalier!"

He turned again to the cottage window. The girl was still there. Thedarkness over the sun was withdrawn, and now the clear light began tospread itself abroad. It was like a second dawn after a painful night. It tinged the face of the girl; it burnished the wonderful red-brownhair falling loosely and lightly over her forehead; it gave her beauty atouch of luxuriance. D'Avranche thrilled at the sight of her. 

"It's a beautiful face, " he said to himself as their eyes met and hesaluted once more. 

Ranulph had seen the glances passing between the two, and he winced. Heremembered how, eleven years ago, Philip d'Avranche had saved the girlfrom death. It galled him that then and now this young gallant shouldstep in and take the game out of his hands--he was sure that himselfalone could have mastered this crowd. 

"Monsieur--monsieur le chevalier!" the girl called down from the window, "grandpethe says you must breakfast with us. Oh, but come you must, or we shall be offended!" she added, as Champsavoys shook his head inhesitation and glanced towards the prison. 

"As a point of honour--" the little man still persisted, lightlytouching his breast with the Louis Quinze cane, and taking a steptowards the sombre prison archway. But Ranulph interfered, drew himgently inside the cottage, and, standing in the doorway, said to someone within:

"May I come in also, Sieur de Mauprat?"

Above the pleasant welcome of a quavering voice came another, soft andclear, in pure French:

"Thou art always welcome, without asking, as thou knowest, Ro. "

"Then I'll go and fetch my tool-basket first, " Ranulph said cheerily, his heart beating more quickly, and, turning, he walked across thePlace. 

CHAPTER VI

The cottage in which Guida lived at the Place du Vier Prison was injocund contrast to the dungeon from which the Chevalier Orvilliersdu Champsavoys de Beaumanoir had complacently issued. Even in the hotsummer the prison walls dripped moisture, for the mortar had been madeof wet sea-sand, which never dried, and beneath the gloomy tenement ofcrime a dark stream flowed to the sea. But the walls of the cottage weredry, for, many years before, Guida's mother had herself seen it builtfrom cellar-rock to the linked initials over the doorway, stone bystone, and every corner of it was as free from damp as the miellesstretching in sandy desolation behind to the Mont es Pendus, where thelaw had its way with the necks of criminals. 

In early childhood Madame Landresse had come with her father into exilefrom the sunniest valley in the hills of Chambery, where flowers andtrees and sunshine had been her life. Here, in the midst of blank andgrim stone houses, her heart travelled back to the chateau where shelived before the storm of persecution drove her forth; and she spent herheart and her days in making this cottage, upon the western border ofSt. Heliers, a delight to the quiet eye. 

The people of the island had been good to her and her dead husbandduring the two short years of their married life, and had caused her tolove the land which necessity made her home. Her child was brought upafter the fashion of the better class of Jersey children, wore whatthey wore, ate what they ate, lived as they lived. She spoke the countrypatois in the daily life, teaching it to Guida at the same time that shetaught her pure French and good English, which she herself had learnedas a child, and cultivated later here. She had done all in her powerto make Guida Jersiaise in instinct and habit, and to beget in her acontented disposition. There could be no future for her daughter outsidethis little green oasis of exile, she thought. Not that she lackedambition, but in the circumstances she felt that ambition could yieldbut one harvest to her child, which was marriage. She herself hadmarried a poor man, a master builder of ships, like Maitre RanulphDelagarde, but she had been very happy while he lived. Her husbandhad come of an ancient Jersey family, who were in Normandy before theConqueror was born; a man of genius almost in his craft, but scarcelya gentleman according to the standard of her father, the distinguishedexile and now retired watchmaker. If Guida should chance to be asfortunate as herself, she could ask no more. 

She had watched the child anxiously, for the impulses of Guida'stemperament now and then broke forth in indignation as wild as her tearsand in tears as wild as her laughter. As the girl grew in health andstature, she tried, tenderly, strenuously, to discipline the sensitivenature, bursting her heart with grief at times because she knew thatthese high feelings and delicate powers came through a long line ofancestral tendencies, as indestructible as perilous and joyous. 

Four things were always apparent in the girl's character: sympathy withsuffering, kindness without partiality, a love of nature, and an intensecandour. 

Not a stray cat wandering into the Place du Vier Prison but found anasylum in the garden behind the cottage. Not a dog hungry for a bone, stopping at Guida's door, but was sure of one from a hiding-place inthe hawthorn hedge of the garden. Every morning you might have seenthe birds in fluttering, chirping groups upon the may-tree or thelilac-bushes, waiting for the tiny snow-storm of bread to fall fromher hand. Was he good or bad, ragged or neat, honest or a thief, not adeserting sailor or a homeless lad, halting at the cottage, but was fedfrom the girl's private larder behind the straw beehives among the sweetlavender and the gooseberry-bushes. No matter how rough the vagrant, the sincerity and pure impulse of the child seemed to throw round him asunshine of decency and respect. 

The garden behind the house was the girl's Eden. She had planted uponthe hawthorn hedge the crimson monthly rose, the fuchsia, and thejonquil, until at last the cottage was hemmed in by a wall of flowers;and here she was ever as busy as the bees which hung humming on thesweet scabious. 

In this corner was a little hut for rabbits; in that, there was a holedug in the bank for a hedgehog; in the middle a little flower-grownenclosure for cats in various stages of health or convalescence, and asmall pond for frogs; and in the midst of all wandered her faithful dog, Biribi by name, as master of the ceremonies. 

Madame Landresse's one ambition had been to live long enough to see herchild's character formed. She knew that her own years were numbered, formonth by month she felt her strength going. And yet a beautiful tenacitykept her where she would be until Guida was fifteen years of age. Hergreat desire had been to live till the girl was eighteen. Then--well, then might she not perhaps leave her to the care of a husband? At best, M. De Mauprat could not live long. He had at last been forced to giveup the little watchmaker's shop in the Vier Marchi, where for so manyyears, in simple independence, he had wrought, always putting by, fromwork done after hours, Jersey bank-notes and gold, to give Guida a dot, if not worthy of her, at least a guarantee against reproach when somegreat man should come seeking her in marriage. But at last his handstrembled among the tiny wheels, and his eyes failed. He had his darkhour by himself, then he sold the shop to a native, who thenceforwardsat in the ancient exile's place; and the two brown eyes of the stooped, brown old man looked out no more from the window in the Vier Marchi: andthen they all made their new home in the Place du Vier Prison. 

Until she was fifteen Guida's life was unclouded. Once or twice hermother tried to tell her of a place that must soon be empty, but herheart failed her. So at last the end came like a sudden wind out ofthe north; and it was left to Guida Landresse de Landresse to fight thefight and finish the journey of womanhood alone. 

This time was the turning-point in Guida's life. What her mother hadbeen to the Sieur de Mauprat, she soon became. They had enough to liveon simply. Every week her grandfather gave her a fixed sum for thehousehold. Upon this she managed, that the tiny income left by hermother might not be touched. She shrank from using it yet, and besides, dark times might come when it would be needed. Death had once surprisedher, but it should bring no more amazement. She knew that M. DeMauprat's days were numbered, and when he was gone she would be leftwithout one near relative in the world. She realised how unprotected herposition would be when death came knocking at the door again. What shewould do she knew not. She thought long and hard. Fifty things occurredto her, and fifty were set aside. Her mother's immediate relativesin France were scattered or dead. There was no longer any interest atChambery in the watchmaking exile, who had dropped like a cherry-stonefrom the beak of the blackbird of persecution upon one of the Iles de laManche. 

There remained the alternative more than once hinted by the Sieur deMauprat as the months grew into years after the mother died--marriage;a husband, a notable and wealthy husband. That was the magic destiny deMauprat figured for her. It did not elate her, it did not disturb her;she scarcely realised it. She loved animals, and she saw no reason todespise a stalwart youth. It had been her fortune to know two or threein the casual, unconventional manner of villages, and there were few inthe land, great or humble, who did not turn twice to look at her as shepassed through the Vier Marchi, so noble was her carriage, so gracefuland buoyant her walk, so lacking in self-consciousness her beauty. Morethan one young gentleman of family had been known to ride through thePlace du Vier Prison, hoping to get sight of her, and to offer the viewof a suggestively empty pillion behind him. 

She had, however, never listened to flatterers, and only one youth ofJersey had footing in the cottage. This was Ranulph Delagarde, who hadgone in and out at his will, but that was casually and not too often, and he was discreet and spoke no word of love. Sometimes she talked tohim of things concerning the daily life with which she did not care totrouble Sieur de Mauprat. In ways quite unknown to her he had made herlife easier for her. She knew that her mother had thought of Ranulph forher husband, although she blushed whenever--but it was not often--theidea came to her. She remembered how her mother had said that Ranulphwould be a great man in the island some day; that he had a mind aboveall the youths in St. Heliers; that she would rather see Ranulpha master ship-builder than a babbling ecrivain in the Rue des TresPigeons, a smirking leech, or a penniless seigneur with neither tradenor talent. Guida was attracted to Ranulph through his occupation, forshe loved strength, she loved all clean and wholesome trades; thatof the mason, of the carpenter, of the blacksmith, and most of theship-builder. Her father, whom she did not remember, had been aship-builder, and she knew that he had been a notable man; every one hadtold her that. 

 . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 

"She has met her destiny, " say the village gossips, when some man in thedusty procession of life sees a woman's face in the pleasant shadow of ahome, and drops out of the ranks to enter at her doorway. 

Was Ranulph to be Guida's destiny?

Handsome and stalwart though he looked as he entered the cottage in thePlace du Vier Prison, on that September morning after the rescue of thechevalier, his tool-basket on his shoulder, and his brown face enlivenedby one simple sentiment, she was far from sure that he was--far fromsure. 

CHAPTER VII

The little hall-way into which Ranulph stepped from the street ledthrough to the kitchen. Guida stood holding back the door for him toenter this real living-room of the house, which opened directly uponthe garden behind. It was so cheerful and secluded, looking out fromthe garden over the wide space beyond to the changeful sea, thatsince Madame Landresse's death the Sieur de Mauprat had made itreception-room, dining-room, and kitchen all in one. He would willinglyhave slept there too, but noblesse oblige and the thought of what theChevalier Orvilliers du Champsavoys de Beaumanoir might think preventedhim. Moreover, there was something patriarchal in a kitchen as areception-room; and both he and the chevalier loved to watch Guida busywith her household duties: at one moment her arms in the dough of thekneading trough; at another picking cherries for a jelly, or casting upher weekly accounts with a little smiling and a little sighing. 

If, by chance, it had been proposed by the sieur to adjourn to the smallsitting-room which looked out upon the Place du Vier Prison, a gloomwould instantly have settled upon them both; though in this little frontroom there was an ancient arm-chair, over which hung the sword thatthe Comte Guilbert Mauprat de Chambery had used at Fontenoy against theEnglish. 

So it was that this spacious kitchen, with its huge chimney, and pavedwith square flagstones and sanded, became like one of those ancientcorners of camaraderie in some exclusive inn where gentlemen of qualitywere wont to meet. At the left of the chimney was the great settle, orveille, covered with baize, "flourished" with satinettes, and spreadwith ferns and rushes, and above it a little shelf of old china worththe ransom of a prince at least. Opposite the doorway were two greatarmchairs, one for the sieur and the other for the Chevalier, who madehis home in the house of one Elie Mattingley, a fisherman by trade andby practice a practical smuggler, with a daughter Carterette whom heloved passing well. 

These, with a few constant visitors, formed a coterie: the huge, grizzly-bearded boatman, Jean Touzel, who wore spectacles, befriendedsmugglers, was approved of all men, and secretly worshipped by his wife;Amice Ingouville, the fat avocat with a stomach of gigantic proportions, the biggest heart and the tiniest brain in the world; Maitre RanulphDelagarde, and lastly M. Yves Savary dit Detricand, that officer ofRullecour's who, being released from the prison hospital, when the hourcame for him to leave the country was too drunk to find the shore. Bysome whim of negligence the Royal Court was afterwards too lethargic toremove him, and he stayed on, vainly making efforts to leave between onecarousal and another. In sober hours, none too frequent, he was rathersorrowfully welcomed by the sieur and the chevalier. 

When Ranulph entered the kitchen his greeting to the sieur and thechevalier was in French, but to Guida he said, rather stupidly in thepatois--for late events had embarrassed him--"Ah bah! es-tu gentiment?"

"Gentiment, " she answered, with a queer little smile. "You'll havebreakfast?" she said in English. 

"Et ben!" Ranulph repeated, still embarrassed, "a mouthful, that's all. "

He laid aside his tool-basket, shook hands with the sieur, and seatedhimself at the table. Looking at du Champsavoys, he said:

"I've just met the connetable. He regrets the riot, chevalier, and saysthe Royal Court extends its mercy to you. "

"I prefer to accept no favours, " answered the chevalier. "As a point ofhonour, I had thought that, after breakfast, I should return to prison, and--"

"The connetable said it was cheaper to let the chevalier go free than tofeed him in the Vier Prison, " dryly explained Ranulph, helping himselfto roasted conger eel and eyeing hungrily the freshly-made black butterGuida was taking from a wooden trencher. "The Royal Court is stingy, "he added. "'It's nearer than Jean Noe, who got married in his redqueminzolle, ' as we say on Jersey--"

But he got no further at the moment, for shots rang out suddenly beforethe house. They all started to their feet, and Ranulph, running to thefront door, threw it open. As he did so a young man, with blood flowingfrom a cut on the temple, stepped inside. 

CHAPTER VIII

It was M. Savary dit Detricand. 

"Whew--what fools there are in the world! Pish, you silly apes!" theyoung man said, glancing through the open doorway again to where theconnetable's men were dragging two vile-looking ruffians into the VierPrison. 

"What's happened, monsieur?" said Ranulph, closing the door and boltingit. 

"What was it, monsieur?" asked Guida anxiously, for painful events hadcrowded too fast that morning. Detricand was stanching the blood at histemple with the scarf from his neck. 

"Get him some cordial, Guida--he's wounded!" said de Mauprat. 

Detricand waved a hand almost impatiently, and dropped upon the veille, swinging a leg backwards and forwards. 

"It's nothing, I protest--nothing whatever, and I'll have no cordial, not a drop. A drink of water--a mouthful of that, if I must drink. "

Guida caught up a hanap of water from the dresser, and passed it to him. Her fingers trembled a little. His were steady enough as he took thehanap and drank off the water at a gulp. Again she filled it and againhe drank. The blood was running in a tiny little stream down his cheek. She caught her handkerchief from her girdle impulsively, and gentlywiped it away. 

"Let me bandage the wound, " she said eagerly. Her eyes were alight withcompassion, certainly not because it was the dissipated French invader, M. Savary dit Detricand, --no one knew that he was the young Comtede Tournay of the House of Vaufontaine, but because he was a woundedfellow-creature. She would have done the same for the poor beganne, Dormy Jamais, who still prowled the purlieus of St. Heliers. 

It was clear, however, that Detricand felt differently. The moment shetouched him he became suddenly still. He permitted her to wash theblood from his temple and forehead, to stanch it first with brandiedjeru-leaves, then with cobwebs, and afterwards to bind it with her ownkerchief. 

Detricand thrilled at the touch of the warm, tremulous fingers. He hadnever been quite so near her before. His face was not far from hers. Nowher breath fanned him. As he bent his head for the bandaging, he couldsee the soft pulsing of her bosom, and hear the beating of her heart. Her neck was so full and round and soft, and her voice--surely he hadnever heard a voice so sweet and strong, a tone so well poised, soresonantly pleasant. 

When she had finished, he had an impulse to catch the hand as it droppedaway from his forehead, and kiss it; not as he had kissed many a hand, hotly one hour and coldly the next, but with an unpurchasable kind ofgratitude characteristic of this especial sort of sinner. He was justyoung enough, and there was still enough natural health in him, to knowthe healing touch of a perfect decency, a pure truth of spirit. Yethe had been drunk the night before, drunk with three noncommissionedofficers--and he a gentleman, in spite of all, as could be plainly seen. 

He turned his head away from the girl quickly, and looked straight intothe eyes of her grandfather. 

"I'll tell you how it was, Sieur de Mauprat, " said he. "I was crossingthe Place du Vier Prison when a rascal threw a cleaver at me from awindow. If it had struck me on the head--well, the Royal Court wouldhave buried me, and without a slab to my grave like Rullecour. I burstopen the door of the house, ran up the stairs, gripped the ruffian, andthrew him through the window into the street. As I did so a door openedbehind, and another cut-throat came at me with a pistol. He fired--firedwide. I ran in on him, and before he had time to think he was out of thewindow too. Then the other brute below fired up at me. The bullet gashedmy temple, as you see. After that, it was an affair of the connetableand his men. I had had enough fighting before breakfast. I saw your opendoor, and here I am--monsieur, monsieur, monsieur, mademoiselle!" Hebowed to each of them and glanced towards the table hungrily. 

Ranulph placed a seat for him. He viewed the conger eel and limpets withan avid eye, but waited for the chevalier and de Mauprat to sit. Hehad no sooner taken a mouthful, however, and thrown a piece of bread toBiribi the dog, than, starting again to his feet, he said:

"Your pardon, monsieur le chevalier, that brute in the Place has knockedall sense from my head! I've a letter for you, brought from Rouen by oneof the refugees who came yesterday. " He drew from his breast a packetand handed it over. "I went out to their ship last night. "

The chevalier looked with surprise and satisfaction at the seal onthe letter, and, breaking it, spread open the paper, fumbled for theeye-glass which he always carried in his waistcoat, and began readingdiligently. 

Meanwhile Ranulph turned to Guida. "To-morrow Jean Touzel and his wifeand I go to the Ecrehos Rocks in Jean's boat, " said he. "A vessel wasdriven ashore there three days ago, and my carpenters are at work onher. If you can go and the wind holds fair, you shall be brought backsafe by sundown--Jean says so too. "

Of all boatmen and fishermen on the coast, Jean Touzel was most to betrusted. No man had saved so many shipwrecked folk, none risked his lifeso often; and he had never had a serious accident. To go to sea withJean Touzel, folk said, was safer than living on land. Guida loved thesea; and she could sail a boat, and knew the tides and currents of thesouth coast as well as most fishermen. 

M. De Mauprat met her inquiring glance and nodded assent. She then saidgaily to Ranulph: "I shall sail her, shall I not?"

"Every foot of the way, " he answered. 

She laughed and clapped her hands. Suddenly the little chevalier brokein. "By the head of John the Baptist!" said he. 

Detricand put down his knife and fork in amazement, and Guida coloured, for the words sounded almost profane upon the chevalier's lips. 

Du Champsavoys held up his eye-glass, and, turning from one to theother, looked at each of them imperatively yet abstractedly too. Then, pursing up his lower lip, and with a growing amazement which carried himto distant heights of reckless language, he said again:

"By the head of John the Baptist on a charger!" He looked at Detricandwith a fierceness which was merely the tension of his thought. If he hadlooked at a wall it would have been the same. But Detricand, who had analmost whimsical sense of humour, felt his neck in affected concern asthough to be quite sure of it. "Chevalier, " said he, "you shock us--youshock us, dear chevalier. "

"The most painful things, and the most wonderful too, " said thechevalier, tapping the letter with his eye-glass; "the most terrible andyet the most romantic things are here. A drop of cider, if you please, mademoiselle, before I begin to read it to you, if I may--if I may--eh?"

They all nodded eagerly. Guida handed him a mogue of cider. The littlegrey thrush of a man sipped it, and in a voice no bigger than a bird'sbegan:

 "From Lucillien du Champsavoys, Comte de Chanier, by the hand of a faithful friend, who goeth hence from among divers dangers, unto my cousin, the Chevalier du Champsavoys de Beaumanoir, late Gentleman of the Bedchamber to the best of monarchs, Louis XV, this writing:

 "MY DEAR AND HONOURED Cousin"--The chevalier paused, frowned a trifle, and tapped his lips with his finger in a little lyrical emotion--"My dear and honoured cousin, all is lost. The France we loved is no more. The twentieth of June saw the last vestige of Louis's power pass for ever. That day ten thousand of the sans-culottes forced their way into the palace to kill him. A faithful few surrounded him. In the mad turmoil, we were fearful, he was serene. 'Feel, ' said Louis, placing his hand on his bosom, 'feel whether this is the beating of a heart shaken by fear. ' Ah, my friend, your heart would have clamped in misery to hear the Queen cry: 'What have I to fear? Death? it is as well to-day as to-morrow; they can do no more!' Their lives were saved, the day passed, but worse came after. 

 "The tenth of August came. With it too, the end-the dark and bloody end-of the Swiss Guard. The Jacobins had their way at last. The Swiss Guard died in the Court of the Carrousel as they marched to the Assembly to save the King. Thus the last circle of defence round the throne was broken. The palace was given over to flame and the sword. Of twenty nobles of the court I alone escaped. France is become a slaughter-house. The people cried out for more liberty, and their liberators gave them the freedom of death. A fortnight ago, Danton, the incomparable fiend, let loose his assassins upon the priests of God. Now Paris is made a theatre where the people whom Louis and his nobles would have died to save have turned every street into a stable of carnage, every prison and hospital into a vast charnel-house. One last revolting thing alone remains to be done--the murder of the King; then this France that we have loved will have no name and no place in our generation. She will rise again, but we shall not see her, for our eyes have been blinded with blood, for ever darkened by disaster. Like a mistress upon whom we have lavished the days of our youth and the strength of our days, she has deceived us; she has stricken us while we slept. Behold a Caliban now for her paramour!

 "Weep with me, for France despoils me. One by one my friends have fallen beneath the axe. Of my four sons but one remains. Henri was stabbed by Danton's ruffians at the Hotel de Ville; Gaston fought and died with the Swiss Guard, whose hacked and severed limbs were broiled and eaten in the streets by these monsters who mutilate the land. Isidore, the youngest, defied a hundred of Robespierre's cowards on the steps of the Assembly, and was torn to pieces by the mob. Etienne alone is left. But for him and for the honour of my house I too would find a place beside the King and die with him. Etienne is with de la Rochejaquelein in Brittany. I am here at Rouen. 

 "Brittany and Normandy still stand for the King. In these two provinces begins the regeneration of France: we call it the War of the Vendee. On that Isle of Jersey there you should almost hear the voice of de la Rochejaquelein and the marching cries of our loyal legions. If there be justice in God we shall conquer. But there will be joy no more for such as you or me, nor hope, nor any peace. We live only for those who come after. Our duty remains, all else is dead. You did well to go, and I do well to stay. 

 "By all these piteous relations you shall know the importance of the request I now set forth. 

 "My cousin by marriage of the House of Vaufontaine has lost all his sons. With the death of the Prince of Vaufontaine, there is in France no direct heir to the house, nor can it, by the law, revert to my house or my heirs. Now of late the Prince hath urged me to write to you--for he is here in seclusion with me--and to unfold to you what has hitherto been secret. Eleven years ago the only nephew of the Prince, after some naughty escapades, fled from the Court with Rullecour the adventurer, who invaded the Isle of Jersey. From that hour he has been lost to France. Some of his companions in arms returned after a number of years. All with one exception declared that he was killed in the battle at St. Heliers. One, however, maintains that he was still living and in the prison hospital when his comrades were set free. 

 "It is of him I write to you. He is--as you will perchance remember--the Comte de Tournay. He was then not more than seventeen years of age, slight of build, with brownish hair, dark grey eyes, and had over the right shoulder a scar from a sword thrust. It seemeth little possible that, if living, he should still remain in that Isle of Jersey. He may rather have returned to obscurity in France or have gone to England to be lost to name and remembrance --or even indeed beyond the seas. 

 "That you may perchance give me word of him is the object of my letter, written in no more hope than I live; and you can well guess how faint that is. One young nobleman preserved to France may yet be the great unit that will save her. 

 "Greet my poor countrymen yonder in the name of one who still waits at a desecrated altar; and for myself you must take me as I am, with the remembrance of what I was, even

 "Your faithful friend and loving kinsman, "CHANIER. "

 "All this, though in the chances of war you read it not till wintertide, was told you at Rouen this first day of September 1792. "

During the reading, broken by feeling and reflective pauses on thechevalier's part, the listeners showed emotion after the nature of each. The Sieur de Mauprat's fingers clasped and unclasped on the top of hiscane, little explosions of breath came from his compressed lips, hiseyebrows beetled over till the eyes themselves seemed like two glintsof flame. Delagarde dropped a fist heavily upon the table, and heldit there clinched, while his heel beat a tattoo of excitement upon thefloor. Guida's breath came quick and fast--as Ranulph said afterwards, she was "blanc comme un linge. " She shuddered painfully when theslaughter and burning of the Swiss Guards was read. Her brain was soswimming with the horrors of anarchy that the latter part of the letterdealing with the vanished Count of Tournay passed by almost unheeded. 

But this particular matter greatly interested Ranulph and de Mauprat. They leaned forward eagerly, seizing every word, and both instinctivelyturned towards Detricand when the description of de Tournay was read. 

As for Detricand himself, he listened to the first part of the letterlike a man suddenly roused out of a dream. For the first time sincethe Revolution had begun, the horror of it and the meaning of it werebrought home to him. He had been so long expatriated, had loitered solong in the primrose path of daily sleep and nightly revel, had fallenso far, that he little realised how the fiery wheels of Death werespinning in France, or how black was the torment of her people. His faceturned scarlet as the thing came home to him now. He dropped his head inhis hand as if to listen more attentively, but it was in truth tohide his emotion. When the names of Vaufontaine and de Tournay werementioned, he gave a little start, then suddenly ruled himself to astrange stillness. His face seemed presently to clear; he even smileda little. Conscious that de Mauprat and Delagarde were watching him, heappeared to listen with a keen but impersonal interest, not without itseffect upon his scrutinisers. He nodded his head as though he understoodthe situation. He acted very well; he bewildered the onlookers. Theymight think he tallied with the description of the Comte de Tournay, yet he gave the impression that the matter was not vital to himself. Butwhen the little Chevalier stopped and turned his eye-glass upon him withsudden startled inquiry, he found it harder to keep composure. 

"Singular--singular!" said the old man, and returned to the reading ofthe letter. 

When he ended there was absolute silence for a moment. Then thechevalier lifted his eye-glass again and looked at Detricand intently. 

"Pardon me, monsieur, " he said, "but you were with Rullecour--as I wassaying. "

Detricand nodded with a droll sort of helplessness, and answered: "InJersey I never have chance to forget it, Chevalier. "

Du Champsavoys, with a naive and obvious attempt at playing counsel, fixed him again with the glass, pursed his lips, and with the importanceof a greffier at the ancient Cour d'Heritage, came one step nearer tohis goal. 

"Have you knowledge of the Comte de Tournay, monsieur?"

"I knew him--as you were saying, Chevalier, " answered Detricand lightly. 

Then the Chevalier struck home. He dropped his fingers upon the table, stood up, and, looking straight into Detricand's eyes, said:

"Monsieur, you are the Comte de Tournay!"

The Chevalier involuntarily held the silence for an instant. Nobodystirred. De Mauprat dropped his chin upon his hands, and his eyebrowsdrew down in excitement. Guida gave a little cry of astonishment. ButDetricand answered the Chevalier with a look of blank surprise and ashrug of the shoulder, which had the effect desired. 

"Thank you, Chevalier, " said he with quizzical humour. "Now I know who Iam, and if it isn't too soon to levy upon the kinship, I shall dine withyou today, chevalier. I paid my debts yesterday, and sous are scarce, but since we are distant cousins I may claim grist at the family mill, eh?"

The Chevalier sat, or rather dropped into his chair again. 

"Then you are not the Comte de Tournay, monsieur, " said he hopelessly. 

"Then I shall not dine with you to-day, " retorted Detricand gaily. 

"You fit the tale, " said de Mauprat dubiously, touching the letter withhis finger. 

"Let me see, " rejoined Detricand. "I've been a donkey farmer, ashipmaster's assistant, a tobacco pedlar, a quarryman, a wood merchant, an interpreter, a fisherman--that's very like the Comte de Tournay! OnMonday night I supped with a smuggler; on Tuesday I breakfasted on soupea la graisse with Manon Moignard the witch; on Wednesday I dined withDormy Jamais and an avocat disbarred for writing lewd songs for achocolate-house; on Thursday I went oyster-fishing with a native whohas three wives, and a butcher who has been banished four times fornot keeping holy the Sabbath Day; and I drank from eleven o'clock tillsunrise this morning with three Scotch sergeants of the line--which isvery like the Comte de Tournay, as you were saying, Chevalier! I am fivefeet eleven, and the Comte de Tournay was five feet ten--which is nolie, " he added under his breath. "I have a scar, but it's over my leftshoulder and not over my right--which is also no lie, " he added underhis breath. "De Tournay's hair was brown, and mine, you see, is almosta dead black--fever did that, " he added under his breath. "De Tournayescaped the day after the Battle of Jersey from the prison hospital, Iwas left, and here I've been ever since--Yves Savary dit Detricand atyour service, chevalier. "

A pained expression crossed over the Chevalier's face. "I am most sorry;I am most sorry, " he said hesitatingly. "I had no wish to wound yourfeelings. "

"Ah, it is de Tournay to whom you must apologise, " said Detricandmusingly, with a droll look. 

"It is a pity, " continued the Chevalier, "for somehow all at once Irecalled a resemblance. I saw de Tournay when he was fourteen--yes, Ithink it was fourteen--and when I looked at you, monsieur, his face cameback to me. It would have made my cousin so happy if you had been theComte de Tournay and I had found you here. " The old man's voice trembleda little. "We are growing fewer every day, we Frenchmen of the ancientfamilies. And it would have made my cousin so happy, as I was saying, monsieur. "

Detricand's manner changed; he became serious. The devil-may-care, irresponsible shamelessness of his face dropped away like a mask. Something had touched him. His voice changed too. 

"De Tournay was a much better fellow than I am, chevalier, " saidhe--"and that's no lie, " he added under his breath. "De Tournay was afiery, ambitious, youngster with bad companions. De Tournay told mehe repented of coming with Rullecour, and he felt he had spoilt hislife--that he could never return to France again or to his people. "

The old Chevalier shook his head sadly. "Is he dead?" he asked. 

There was a slight pause, and then Detricand answered: "No, stillliving. "

"Where is he?"

"I promised de Tournay that I would never reveal that. "

"Might I not write to him?" asked the old man. "Assuredly, Chevalier. "

"Could you--will you--despatch a letter to him from me, monsieur?"

"Upon my honour, yes. "

"I thank you--I thank you, monsieur; I will write it to-day. "

"As you will, Chevalier. I will ask you for the letter to-night, "rejoined Detricand. "It may take time to reach de Tournay; but he shallreceive it into his own hands. "

De Mauprat trembled to his feet to put the question he knew theChevalier dreaded to ask:

"Do you think that monsieur le comte will return to France?"

"I think he will, " answered Detricand slowly. 

"It will make my cousin so happy--so happy, " quavered the littleChevalier. "Will you take snuff with me, monsieur?" He offered hissilver snuff-box to his vagrant countryman. This was a mark of favour heshowed to few. 

Detricand bowed, accepted, and took a pinch. "I must be going, " he said. 

CHAPTER IX

At eight o'clock the next morning, Guida and her fellow-voyagers, boundfor the Ecrehos Rocks, had caught the first ebb of the tide, and with afair wind from the sou'-west had skirted the coast, ridden lightly overthe Banc des Violets, and shaped their course nor'-east. Guida kept thehelm all the way, as she had been promised by Ranulph. It was stillmore than half tide when they approached the rocks, and with a fair windthere should be ease in landing. 

No more desolate spot might be imagined. To the left, as you facedtowards Jersey, was a long sand-bank. Between the rocks and thesand-bank shot up a tall, lonely shaft of granite with an evil history. It had been chosen as the last refuge of safety for the women andchildren of a shipwrecked vessel, in the belief that high tide wouldnot reach them. But the wave rose up maliciously, foot by foot, tillit drowned their cries for ever in the storm. The sand-bank was called"Ecriviere, " and the rock was afterwards known as the "Pierre desFemmes. "

Other rocks less prominent, but no less treacherous, flanked it--theNoir Sabloniere and the Grande Galere. To the right of the main islandwere a group of others, all reef and shingle, intersected by treacherouschannels; in calm lapped by water with the colours of a prism ofcrystal, in storm by a leaden surf and flying foam. These were known asthe Colombiere, the Grosse Tete, Tas de Pois, and the Marmotiers; eachwith its retinue of sunken reefs and needles of granitic gneiss lyinglow in menace. Happy the sailor caught in a storm and making for theshelter the little curves in the island afford, who escapes a twistof the current, a sweep of the tide, and the impaling fingers of thesubmarine palisades. 

Beyond these rocks lay Maitre Ile, all gneiss and shingle, a desert inthe sea. The holy men of the early Church, beholding it from the shoreof Normandy, had marked it for a refuge from the storms of war and thefollies of the world. So it came to pass, for the honour of God and theVirgin Mary, the Abbe of Val Richer builded a priory there: and therenow lie in peace the bones of the monks of Val Richer besidethe skeletons of unfortunate gentlemen of the sea of latercenturies--pirates from France, buccaneers from England, and smugglersfrom Jersey, who kept their trysts in the precincts of the ancientchapel. 

The brisk air of early autumn made the blood tingle in Guida's cheeks. Her eyes were big with light and enjoyment. Her hair was caught closeby a gay cap of her own knitting, but a little of it escaped, making apretty setting to her face. 

The boat rode under all her courses, until, as Jean said, they had putthe last lace on her bonnet. Guida's hands were on the tiller firmly, doing Jean's bidding promptly. In all they were five. Besides Guida andRanulph, Jean and Jean's wife, there was a young English clergyman ofthe parish of St. Michael's, who had come from England to fill the placeof the rector for a few months. Word had been brought to him that a manwas dying on the Ecrehos. He had heard that the boat was going, he hadfound Jean Touzel, and here he was with a biscuit in his hand and ablack-jack of French wine within easy reach. Not always in secret theReverend Lorenzo Dow loved the good things of this world. 

The most notable characteristic of the young clergyman's appearance washis outer guilelessness and the oddness of his face. His head was ratherbig for his body; he had a large mouth which laughed easily, a nobleforehead, and big, short-sighted eyes. He knew French well, but couldspeak almost no Jersey patois, so, in compliment to him, Jean Touzel, Ranulph, and Guida spoke in English. This ability to speak English--hisown English--was the pride of Jean's life. He babbled it all the way, and chiefly about a mythical Uncle Elias, who was the text for many asermon. 

"Times past, " said he, as they neared Maitre Ile, "mon onc' 'Lias heknows these Ecrehoses better as all the peoples of the world--respe d'lacompagnie. Mon onc' 'Lias he was a fine man. Once when there is a fightbetween de Henglish and de hopping Johnnies, " he pointed towards France, "dere is seven French ship, dere is two Henglish ship--gentlemen-of-wardey are call. Eh ben, one of de Henglish ships he is not agentleman-of-war, he is what you call go-on-your-own-hook--privator. Butit is all de same--tres-ba, all right! What you t'ink coum to pass? Debig Henglish ship she is hit ver' bad, she is all break-up. Efin, dat leetle privator he stan' round on de fighting side of degentleman-of-war and take de fire by her loneliness. Say, then, whereverdere is troub' mon onc' 'Lias he is there, he stan' outside de troub'an' look on--dat is his hobby. You call it hombog? Oh, nannin-gia!Suppose two peoples goes to fight, ah bah, somebody must pick up depieces--dat is mon onc' 'Lias! He have his boat full of hoysters; so hesit dere all alone and watch dat great fight, an' heat de hoyster an'drink de cider vine. 

"Ah, bah! mon onc' 'Lias he is standin' hin de door dat day. Dat is whatwe say on Jersey--when a man have some ver' great luck we say he stan'hin de door. I t'ink it is from de Bible or from de helmanac--sacre moi, I not know. .. . If I talk too much you give me dat black-jack. "

They gave him the black-jack. After he had drunk and wiped his mouth onhis sleeve, he went on:

"O my good-ma'm'selle, a leetle more to de wind. Ah, dat isright--trejous!. .. Dat fight it go like two bulls on a vergee--resped'la compagnie. Mon onc' 'Lias he have been to Hengland, he have sing'God save our greshus King'; so he t'ink a leetle--Ef he go to deFrench, likely dey will hang him. Mon onc' 'Lias, he is what you callpatreeteesm. He say, 'Hengland, she is mine--trejous. ' Efin, he sailstraight for de Henglish ships. Dat is de greates' man, mon onc''Lias--respe d'la compagnie! he coum on de side which is not fighting. Ah bah, he tell dem dat he go to save de gentleman-of-war. He see ahofficier all bloodiness and he call hup: 'Es-tu gentiment?' he say. 'Gentiment, ' say de hofficier; 'han' you?' 'Naicely, yank you!' mon onc''Lias he say. 'I will save you, ' say mon onc' 'Lias--'I will save deship of God save our greshus King. ' De hofficier wipe de tears out ofhis face. 'De King will reward you, man alive, ' he say. Mon onc''Lias he touch his breast and speak out. 'Mon hofficier, my reward ishere--trejous. I will take you into de Ecrehoses. ' 'Coum up and save deKing's ships, ' says de hofficier. 'I will take no reward, ' say mon onc''Lias, 'but, for a leetle pourboire, you will give me de privator--eh?''Milles sacres'--say de hofficier, 'mines saeres--de privator!' hesay, ver' surprise'. 'Man doux d'la vie--I am damned!' 'You are damnedtrulee, if you do not get into de Ecrehoses, ' say mon onc' 'Lias--'Abi'tot, good-bye!' he say. De hofficier call down to him: 'Is derenosing else you will take?' 'Nannin, do not tempt me, ' say mon onc''Lias. 'I am not a gourman'. I will take de privator--dat is my hobby. 'All de time de cannons grand--dey brow-brou! boum-boum!--what you calldiscomfortable. Time is de great t'ing, so de hofficier wipe de tearsout of his face again. 'Coum up, ' he say; 'de privator is yours. '

"Away dey go. You see dat spot where we coum to land, Ma'm'selleLandresse--where de shingle look white, de leetle green grass above?Dat is where mon onc' 'Lias he bring in de King's ship and de privator. Gatd'en'ale--it is a journee awful! He twist to de right, he shape tode left trough de teeth of de rocks--all safe--vera happee--to dis niceleetle bay of de Maitre Ile dey coum. De Frenchies dey grind dere teethand spit de fire. But de Henglish laugh at demdey are safe. 'Frien' ofmy heart, ' say de hofficier to mon onc' 'Lias, 'pilot of pilots, ' hesay, 'in de name of our greshus King I t'ank you--A bi'tot, good-bye!'he say. 'Tres-ba, ' mon onc' 'Lias he say den, 'I will go to myprivator. ' 'You will go to de shore, ' say de hofficier. 'You will waiton de shore till de captain and his men of de privator coum to you. Whendey coum, de ship is yours--de privator is for you. ' Mon onc' 'Lias heis like a child--he believe. He 'bout ship and go shore. Misery me, he sit on dat rocking-stone you see tipping on de wind. But if he waituntil de men of de privator coum to him, he will wait till we see himsitting there now. Gache-a-penn, you say patriote? Mon onc' 'Lias he hasde patreeteesm, and what happen? He save de ship of de greshus King Godsave--and dey eat up his hoysters! He get nosing. Gad'rabotin--resped'la compagnie--if dere is a ship of de King coum to de Ecrehoses, andde hofficier say to me"--he tapped his breast--"'Jean Touzel, tak deships of de King trough de rocks, '--ah bah, I would rememb' mon onc''Lias. I would say, 'A bi'tot-good-bye. '. .. Slowlee--slowlee! We are atde place. Bear wif de land, ma'm'selle! Steadee! As you go! V'la! hitchnow, Maitre Ranulph. "

The keel of the boat grated on the shingle. 

The air of the morning, the sport of using the elements for one'spleasure, had given Guida an elfish sprightliness of spirits. Twentytimes during Jean's recital she had laughed gaily, and never sat a laughbetter on any one's countenance than on hers. Her teeth were strong, white, and regular; in themselves they gave off a sort of shining mirth. 

At first the lugubrious wife of the happy Jean was inclined to resentGuida's gaiety as unseemly, for Jean's story sounded to her as seriousstatement of fact; which incapacity for humour probably accounted forJean's occasional lapses from domestic grace. If Jean had said that hehad met a periwinkle dancing a hornpipe with an oyster she would havemuttered heavily "Think of that!" The most she could say to any onewas: "I believe you, ma couzaine. " Some time in her life her voice haddropped into that great well she called her body, and it came up onlynow and then like an echo. There never was anything quite so fat as she. She was found weeping one day on the veille because she was no longerable to get her shoulders out of the window to use the clothes-linesstretching to her neighbour's over the way. If she sat down in yourpresence, it was impossible to do aught but speculate as to whether shecould get up alone. Yet she went abroad on the water a great deal withJean. At first the neighbours gave out sinister suspicions as to Jean'sintentions, for sea-going with your own wife was uncommon among thesailors of the coast. But at last these dark suggestions settled downinto a belief that Jean took her chiefly for ballast; and thereafter shewas familiarly called "Femme de Ballast. "

Talking was no virtue in her eyes. What was going on in her mind no oneever knew. She was more phlegmatic than an Indian; but the tails of thesheep on the Town Hill did not better show the quarter of the wind thanthe changing colour of Aimable's face indicated Jean's coming or going. For Mattresse Aimable had one eternal secret, an unwavering passion forJean Touzel. If he patted her on the back on a day when the fishing wasextra fine, her heart pumped so hard she had to sit down; if, passingher lonely bed of a morning, he shook her great toe to wake her, sheblushed, and turned her face to the wall in placid happiness. She was socredulous and matter-of-fact that if Jean had told her she must die onthe spot, she would have said "Think of that!" or "Je te crais, " anddied. If in the vague dusk of her brain the thought glimmered that shewas ballast for Jean on sea and anchor on land, she still was content. For twenty years the massive, straight-limbed Jean had stood to her forall things since the heavens and the earth were created. Once, when shehad burnt her hand in cooking supper for him, his arm made a trial ofher girth, and he kissed her. The kiss was nearer her ear than her lips, but to her mind it was the most solemn proof of her connubial happinessand of Jean's devotion. She was a Catholic, unlike Jean and most peopleof her class in Jersey, and ever since that night he kissed her she hadtold an extra bead on her rosary and said another prayer. 

These were the reasons why at first she was inclined to resent Guida'slaughter. But when she saw that Maitre Ranulph and the curate and Jeanhimself laughed, she settled down to a grave content until they landed. 

They had scarce reached the deserted chapel where their dinner was to becooked by Maitresse Aimable, when Ranulph called them to note a vesselbearing in their direction. 

"She's not a coasting craft, " said Jean. 

"She doesn't look like a merchant vessel, " said Ranulph, eyeing herthrough his telescope. "Why, she's a warship!" he added. 

Jean thought she was not, but Maitre Ranulph said "Pardi, I ought toknow, Jean. Ship-building is my trade, to say nothing of guns--I wasn'ttwo years in the artillery for nothing. See the low bowsprit and thehigh poop. She's bearing this way. She'll be Narcissus!" he said slowly. 

That was Philip d'Avranche's ship. 

Guida's face lighted, her heart beat faster. Ranulph turned on his heel. 

"Where are you going, Ro?" Guida said, taking a step after him. 

"On the other side, to my men and the wreck, " he said, pointing. 

Guida glanced once more towards the man-o'-war: and then, with mischiefin her eye, turned towards Jean. "Suppose, " she said to him archly, "suppose the ship should want to come in, of course you'd remember youronc' 'Lias, and say, 'A bi'tot, good-bye!"'

An evasive "Ah bah!" was the only reply Jean vouchsafed. 

Ranulph joined his men at the wreck, and the Reverend Lorenzo Dow wentabout the Lord's business in the little lean-to of sail-cloth and ship'slumber which had been set up near to the toil of the carpenters. Whenthe curate entered the but the sick man was in a doze. He turned hishead from side to side restlessly and mumbled to himself. The curate, sitting on the ground beside the man, took from his pocket a book, andbegan writing in a strange, cramped hand. This book was his journal. When a youth he had been a stutterer, and had taken refuge from talkin writing, and the habit stayed even as his affliction grew less. Theimportant events of the day or the week, the weather, the wind, thetides, were recorded, together with sundry meditations of the ReverendLorenzo Dow. The pages were not large, and brevity was Mr. Dow'sjournalistic virtue. Beyond the diligent keeping of this record, hehad no habits, certainly no precision, no remembrance, no system: thebusiness of his life ended there. He had quietly vacated two curaciesbecause there had been bitter complaints that the records of certainbaptisms, marriages, and burials might only be found in the chequeredjournal of his life, sandwiched between fantastic reflections andremarks upon the rubric. The records had been exact enough, but thesystem was not canonical, and it rested too largely upon the personalubiquity of the itinerary priest, and the safety of his journal--and ofhis life. 

Guida, after the instincts of her nature, had at once sought the highestpoint on the rocky islet, and there she drank in the joy of sight andsound and feeling. She could see--so perfect was the day--the linemarking the Minquiers far on the southern horizon, the dark and perfectgreen of the Jersey slopes, and the white flags of foam which beatagainst the Dirouilles and the far-off Paternosters, dissolving asthey flew, their place taken by others, succeeding and succeeding, asa soldier steps into a gap in the line of battle. Something in theserocks, something in the Paternosters--perhaps their distance, perhapstheir remoteness from all other rocks--fascinated her. As she lookedat them, she suddenly felt a chill, a premonition, a half-spiritual, half-material telegraphy of the inanimate to the animate: not fromoff cold stone to sentient life; but from that atmosphere about theinanimate thing, where the life of man has spent itself and beendissolved, leaving--who can tell what? Something which speaks but yethas no sound. 

The feeling which possessed Guida as she looked at the Paternosters wasalmost like blank fear. Yet physical fear she had never felt, not sincethat day when the battle raged in the Vier Marchi, and Philip d'Avranchehad saved her from the destroying scimitar of the Turk. Now that sceneall came back to her in a flash, as it were; and she saw again the darksnarling face of the Mussulman, the blue-and-white silk of his turban, the black and white of his waistcoat, the red of the long robe, and theglint of his uplifted sword. Then in contrast, the warmth, brightness, and bravery on the face of the lad in blue and gold who struck asidethe descending blade and caught her up in his arms; and she had nestledthere--in those arms of Philip d'Avranche. She remembered how he hadkissed her, and how she had kissed him--he a lad and she a littlechild--as he left her with her mother in the watchmaker's shop inthe Vier Marchi that day. .. . And she had never seen him again untilyesterday. 

She looked from the rocks to the approaching frigate. Was it theNarcissus coming--coming to this very island? She recalled Philip--howgallant he was yesterday, how cool, with what an air of command! Howlight he had made of the riot! Ranulph's strength and courage sheaccepted as a matter of course, and was glad that he was brave, generous, and good; but the glamour of distance and mystery werearound d'Avranche. Remembrance, like a comet, went circling through thefirmament of eleven years, from the Vier Marchi to the Place du VierPrison. 

She watched the ship slowly bearing with the land. The Jack was flyingfrom the mizzen. They were now taking in her topsails. She was so nearthat Guida could see the anchor a-cockbell, and the poop lanthorns. She could count the guns like long black horns shooting out from arhinoceros hide: she could discern the figurehead lion snarling into thespritsail. Presently the ship came up to the wind and lay to. Then shesignalled for a pilot, and Guida ran towards the ruined chapel, callingfor Jean Touzel. 

In spite of Jean's late protests as to piloting a "gentleman-of-war, "this was one of the joyful moments of his life. He could not loosen hisrowboat quick enough; he was away almost before you could have spokenhis name. Excited as Guida was, she could not resist calling after him:

"'God save our greshus King! A bi'tot--goodbye!'"

CHAPTER X

As Ranulph had surmised, the ship was the Narcissus, and its firstlieutenant was Philip d'Avranche. The night before, orders had reachedthe vessel from the Admiralty that soundings were to be taken at theEcrehos. The captain had at once made inquiries for a pilot, and JeanTouzel was commended to him. A messenger sent to Jean found that he hadalready gone to the Ecrehos. The captain had then set sail, and now, under Jean's skilful pilotage, the Narcissus twisted and crept throughthe teeth of the rocks at the entrance, and slowly into the cove, reefson either side gaping and girding at her, her keel all but scrapingthe serrated granite beneath. She anchored, and boats put off to takesoundings and explore the shores. Philip was rowed in by Jean Touzel. 

Stepping out upon the beach of Mattre 'Ile, Philip slowly made his wayover the shingle to the ruined chapel, in no good humour with himself orwith the world, for exploring these barren rocks seemed a useless whimof the Admiralty, and he could not conceive of any incident rising fromthe monotony of duty to lighten the darkness of this very brilliantday. His was not the nature to enjoy the stony detail of his profession. Excitement and adventure were as the breath of life to him, and sincehe had played his little part at the Jersey battle in a bandbox elevenyears before, he had touched hands with accidents of flood and field inmany countries. 

He had been wrecked on the island of Trinidad in a tornado, losing hiscaptain and his ship; had seen active service in America and in India;won distinction off the coast of Arabia in an engagement with Spanishcruisers; and was now waiting for his papers as commander of a shipof his own, and fretted because the road of fame and promotion was sotoilsome. Rumours of war with France had set his blood dancing a little, but for him most things were robbed of half their pleasure because theydid not come at once. 

This was a moody day with him, for he had looked to spend itdifferently. As he walked up the shingle his thoughts were hangingabout a cottage in the Place du Vier Prison. He had hoped to loiter ina doorway there, and to empty his sailor's heart in well-practisedadmiration before the altar of village beauty. The sight of Guida's facethe day before had given a poignant pulse to his emotions, unlike thebroken rhythm of past comedies of sentiment and melodramas of passion. According to all logic of custom, the acuteness of yesterday'simpression should have been followed up by today's attack; yet here hewas, like another Robinson Crusoe, "kicking up the shingle of a cursedPatmos"--so he grumbled aloud. Patmos was not so wild a shot after all, for no sooner had he spoken the word than, looking up, he saw in thedoorway of the ruined chapel the gracious figure of a girl: and a bookof revelations was opened and begun. 

At first he did not recognise Guida. There was only a picture before himwhich, by some fantastic transmission, merged into his reveries. What hesaw was an ancient building--just such a humble pile of stone and roughmortar as one might see on some lone cliff of the AEgean or on abandonedisles of the equatorial sea. The gloom of a windowless vault was behindthe girl, but the filtered sunshine of late September fell on her head. It brightened the white kerchief, and the bodice and skirt of a faintpink, throwing the face into a pleasing shadow where the hand curvedover the forehead. She stood like some Diana of a ruined temple lookingout into the staring day. 

At once his pulses beat faster, for to him a woman was ever the fountainof adventure, and an unmanageable heart sent him headlong to the oasiswhere he might loiter at the spring of feminine vanity, or truth, orimpenitent gaiety, as the case might be. In proportion as his spiritshad sunk into sour reflection, they now shot up rocket-high at the sightof a girl's joyous pose of body and the colour and form of the pictureshe made. In him the shrewdness of a strong intelligence was mingledwith wild impulse. In most, rashness would be the outcome of such amarriage of characteristics; but clear-sightedness, decision, and alittle unscrupulousness had carried into success many daring actions ofhis life. This very quality of resolute daring saved him from disaster. 

Impulse quickened his footsteps now. It quickened them to a run whenthe hand was dropped from the girl's forehead, and he saw again the facewhose image and influence had banished sleep from his eyes the nightbefore. 

"Guida!" broke from his lips. 

The man was transfigured. Brightness leaped into his look, and thegreyness of his moody eye became as blue as the sea. The professionalstraightness of his figure relaxed into the elastic grace of an athlete. He was a pipe to be played on: an actor with the ambitious brain of adiplomatist; as weak as water, and as strong as steel; soft-hearted tofoolishness or unyielding at will. 

Now, if the devil had sent a wise imp to have watch and ward of thisman and this maid, and report to him upon the meeting of their ways, the moment Philip took Guida's hand, and her eyes met his, monsieur thereporter of Hades might have clapped-to his book and gone back to hisdark master with the message and the record: "The hour of Destiny isstruck. "

When the tide of life beats high in two mortals, and they meet inthe moment of its apogee, when all the nature is sweeping on withoutcommand, guilelessly, yet thoughtlessly, the mere lilt of existencelulling to sleep wisdom and tried experience--speculation points all oneway. Many indeed have been caught away by such a conjunction of tides, and they mostly pay the price. 

But paying is part of the game of life: it is the joy of buying that wecrave. Go down into the dark markets of the town. See the long, narrow, sordid streets lined with the cheap commodities of the poor. Markhow there is a sort of spangled gaiety, a reckless swing, a grinningexultation in the grimy, sordid caravanserai. The cheap colours of theshoddy open-air clothing-house, the blank faded green of the coster'scart; the dark bluish-red of the butcher's stall--they all take on avalue not their own in the garish lights flaring down the markets ofthe dusk. Pause to the shrill music of the street musician, hear thetuneless voice of the grimy troubadour of the alley-ways; and then harkto the one note that commands them all--the call which lightens up facessodden with base vices, eyes bleared with long looking into the darkcaverns of crime:

"Buy--buy--buy--buy--buy!"

That is the tune the piper pipes. We would buy, and behold, we must pay. Then the lights go out, the voices stop, and only the dark tumultuousstreets surround us, and the grime of life is ours again. Whereupon wego heavily to hard beds of despair, having eaten the cake we bought, andnow must pay for unto Penalty, the dark inordinate creditor. And anonthe morning comes, and then, at last, the evening when the tristebazaars open again, and the strong of heart and nerve move not fromtheir doorways, but sit still in the dusk to watch the grim world goby. But mostly they hurry out to the bazaars once more, answering to thefevered call:

"Buy--buy--buy--buy--buy!"

And again they pay the price: and so on to the last foreclosure and theimmitigable end. 

One of the two standing in the door of the ruined chapel on the Ecrehoshad the nature of those who buy but once and pay the price but once; theother was of those who keep open accounts in the markets of life. Theone was the woman and the other was the man. 

There was nothing conventional in their greeting. "You remembered me!"he said eagerly, in English, thinking of yesterday. 

"I shouldn't deserve to be here if I had forgotten, " she answeredmeaningly. "Perhaps you forget the sword of the Turk?" she added. 

He laughed a little, his cheek flushed with pleasure. "I shouldn'tdeserve to be here if I remembered--in the way you mean, " he answered. 

Her face was full of pleasure. "The worst of it is, " she said, "I nevercan pay my debt. I have owed it for eleven years, and if I should liveto be ninety I should still owe it. "

His heart was beating hard and he became daring. "So, thou shalt savemy life, " he said, speaking in French. "We shall be quits then, thou andI. "

The familiar French thou startled her. To hide the instant's confusionshe turned her head away, using a hand to gather in her hair, which thewind was lifting lightly. 

"That wouldn't quite make us quits, " she rejoined; "your life isimportant, mine isn't. You"--she nodded towards the Narcissus--"youcommand men. "

"So dost thou, " he answered, persisting in the endearing pronoun. 

He meant it to be endearing. As he had sailed up and down the world, a hundred ports had offered him a hundred adventures, all light inthe scales of purpose, but not all bad. He had gossiped and idled andcoquetted with beauty before; but this was different, because the natureof the girl was different from all others he had met. It had mostly beenlightly come and lightly go with himself, as with the women it hadbeen easily won and easily loosed. Conscience had not smitten himhard, because beauty, as he had known it, though often fair and of goodreport, had bloomed for others before he came. But here was a naturefresh and unspoiled from the hand of the potter Life. 

As her head slightly turned from him again, he involuntarily noticed thepulse beating in her neck, the rise and fall of her bosom. Life--herewas life unpoisoned by one drop of ill thought or light experience. 

"Thou dost command men too, " he repeated. 

She stepped forward a little from the doorway and beyond him, answeringback at him:

"Oh, no, I only knit, and keep a garden, and command a little home, that's all. .. . Won't you let me show you the island?" she added quickly, pointing to a hillock beyond, and moving towards it. He followed, speaking over her shoulder:

"That's what you seem to do, " he answered, "not what you do. " Then headded rhetorically: "I've seen a man polishing the buckle of his shoe, and he was planning to take a city or manoeuvre a fleet. "

She noticed that he had dropped the thou, and, much as its use hadembarrassed her, the gap left when the boldness was withdrawn becamefilled with regret, for, though no one had dared to say it to herbefore, somehow it seemed not rude on Philip's lips. Philip? Yes, Philipshe had called him in her childhood, and the name had been carried oninto her girlhood--he had always been Philip to her. 

"No, girls don't think like that, and they don't do big things, " shereplied. "When I polish the pans"--she laughed--"and when I scour mybuckles, I just think of pans and buckles. " She tossed up her fingerslightly, with a perfect charm of archness. 

He was very close to her now. "But girls have dreams, they havememories. "

"If women hadn't memory, " she answered, "they wouldn't have much, wouldthey? We can't take cities and manoeuvre fleets. " She laughed a littleironically. "I wonder that we think at all or have anything to thinkabout, except the kitchen and the garden, and baking and scouring andspinning"--she paused slightly, her voice lowered a little--"andthe sea, and the work that men do round us. .. . Do you ever go into amarket?" she added suddenly. 

Somehow she could talk easily and naturally to him. There had been noleading up to confidence. She felt a sudden impulse to tell him allher thoughts. To know things, to understand, was a passion with her. Itseemed to obliterate in her all that was conventional, it removed herfar from sensitive egotism. Already she had begun "to take notice" inthe world, and that is like being born again. As it grows, life ceasesto be cliche; and when the taking notice is supreme we call it genius;and genius is simple and believing: it has no pride, it is naive, it ischildlike. 

Philip seemed to wear no mark of convention, and Guida spoke herthoughts freely to him. "To go into a market seems to me so wonderful, "she continued. "There are the cattle, the fruits, the vegetables, theflowers, the fish, the wood; the linen from the loom, the clothes thatwomen's fingers have knitted. But it isn't just those things that yousee, it's all that's behind them--the houses, the fields, and the boatsat sea, and the men and women working and working, and sleeping andeating, and breaking their hearts with misery, and wondering what is tobe the end of it all; yet praying a little, it may be, and dreaming alittle--perhaps a very little. " She sighed, and continued: "That's asfar as I get with thinking. What else can one do in this little island?Why, on the globe Maitre Damian has at St. Aubin's, Jersey is no biggerthan the head of a pin. And what should one think of here?"

Her eyes were on the sea. Its mystery was in them, the distance, the ebband flow, the light of wonder and of adventure too. "You--you've beeneverywhere, " she went on. "Do you remember you sent me once from Malta atiny silver cross? That was years ago, soon after the Battle of Jersey, when I was a little bit of a girl. Well, after I got big enough I usedto find Malta and other places on Maitre Damian's globe. I've livedalways there, on that spot"--she pointed towards Jersey--"on thatspot one could walk round in a day. What do I know! You've beeneverywhere--everywhere. When you look back you've got a thousandpictures in your mind. You've seen great cities, temples, palaces, greatarmies, fleets; you've done things: you've fought and you've commanded, though you're so young, and you've learned about men and about manycountries. Look at what you know, and then, if you only think, you'lllaugh at what I know. "

For a moment he was puzzled what to answer. The revelation of thegirl's nature had come so quickly upon him. He had looked for freshness, sweetness, intelligence, and warmth of temperament, but it seemed tohim that here were flashes of power. Yet she was only seventeen. She hadbeen taught to see things with her own eyes and not another's, and shespoke of them as she saw them; that was all. Yet never but to her motherhad Guida said so much to any human being as within these past fewmoments to Philip d'Avranche. 

The conditions were almost maliciously favourable, and d'Avranche wassimple and easy as a boy, with his sailor's bonhomie and his naturallyfacile spirit. A fateful adaptability was his greatest weapon in life, and his greatest danger. He saw that Guida herself was unconscious ofthe revelation she was making, and he showed no surprise, but he caughtthe note of her simplicity, and responded in kind. He flattered herdeftly--not that she was pressed unduly, he was too wise for that. Hetook her seriously; and this was not all dissimulation, for her everyword had glamour, and he now exalted her intellect unduly. He had nevermet girl or woman who talked just as she did; and straightway, with thewild eloquence of his nature, he thought he had discovered a new heavenand a new earth. A spell was upon him. He knew what he wanted when hesaw it. He had always made up his mind suddenly, always acted on theintelligent impulse of the moment. He felt things, he did not studythem--it was almost a woman's instinct. He came by a leap to the goalof purpose, not by the toilsome steps of reason. On the instant hisheadlong spirit declared his purpose: this was the one being for him inall the world: at this altar he would light a lamp of devotion, and keepit burning forever. 

"This is my day, " he said to himself. "I always knew that love wouldcome down on me like a storm. " Then, aloud, he said to her: "I wish Iknew what you know; but I can't, because my mind is different, my lifehas been different. When you go into the world and see a great deal, andloosen a little the strings of your principles, and watch how sins andvirtues contradict themselves, you see things after a while in a kind ofmist. But you, Guida, you see them clearly because your heart is clear. You never make a mistake, you are always right because your mind isright. "

She interrupted him, a little troubled and a good deal amazed: "Oh, youmustn't, mustn't speak like that. It's not so. How can one see and learnunless one sees and knows the world? Surely one can't think wisely ifone doesn't see widely?"

He changed his tactics instantly. The world--that was the thing? Well, then, she should see the world, through him, with him. 

"Yes, yes, you're right, " he answered. "You can't know things unless yousee widely. You must see the world. This island, what is it? I was bornhere, don't I know! It's a foothold in the world, but it's no more; it'snot afield to walk in, why, it's not even a garden. No, it's the littlepatch of green we play in in front of a house, behind the railings, before we go out into the world and learn how to live. "

They had now reached the highest point on the island, where a flagstaffstood. Guida was looking far beyond Jersey to the horizon line. Therewas little haze, the sky was inviolably blue. Far off against thehorizon lay the low black rocks of the Minquiers. They seemed to her, on the instant, like stepping-stones. Beyond would be otherstepping-stones, and others and others still again, and they would allmark the way and lead to what Philip called the world. The world! Shefelt a sudden little twist of regret at her heart. Here she was like acow grazing within the circle of its tether--like a lax caterpillar onits blade of grass. Yet it had all seemed so good to her in the past;broken only by little bursts of wonder and wish concerning that outsideworld. 

"Do we ever learn how to live?" she asked. "Don't we just go on from onething to another, picking our way, but never knowing quite what to do, because we don't know what's ahead? I believe we never do learn how tolive, " she added, half-smiling, yet a little pensive too; "but I am sovery ignorant, and--"

She stopped, for suddenly it flashed upon her: here she was baringher childish heart--he would think it childish, she was sure hewould--everything she thought, to a man she had never known till to-day. No, no, she was wrong; she had known him, but it was only as Philip, the boy who had saved her life. And the Philip of her memory was only apicture, not a being; something to think about, not something to speakwith, to whom she might show her heart. She flushed hotly and turned hershoulder on him. Her eyes followed a lizard creeping up the stones. Aslong as she lived she remembered that lizard, its colour changing in thesun. She remembered the hot stones, and how warm the flag-staff was whenshe stretched out her hand to it mechanically. But the swift, noiselesslizard running in and out of the stones, it was ever afterwards like acoat-of-arms upon the shield of her life. 

Philip came close to her. At first he spoke over her shoulder, then hefaced her. His words forced her eyes up to his, and he held them. 

"Yes, yes, we learn how to live, " he said. "It's only when we travelalone that we don't see before us. I will teach you how to live--wewill learn the way together! Guida! Guida!"--he reached out his handsto wards her--"don't start so! Listen to me. I feel for you what I havefelt for no other being in all my life. It came upon me yesterday whenI saw you in the window at the Vier Prison. I didn't understand it. Allnight I walked the deck thinking of you. To-day as soon as I saw yourface, as soon as I touched your hand, I knew what it was, and--"

He attempted to take her hand now. "Oh, no, no!" she exclaimed, and drewback as if terrified. 

"You need not fear me, " he burst out. "For now I know that I have buttwo things to live for: for my work"--he pointed to the Narcissus--"andfor you. You are frightened of me? Why, I want to have the right toprotect you, to drive away all fear from your life. You shall be thegarden and I shall be the wall; you the nest and I the rock; you thebreath of life and I the body that breathes it. Guida, my Guida, I loveyou!"

She drew back, leaning against the stones, her eyes riveted upon his, and she spoke scarcely above a whisper. 

"It is not true--it is not true. You've known me only for one day--onlyfor one hour. How can you say it!" There was a tumult in her breast; hereyes shone and glistened; wonder, embarrassed yet happy wonder, lookedat him from her face, which was touched with an appealing, as of theheart that dares not believe and yet must believe or suffer. 

"It is madness, " she added. "It is not true--how can it be true!"

Yet it all had the look of reality--the voice had the right ring, theface had truth, the bearing was gallant; the force and power of the manoverwhelmed her. 

She reached out her hand tremblingly as though to push him back. "Itcannot be true, " she said. "To think--in one day!"

"It is true, " he answered, "true as that I stand here. One day--it isnot one day. I knew you years ago. The seed was sown then, the flowersprings up to-day, that is all. You think I can't know that it is love Ifeel for you? It is admiration; it is faith; it is desire too; but it islove. When you see a flower in a garden, do you not know at once if youlike it or no? Don't you know the moment you look on a landscape, on asplendid building, whether it is beautiful to you? If, then, with thesethings one knows--these that haven't any speech, no life like yours ormine--how much more when it is a girl with a face like yours, when itis a mind noble like yours, when it is a touch that thrills, and a voicethat drowns the heart in music! Guida, believe that I speak the truth. I know, I swear, that you are the one passion, the one love of my life. All others would be as nothing, so long as you live, and I live to lookupon you, to be beside you. "

"Beside me!" she broke in, with an incredulous irony fain to becontradicted, "a girl in a village, poor, knowing nothing, seeing nofarther"--she looked out towards Jersey--"seeing no farther than thelittle cottage in the little country where I was born. "

"But you shall see more, " he said, "you shall see all, feel all, if youwill but listen to me. Don't deny me what is life and breathing andhope to me. I'll show you the world; I'll take you where you may see andknow. We will learn it all together. I shall succeed in life. I shallgo far. I've needed one thing to make me do my best for some one's sakebeside my own; you will make me do it for your sake. Your ancestorswere great people in France; and you know that mine, centuries ago, weregreat also--that the d'Avranches were a noble family in France. You andI will win our place as high as the best of them. In this war that'scoming between England and France is my chance. Nelson said to me theother day--you have heard of him, of young Captain Nelson, the manthey're pointing to in the fleet as the one man of them all?--he saidto me: 'We shall have our chance now, d'Avranche. ' And we shall. I havewanted it till to-day for my own selfish ambition--now I want it foryou. When I landed on this islet a half-hour ago, I hated it, I hated myship, I hated my duty, I hated everything, because I wanted to go whereyou were, to be with you. It was Destiny that brought us both to thisplace at one moment. You can't escape Destiny. It was to be that Ishould love you, Guida. "

He reached out to take her hands, but she put them behind her againstthe stones, and drew back. The lizard suddenly shot out from a hole andcrossed over her fingers. She started, shivered at the cold touch, andcaught the hand away. A sense of foreboding awaked in her, and her eyesfollowed the lizard's swift travel with a strange fascination. But shelifted them to Philip's, and the fear and premonition passed. 

"Oh, my brain is in a whirl!" she said. "I do not understand. I knowso little. No one has ever spoken to me as you have done. You wouldnot dare"--she leaned forward a little, looking into his face withthat unwavering gaze which was the best sign of her straight-forwardmind--"you would not dare to deceive--you would not dare. I have--nomother, " she added with simple pathos. 

The moisture came into his eyes. He must have been stone not to betouched by the appealing, by the tender inquisition, of that look. 

"Guida, " he said impetuously, "if I deceive you, may every fruit of lifeturn to dust and ashes in my mouth! If ever I deceive you, may I die ablack, dishonourable death, abandoned and alone! I should deserve thatif I deceived you, Guida. "

For the first time since he had spoken she smiled, yet her eyes filledwith tears too. 

"You will let me tell you that I love you, Guida--it is all I ask now:that you will listen to me?"

She sighed, but did not answer. She kept looking at him, looking asthough she would read his inmost soul. Her face was very young, thoughthe eyes were so wise in their simplicity. 

"You will give me my chance--you will listen to me, Guida, and try tounderstand--and be glad?" he asked, leaning closer to her and holdingout his hands. 

She drew herself up slightly as with an air of relief and resolve. Sheput a hand in his. 

"I will try to understand--and be glad, " she answered. 

"Won't you call me Philip?" he said. 

The same slight, mischievous smile crossed her lips now as eleven yearsago in the Rue d'Egypte, and recalling that moment, she replied:

"Yes, sir--Philip!"

At that instant the figure of a man appeared on the shingle beneath, looking up towards them. They did not see him. Guida's hand was still inPhilip's. 

The man looked at them for a moment, then started and turned away. Itwas Ranulph Delagarde. 

They heard his feet upon the shingle now. They turned and looked; andGuida withdrew her hand. 

CHAPTER XI

There are moments when a kind of curtain seems dropped over the brain, covering it, smothering it, while yet the body and its nerves aretingling with sensation. It is like the fire-curtain of a theatre letdown between the stage and the audience, a merciful intervention betweenthe mind and the disaster which would consume it. 

As the years had gone on Maitre Ranulph's nature had grown morepowerful, and his outdoor occupation had enlarged and steadied hisphysical forces. His trouble now was in proportion to the force ofhis character. The sight of Guida and Philip hand in hand, the tenderattitude, the light in their faces, was overwhelming and unaccountable. Yesterday these two were strangers--to-day it was plain to be seenthey were lovers, and lovers who had reached a point of confidence andrevelation. Nothing in the situation tallied with Ranulph's ideas ofGuida and his knowledge of life. He had, as one might say, been eye toeye with this girl for fifteen years: he had told his love for her ina thousand little ways, as the ant builds its heap to a pyramid thatbecomes a thousand times greater than itself. He had followed herfootsteps, he had fetched and carried, he had served afar off, he hadministered within the gates. He had, unknown to her, watched like thekeeper of the house over all who came and went, neither envious norover-zealous, neither intrusive nor neglectful; leaving here a wordand there an act to prove himself, above all, the friend whom she couldtrust, and, in all, the lover whom she might wake to know and reward. Hehad waited with patience, hoping stubbornly that she might come to puther hand in his one day. 

Long ago he would have left the island to widen his knowledge, earnexperience in his craft, or follow a career in the army--he had been anexpert gunner when he served in the artillery four years ago--and hammerout fame upon the anvils of fortune in England or in France; but he hadstayed here that he might be near her. His love had been simple, ithad been direct, and wise in its consistent reserve. He had beenself-obliterating. His love desired only to make her happy: most loversdesire that they themselves shall be made happy. Because of the crimehis father committed years ago--because of the shame of that hiddencrime--he had tried the more to make himself a good citizen, and hadformed the modest ambition of making one human being happy. Alwayskeeping this near him in past years, a supreme cheerfulness of heart hadwelled up out of his early sufferings and his innate honesty. Hope hadbeckoned him on from year to year, until it seemed at last that the timehad almost come when he might speak, might tell her all--his father'scrime and the manner of his father's death; of his own devoted purposein trying to expiate that crime by his own uprightness; and of his lovefor her. 

Now, all in a minute, his horizon was blackened. This adventurousgallant, this squire of dames, had done in a day what he had worked, step by step, to do through all these years. This skipping seafarer, with his powder and lace, his cocked hat and gold-handled sword, hadwhistled at the gates which he had guarded and by which he had prayed, and all in a minute every defence had been thrown down, and Guida--hisown Guida--had welcomed the invader with shameless eagerness. 

He crossed the islet slowly. It seemed to him--and for a moment it wasthe only thing of which he was conscious--that the heels of his bootsshrieked in the shingle, and with every step he was raising an immenseweight. He paused behind the chapel. After a little the smother liftedslowly from his brain. 

"I'll believe in her still, " he said aloud. "It's all his cursed tongue. As a boy he could make every other boy do what he wanted because histongue knows how to twist words. She's been used to honest people; he'stalked a new language to her--tricks caught in his travels. But sheshall know the truth. She shall find out what sort of a man he is. I'llmake her see under his pretty foolings. "

He turned, and leaned against the wall of the chapel. "Guida, Guida, " hesaid, speaking as if she were there before him, "you won't--you won'tgo to him, and spoil your life, and mine too. Guida, ma couzaine, you'llstay here, in the land of your birth. You'll make your home here--herewith me, ma chere couzaine. Ah, but then you shall be my wife in spiteof him, in spite of a thousand Philip d'Avranches!"

He drew himself up firmly, for a great resolve was made. His pathwas clear. It was a fair fight, he thought; the odds were not so muchagainst him after all, for his birth was as good as Philip d'Avranche's, his energy was greater, and he was as capable and as clever in his ownway. 

He walked quickly down the shingle towards the wreck on the other sideof the islet. As he passed the hut where the sick man lay, he heard aquerulous voice. It was not that of the Reverend Lorenzo Dow. 

Where had he heard that voice before? A shiver of fear ran through him. Every sense and emotion in him was arrested. His life seemed to reelbackward. Curtain after curtain of the past unfolded. 

He hurried to the door of the hut and looked in. 

A man with long white hair and straggling grey beard turned to him ahaggard face, on which were written suffering, outlawry, and evil. 

"Great God--my father!" Ranulph said. 

He drew back slowly like a man who gazes upon some horrible fascinatingthing, and then turned heavily towards the sea, his face set, his sensesparalysed. 

"My father not dead! My father--the traitor!" he groaned. 

CHAPTER XII

Philip d'Avranche sauntered slowly through the Vier Marchi, noddingright and left to people who greeted him. It was Saturday and market dayin Jersey. The square was crowded with people. All was a cheerfulbabel; there was movement, colour everywhere. Here were the high andthe humble, hardi vlon and hardi biaou--the ugly and the beautiful, the dwarfed and the tall, the dandy and the dowdy, the miser and thespendthrift; young ladies gay in silks, laces, and scarfs from Spain, and gentlemen with powdered wigs from Paris; sailors with red tunicsfrom the Mediterranean, and fishermen with blue and purple blouses fromBrazil; man-o'-war's-men with Greek petticoats, Turkish fezzes, andPortuguese espadras. Jersey housewives, in bedgones and white caps, withmolleton dresses rolled up to the knees, pushed their way through thecrowd, jars of black butter, or jugs of cinnamon brandy on their heads. From La Pyramide--the hospitable base of the statue of King GeorgeII--fishwives called the merits of their conger-eels and ormers; andthe clatter of a thousand sabots made the Vier Marchi sound like aship-builder's yard. 

In this square Philip had loitered and played as a child. Down there, leaning against a pillar of the Corn Market piazza was Elie Mattingley, the grizzly-haired seller of foreign silks and droll odds and ends, whohad given him a silver flageolet when he was a little lad. There werethe same swaggering manners, the big gold rings in his ears; therewas the same red sash about the waist, the loose unbuttoned shirt, thetruculent knifebelt; there were the same keen brown eyes looking youthrough and through, and the mouth with a middle tooth in both jawsgone. Elie Mattingley, pirate, smuggler, and sometime master of aprivateer, had had dealings with people high and low in the island, andthey had not always, nor often, been conducted in the open Vier Marchi. 

Fifteen years ago he used to have his little daughter Carterette alwaysbeside him when he sold his wares. Philip wondered what had become ofher. He glanced round. .. . Ah, there she was, not far from her father, over in front of the guard-house, selling, at a little counter witha canopy of yellow silk (brought by her father from that distant landcalled Piracy), mogues of hot soupe a la graisse, simnels, curds, coffee, and Jersey wonders, which last she made on the spot by dippingthe little rings of dough in a bashin of lard on a charcoal fire at herside. 

Carterette was short and spare, with soft yet snapping eyes as black asnight--or her hair; with a warm, dusky skin, a tongue which clatteredpleasantly, and very often wisely. She had a hand as small and plump asa baby's, and a pretty foot which, to the disgust of some mothers andmaidens of greater degree, was encased in a red French slipper, insteadof the wooden sabot stuffed with straw, while her ankles were nicelydressed in soft black stockings, in place of the woolen native hose, asbecame her station. 

Philip watched Carterette now for a moment, a dozen laughing memoriescoming back to him; for he had teased her and played with her when shewas a child, had even called her his little sweetheart. Looking at herhe wondered what her fate would be: To marry one of these fishermenor carters? No, she would look beyond that. Perhaps it would be one ofthose adventurers in bearskin cap and buckskin vest, home from Gaspe, where they had toiled in the great fisheries, some as common fishermen, some as mates and maybe one or two as masters. No, she would look beyondthat. Perhaps she would be carried off by one of those well-to-do, black-bearded young farmers in the red knitted queminzolle, bluebreeches, and black cocked hat, with his kegs of cider and bunches ofparsley. 

That was more likely, for among the people there was every prejudice inher favour. She was Jersey born, her father was reputed to have laid bya goodly sum of money--not all got in this Vier Marchi; and that he wasa smuggler and pirate roused a sentiment in their bosoms nearer to envythan aught else. Go away naked and come back clothed, empty and comeback filled, simple and come back with a wink of knowledge, pennilessand come back with the price of numerous vergees of land, and you mightanswer the island catechism without fear. Be lambs in Jersey, but harrythe rest of the world with a lion's tooth, was the eleventh commandmentin the Vier Marchi. 

Yes, thought Philip idly now, as he left the square, the girl wouldprobably marry a rich farmer, and when he came again he should find herstout of body, and maybe shrewish of face, crying up the virtues ofher black butter and her knitted stockings, having made the yellow silkcanopy above her there into a gorgeous quilt for the nuptial bed. 

Yet the young farmers who hovered near her now, buying a glass of cideror a mogue of soup, received but scant notice. She laughed with them, treated them lightly, and went about her business again with a toss ofthe head. Not once did she show a moment's real interest, not until afine upstanding fellow came round the corner from the Rue des Vignes, and passed her booth. 

She was dipping a doughnut into the boiling lard, but she paused with itsuspended. The little dark face took on a warm glow, the eyes glistened. 

"Maitre Ranulph!" called the girl softly. Then as the tall fellow turnedto her and lifted his cap she added briskly: "Where away so fast withface hard as hatchet?"

"Garcon Cart'rette!" he said abstractedly--he had always called herthat. 

He was about to move on. She frowned in vexation, yet she saw that hewas pale and heavy-eyed, and she beckoned him to come to her. 

"What's gone wrong, big wood-worm?" she said, eyeing him closely, andstriving anxiously to read his face. He looked at her sharply, but thesoftness in her black eyes somehow reassured him, and he said quitekindly:

"Nannin, 'tite garcon, nothing's matter. "

"I thought you'd be blithe as a sparrow with your father back from thegrave!" Then as Ranulph's face seemed to darken, she added: "He's notworse--he's not worse?"

"No, no, he's well enough now, " he said, forcing a smile. 

She was not satisfied, but she went on talking, intent to find the causeof his abstraction. "Only to think, " she said--"only to think that hewasn't killed at all at the Battle of Jersey, and was a prisoner inFrance, and comes back here--and we all thought him dead, didn't we?"

"I left him for dead that morning on the Grouville road, " he answered. Then, as if with a great effort, and after the manner of one who haslearned a part, he went on: "As the French ran away mad, paw of one ontail of other, they found him trying to drag himself along. They nabbedhim, and carried him aboard their boats to pilot them out from theRocque Platte, and over to France. Then because they hadn't gobbled usup here, what did the French Gover'ment do? They clapped a lot of 'em inirons and sent 'em away to South America, and my father with 'em. That'swhy we heard neither click nor clack of him all this time. He broke freea year ago. Then he fell sick. When he got well he set sail for Jersey, was wrecked off the Ecrehos, and everybody knows the rest. Diantre, he'shad a hard time!"

The girl had listened intently. She had heard all these things in flyingrumours, and she had believed the rumours; but now that Maitre Ranulphtold her--Ranulph, whose word she would have taken quicker than the oathof a Jurat--she doubted. With the doubt her face flushed as though sheherself had been caught in a lie, had done a mean thing. Somehow herheart was aching for him, she knew not why. 

All this time she had held the doughnut poised; she seemed to haveforgotten her work. Suddenly the wooden fork holding the cake was takenfrom her fingers by the daft Dormy Jamais who had crept near. 

"Des monz a fou, " said he, "to spoil good eating so! What saysfishing-man: When sails flap, owner may whistle for cargo. Tut, tut, goose Carterette!"

Carterette took no note, but said to Ranulph:

"Of course he had to pilot the Frenchmen back, or they'd have killedhim, and it'd done no good to refuse. He was the first man that foughtthe French on the day of the battle, wasn't he? I've always heard that. "Unconsciously she was building up a defence for Olivier Delagarde. Shewas, as it were, anticipating insinuation from other quarters. She wasplaying Ranulph's game, because she instinctively felt that behind thisstory there was gloom in his mind and mystery in the tale itself. Shenoticed too that he shrank from her words. She was not very quick ofintellect, so she had to feel her way fumblingly. She must have time tothink, but she said tentatively:

"I suppose it's no secret? I can tell any one at all what happened toyour father?" she asked. 

"Oh so--sure so!" he said rather eagerly. "Tell every one about it. Hedoesn't mind. "

Maitre Ranulph deceived but badly. Bold and convincing in all honestthings, he was, as yet, unconvincing in this grave deception. All theseyears he had kept silence, enduring what he thought a buried shame;but that shame had risen from the dead, a living agony. His father hadbetrayed the island to the French: if the truth were known to-day theywould hang him for a traitor on the Mont es Pendus. No mercy and scantshrift would be shown him. 

Whatever came, he must drink this bitter cup to the dregs. He couldnever betray his own father. He must consume with inward disgust whileOlivier Delagarde shamelessly babbled his monstrous lies to all whowould listen. And he must tell these lies too, conceal, deceive, andlive in hourly fear of discovery. He must sit opposite his father day byday at table, talk with him, care for him, shrinking inwardly at everyknock at the door lest it should be an officer come to carry the pitifultraitor off to prison. 

And, more than all, he must give up for ever the thought of Guida. Herewas the acid that ate home, the black hopelessness, the machine of fateclamping his heart. Never again could he rise in the morning with asong on his lips; never again his happy meditations go lilting with theclanging blows of the adze and the singing of the saws. 

All these things had vanished when he looked into a tent-door on theEcrehos. Now, in spite of himself, whenever he thought upon Guida'sface, this other fateful figure, this Medusan head of a traitor, shot inbetween. 

Since his return his father had not been strong enough to go abroad; butto-day he meant to walk to the Vier Marchi. At first Ranulph had decidedto go as usual to his ship-yard at St. Aubin's, but at last inanxious fear he too had come to the Vier Marchi. There was a horriblefascination in being where his father was, in listening to hisfalsehoods, in watching the turns and twists of his gross hypocrisies. 

But yet at times he was moved by a strange pity, for Olivier Delagardewas, in truth, far older than his years: a thin, shuffling, pallidinvalid, with a face of mingled sanctity and viciousness. If the oldman lied, and had not been in prison all these years, he must have hadmisery far worse, for neither vice nor poverty alone could so shatter ahuman being. The son's pity seemed to look down from a great height uponthe contemptible figure with the beautiful white hair and the abominablemouth. This compassion kept him from becoming hard, but it would alsopreserve him to hourly sacrifice--Prometheus chained to his rock. Inthe short fortnight that had gone since the day upon the Ecrehos, he hadchanged as much as do most people in ten years. Since then he had seenneither Philip nor Guida. 

To Carterette he seemed not the man she had known. With her woman'sinstinct she knew that he loved Guida, but she also knew that nothingwhich might have happened between them could have brought this look ofshame and shrinking into his face. As these thoughts flashed through hermind her heart grew warmer. Suppose Ranulph was in some trouble--well, now might be her great chance. She might show him that he could not livewithout her friendship, and then perhaps, by-and-bye, that he could notlive without her love. 

Ranulph was about to move on. She stopped him. "When you need me, MaitreRanulph, you know where to find me, " she said scarce above a whisper. Helooked at her sharply, almost fiercely, but again the tenderness of hereyes, the directness of her gaze, convinced him. She might be, asshe was, variable with other people; with himself she was invinciblystraightforward. 

"P'raps you don't trust me?" she added, for she read his changingexpression. 

"I'd trust you quick enough, " he said. 

"Then do it now--you're having some bad trouble, " she rejoined. 

He leaned over her stall and said to her steadily and with a littlemoroseness:

"See you, ma garche, if I was in trouble I'd bear it by myself. I'd askno one to help me. I'm a man, and I can stand alone. Don't go tellingfolks I look as if I was in trouble. I'm going to launch to-morrow thebiggest ship ever sent from a Jersey building yard--that doesn't looklike trouble, does it? Turn about is fair play, garcon Cart'rette: sowhen you're in trouble come to me. You're not a man, and it's a man'splace to help a woman, all the more when she's a fine and good littlestand-by like you. "

He forced a smile, turned upon his heel, and threaded his way throughthe square, keeping a look-out for his father. This he could do easily, for he was the tallest man in the Vier Marchi by at least three inches. 

Carterette, oblivious of all else, stood gazing after him. She wasonly recalled to herself by Dormy Jamais. He was diligently cooking herJersey wonders, now and then turning his eyes up at her--eyes which werelike spots of greyish, yellowish light in a face of putty and flour;without eyelashes, without eyebrows, a little like a fish's, somethinglike a monkey's. They were never still. They were set in the face likelittle round glow worms in a mould of clay. They burned on night andday--no man had ever seen Dormy Jamais asleep. 

Carterette did not resent his officiousness. He had a kind of kennel inher father's boat-house, and he was devoted to her. More than all else, Dormy Jamaas was clean. His clothes were mostly rags, but they werecomely, compact rags. When he washed them no one seemed to know, but nolanguid young gentleman lounging where the sun was warmest in the VierMarchi was better laundered. 

As Carterette turned round to him he was twirling a cake on the woodenfork, and trolling:

 "Caderoussel he has a coat, All lined with paper brown; And only when it freezes hard He wears it in the town. What do you think of Caderoussel? Ah, then, but list to me: Caderoussel is a bon e'fant--"

"Come, come, dirty-fingers, " she said. "Leave my work alone, and stopyour chatter. "

The daft one held up his fingers, but to do so had to thrust a cake intohis mouth. 

"They're as clean as a ha'pendy, " he said, mumbling through the cake. Then he emptied his mouth of it, and was about to place it with theothers. 

"Black beganne, " she cried; "how dare you! V'la--into your pocket withit!"

He did as he was bid, humming to himself again:

 "M'sieu' de la Palisse is dead, Dead of a maladie; Quart' of an hour before his death He could breathe like you and mel Ah bah, the poor M'sieu' De la Palisse is dead!"

"Shut up! Man doux d'la vie, you chatter like a monkey!"

"That poor Maitre Ranulph, " said Dormy, "once he was lively as a basketof mice; but now--"

"Well, now, achocre?" she said irritably, stamping her foot. 

"Now the cat's out of the bag--oui-gia!"

"You're as cunning as a Norman--you've got things in your noddee!" shecried with angry impatience. 

He nodded, grinning. "As thick as haws, " he answered. 

She heard behind her a laugh of foolish good-nature, which made herangry too, for it seemed to be making fun of her. She wheeled to see M. Savary dit Detricand leaning with both elbows on the little counter, hischin in his hand, grinning provokingly, "Oh, it's you!" she said snappishly; "I hope you're pleased. "

"Don't be cross, " he answered, his head swinging unsteadily. "I wasn'tlaughing at you, heaven-born Jersienne. I wasn't, 'pon honour! I waslaughing at a thing I saw five minutes ago. " He nodded in gurglingenjoyment now. "You mustn't mind me, seraphine, " he added, "I'd a hotnight, and I'm warm as a thrush now. But I saw a thing five minutesago!"--he rolled on the stall. "'Sh!" he added in a loud mock whisper, "here he comes now. Milles diables, but here's a tongue for you, andhere's a royal gentleman speaking truth like a travelling dentist!"

Carterette followed his gesture and saw coming out of the Route esCouochons, where the brave Peirson issued to his death eleven yearsbefore, Maitre Ranulph's father. 

He walked with the air of a man courting observation. He imaginedhimself a hero; he had told his lie so many times now that he almostbelieved it himself. 

He was soon surrounded. Disliked when he lived in Jersey before theinvasion years ago, that seemed forgotten now; for word had gone abroadthat he was a patriot raised from the dead, an honour to his country. Many pressed forward to shake hands with him. 

"Help of heaven, is that you, m'sieu'?" asked one. "You owed me fivechelins, but I wiped it out, O my good!" cried another generously. 

"Shaken, " cried a tall tarter holding out his hand. He had lived inEngland, and now easily made English verbs into French. 

One after another called on him to tell his story; some tried to hurryhim to La Pyramide, but others placed a cider-keg near, and almostlifted him on to it. 

"Go on, go on, tell us the story, " they cried. "To the devil with theFrenchies!"

"Here--here's a dish of Adam's ale, " cried an old woman, handing him abowl of water. 

They cheered him lustily. The pallor of his face changed to a warmth. Hehad the fatuousness of those who deceive with impunity. With confidencehe unreeled the dark line out to the end. When he had told hisstory, still hungry for applause, he repeated the account of how thetatterdemalion brigade of Frenchmen came down upon him out of the night, and how he should have killed Rullecour himself had it not been for anofficer who struck him down from behind. 

During the recital Ranulph had drawn near. He watched the enthusiasmwith which the crowd received every little detail of the egregioushistory. Everybody believed the old man, who was safe, no matterwhat happened to himself, Ranulph Delagarde, ex-artilleryman, ship-builder--and son of a criminal. At any rate the worst was over now, the first public statement of the lifelong lie. He drew a sigh of reliefand misery in one. At that instant he caught sight of the flushedface of Detricand, who broke into a laugh of tipsy mirth when OlivierDelagarde told how the French officer had stricken him down as he wasabout finishing off Rullecour. 

All at once the whole thing rushed upon Ranulph. What a fool he hadbeen! He had met this officer of Rullecour's these ten years past, andnever once had the Frenchman, by so much as a hint, suggested that heknew the truth about his father. Here and now the contemptuous mirthupon the Frenchman's face told the whole story. The danger and horror ofthe situation descended on him. Instantly he started towards Detricand. 

At that moment his father caught sight of Detricand also, saw the laugh, the sneer, and recognised him. Halting short in his speech he turnedpale and trembled, staring as at a ghost. He had never counted on this. His breath almost stopped as he saw Ranulph approach Detricand. 

Now the end was come. His fabric of lies would be torn down; he wouldbe tried and hanged on the Mont es Pendus, or even be torn to pieces bythis crowd. Yet he could not have moved a foot from where he was if hehad been given a million pounds. 

The sight of Ranulph's face revealed to Detricand the true meaning ofthis farce and how easily it might become a tragedy. He read the storyof the son's torture, of his sacrifice; and his decision was instantlymade: he would befriend him. Looking straight into his eyes, his ownsaid he had resolved to know nothing whatever about this criminal onthe cider-cask. The two men telegraphed to each other a perfectunderstanding, and then Detricand turned on his heel, and walked awayinto the crowd. 

The sudden change in the old man's appearance had not been lost on thespectators, but they set it down to weakness or a sudden sickness. Oneran for a glass of brandy, another for cider, and an old woman handed upto him a mogue of cinnamon drops. 

The old man tremblingly drank the brandy. When he looked again Detricandhad disappeared. A dark, sinister expression crossed his face, an evilthought pulled down the corners of his mouth as he stepped from thecask. His son went to him and taking his arm, said: "Come, you've doneenough for to-day. "

The old man made no reply, but submissively walked away into the Coin& Anes. Once however he turned and looked the way Detricand had gone, muttering. 

The peasants cheered him as he passed. Presently, free of the crowd andentering the Rue d'Egypte, he said to Ranulph:

"I'm going alone; I don't need you. "

"Where are you going?" asked Ranulph. 

"Home, " answered the old man gloomily. 

Ranulph stopped. "All right; better not come out again to-day. "

"You're not going to let that Frenchman hurt me?" suddenly askedDelagarde with morose anxiety. "You're going to stop that? They'd put mein prison. "

Ranulph stooped over his father, his eyes alive with anger, his faceblurred with disgust. 

"Go home, " said he, "and never mention this again while you live, orI'll take you to prison myself. " Ranulph watched his father disappeardown the Rue d'Egypte, then he retraced his steps to the Vier Marchi. With a new-formed determination he quickened his walk, ruling his faceto a sort of forced gaiety, lest any one should think his moodinessstrange. One person after another accosted him. He listened eagerly, tosee if anything were said which might show suspicion of his father. Butthe gossip was all in old Delagarde's favour. From group to group hewent, answering greetings cheerily and steeling himself to the wholedisgusting business. 

Presently he saw the Chevalier du Champsavoys with the Sieur de Mauprat. This was the first public appearance of the chevalier since the sadbusiness at the Vier Prison a fortnight before. The simple folk hadforgotten their insane treatment of him then, and they saluted himnow with a chirping: "Es-tu biaou, chevalier?" and "Es-tu gentiment, m'sieu'?" to which he responded with amiable forgiveness. To his ideathey were only naughty children, their minds reasoning no moreclearly than they saw the streets through the tiny little squares ofbottle-glass in the windows of their homes. 

All at once they came face to face with Detricand. The chevalier stoppedshort with pleased yet wistful surprise. His brow knitted when he sawthat his compatriot had been drinking again, and his eyes had a painedlook as he said eagerly:

"Have you heard from the Comte de Tournay, monsieur? I have not seen youthese days past. You said you would not disappoint me. "

Detricand drew from his pocket a letter and handed it over, saying:"This comes from the comte. "

The old gentleman took the letter, nervously opened it, and read itslowly, saying each sentence over twice as though to get the fullmeaning. 

"Ah, " he exclaimed, "he is going back to France to fight for the King!"

Then he looked at Detricand sadly, benevolently. "Mon cher, " said he, "if I could but persuade you to abjure the wine-cup and follow hisexample!"

Detricand drew himself up with a jerk. "You can persuade me, chevalier, "said he. "This is my last bout. I had sworn to have it with--with asoldier I knew, and I've kept my word. But it's the last, the very lastin my life, on the honour of--the Detricands. And I am going with theComte de Tournay to fight for the King. "

The little chevalier's lips trembled, and taking the young man by thecollar of his coat, he stood tiptoed, and kissed him on both cheeks. 

"Will you accept something from me?" asked M. De Mauprat, joining in hisfriend's enthusiasm. He took from his pocket a timepiece he had wornfor fifty years. "It is a little gift to my France, which I shall seeno more, " he added. "May no time be ill spent that it records for you, monsieur. "

Detricand laughed in his careless way, but the face, seamed withdissipation, took on a new and better look, as with a hand-grasp ofgratitude he put the timepiece in his pocket. 

"I'll do my best, " he said simply. "I'll be with de la Rochejaqueleinand the army of the Vendee to-morrow night. "

Then he shook hands with both little gentlemen and moved away towardsthe Rue des Tres Pigeons. Presently some one touched his arm. He lookedround. It was Ranulph. 

"I stood near, " said Ranulph; "I chanced to hear what you said to them. You've been a friend to me today--and these eleven years past. You knewabout my father, all the time. "

Before replying Detricand glanced round to see that no one waslistening. 

"Look you, monsieur, a man must keep some decencies in his life, or cuthis own throat. What a ruffian I'd be to do you or your father harm! I'msilent, of course. Let your mind rest about me. But there's the bakerCarcaud--"

"The baker?" asked Ranulph dumfounded. "I thought he was tied to a rockand left to drown, by Rullecour's orders. "

"I had him set free after Rullecour had gone on to the town. He got awayto France. "

Ranulph's anxiety deepened. "He might come back, and then if anythinghappened to him--"

"He'd try and make things happen to others, eh? But there's littledanger of his coming back. They know he's a traitor, and he knows he'dbe hung. If he's alive he'll stay where he is. Cheer up! Take my word, Olivier Delagarde has only himself to fear. " He put out his hand. "Good-bye. If ever I can do anything for you, if you ever want tofind me, come or send to--no, I'll write it, " he suddenly added, andscribbling something on a piece of paper he handed it over. 

They parted with another handshake, Detricand making his way into theRue d'Egypte, and towards the Place du Vier Prison. 

Ranulph stood looking dazedly at the crowd before him, misery, revolt, and bitterness in his heart. This French adventurer, Detricand, afteryears of riotous living, could pick up the threads of life again with alaugh and no shame, while he felt himself going down, down, down, withno hope of ever rising again. 

As he stood buried in his reflections the town crier entered the VierMarchi, and, going to La Pyramide, took his place upon the steps, and ina loud voice began reading a proclamation. 

It was to the effect that the great Fishing Company trading to Gaspeneeded twenty Jersiais to go out and replace a number of the company'sofficers and men who had been drowned in a gale off the rock calledPerch. To these twenty, if they went at once, good pay would begiven. But they must be men of intelligence and vigour, of well-knowncharacter. 

The critical moment in Maitre Ranulph's life came now. Here he waspenned up in a little island, chained to a criminal having the fame of amartyr. It was not to be borne. Why not leave it all behind? Why not lethis father shift for himself, abide his own fate? Why not leave him thehome, what money he had laid by, and go-go-go where he could forget, go where he could breathe. Surely self-preservation, that was the firstlaw; surely no known code of human practice called upon him to share thedaily crimes of any living soul--it was a daily repetition of his crimefor this traitor to carry on the atrocious lie of patriotism. 

He would go. It was his right. 

Taking a few steps towards the officer of the company standing by thecrier, he was about to speak. Some one touched him. 

He turned and saw Carterette. She had divined his intention, and thoughshe was in the dark as to the motive, she saw that he meant to go toGaspe. Her heart seemed to contract till the pain of it hurt her; then, as a new thought flashed into her mind, it was freed again and beganpounding hard against her breast. She must prevent him from leavingJersey, from leaving her. What she might feel personally would have noeffect upon him; she would appeal to him from a different stand-point. 

"You must not go, " she said. "You must not leave your father alone, Maitre Ranulph. "

For a minute he did not reply. Through his dark wretchedness one thoughtpierced its way: this girl was his good friend. 

"Then I'll take him with me, " he said. 

"He would die in the awful cold, " she answered. "Nannin-gia, you muststay. "

"Eh ben, I will think!" he said presently, with an air of heavyresignation, and, turning, walked away. Her eyes followed him. As shewent back to her booth she smiled: he had come one step her way. Hewould not go. 

CHAPTER XIII

When Detricand left the Vier Marchi he made his way along the Rued'Egypte to the house of M. De Mauprat. The front door was open, and anice savour of boiling fruit came from within. He knocked, and instantlyGuida appeared, her sleeves rolled back to her elbows, her fingersstained with the rich red of the blackberries on the fire. 

A curious shade of disappointment came into her face when she saw who itwas. It was clear to Detricand that she expected some one else; it wasalso clear that his coming gave no especial pleasure to her, though shelooked at him with interest. She had thought of him more than once sincethat day when the famous letter from France to the chevalier was read. She had instinctively compared him, this roystering, notorious fellow, with Philip d'Avranche, Philip the brave, the ambitious, the conquering. She was sure that Philip had never over-drunk himself in his life; andnow, looking into the face of Detricand, she could tell that he had beendrinking again. One thing was apparent, however: he was better dressedthan she ever remembered seeing him, better pulled together, and bearinghimself with an air of purpose. 

"I've fetched back your handkerchief--you tied up my head with it, youknow, " he said, taking it from his pocket. "I'm going away, and I wantedto thank you. "

"Will you not come in, monsieur?" she said. 

He readily entered the kitchen, still holding the handkerchief in hishand, but he did not give it to her. "Where will you sit?" she said, looking round. "I'm very busy. You mustn't mind my working, " she added, going to the brass bashin at the fire. "This preserve will spoil if Idon't watch it. "

He seated himself on the veille, and nodded his head. "I like this, " hesaid. "I'm fond of kitchens. I always was. When I was fifteen I was sentaway from home because I liked the stables and the kitchen too well. Also I fell in love with the cook. "

Guida flushed, frowned, her lips tightened, then presently a look ofamusement broke over her face, and she burst out laughing. 

"Why do you tell me these things?" she said. "Excuse me, monsieur, butwhy do you always tell unpleasant things about yourself? People thinkill of you, and otherwise they might think--better. "

"I don't want them to think better till I am better, " he answered. "Theonly way I can prevent myself becoming a sneak is by blabbing my faults. Now, I was drunk last night--very, very drunk. "

A look of disgust came into her face. 

"Why do you relate this sort of thing to me, monsieur? Do--do I remindyou of the cook at home, or of an oyster-girl in Jersey?"

She was flushing, but her voice was clear and vibrant, the look of theeyes direct and fearless. How dared he hold her handkerchief like that!

"I tell you them, " he answered slowly, looking at the handkerchief inhis hand, then raising his eyes to hers with whimsical gravity, "becauseI want you to ask me never to drink again. "

She looked at him scarce comprehending, yet feeling a deep complimentsomewhere, for this man was a gentleman by birth, and his manner wasrespectful, and had always been respectful to her. 

"Why do you want me to ask you that?" she said. "Because I'm going toFrance to join the war of the Vendee, and--"

"With the Comte de Tournay?" she interrupted. He nodded his head. "Andif I thought I was keeping a promise to--to you, I'd not break it. Willyou ask me to promise?" he persisted, watching her intently. 

"Why, of course, " she answered kindly, almost gently; the compliment wasso real, he could not be all bad. 

"Then say my name, and ask me, " he said. 

"Monsieur--"

"Leave out the monsieur, " he interrupted. 

"Yves Savary dit Detricand, will you promise me, Guida Landresse--"

"De Landresse, " he interposed courteously. 

"--Guida Landresse de Landresse, that you will never again drink wine toexcess, and that you will never do anything that"--she paused confused. "That you would not wish me to do, " he said in a low voice. 

"That I should not wish you to do, " she repeated in a half-embarrassedway. 

"On my honour I promise, " he said slowly. 

A strange feeling came over her. She had suddenly, in some indirect, allusive way, become interested in a man's life. Yet she had donenothing, and in truth she cared nothing. They stood looking at eachother, she slightly embarrassed, he hopeful and eager, when suddenly astep sounded without, a voice called "Guida!" and as Guida colouredand Detricand turned towards the door, Philip d'Avranche enteredimpetuously. 

He stopped short on seeing Detricand. They knew each other slightly, andthey bowed. Philip frowned. He saw that something had occurred betweenthe two. Detricand on his part realised the significance of thatfamiliar "Guida!" called from outside. He took up his cap. 

"It is greeting and good-bye, I am just off for France, " he said. 

Philip eyed him coldly, and not a little maliciously, for he knewDetricand's reputation well, the signs of a hard life were thick on him, and he did not like to think of Guida being alone with him. 

"France should offer a wide field for your talents just now, " heanswered drily; "they seem wasted here. " Detricand's eye flashed, buthe answered coolly: "It wasn't talent that brought me here, but a boy'sfolly; it's not talent that's kept me from starving here, I'm afraid, but the ingenuity of the desperate. "

"Why stay here? The world was wide, and France but a step away. Youwould not have needed talents there. You would no doubt have beenrewarded by the Court which sent you and Rullecour to ravage Jersey--"

"The proper order is Rullecour and me, monsieur. " Detricand seemedsuddenly to have got back a manner to which he had been long a stranger. His temper became imperturbable, and this was not lost on Philip; hismanner had a balanced serenity, while Philip himself had no such perfectcontrol; which made him the more impatient. Presently Detricand added ina composed and nonchalant tone:

"I've no doubt there were those at Court who'd have clothed me in purpleand fine linen, and given me wine and milk, but it was my whim to workin the galleys here, as it were. "

"Then I trust you've enjoyed your Botany Bay, " answered Philipmockingly. "You've been your own jailer, you could lay the strokes onheavy or light. " He moved to the veille, and sat down. Guida busiedherself at the fireplace, but listened intently. 

"I've certainly been my own enemy, whether the strokes were heavy orlight, " replied Detricand, lifting a shoulder ironically. 

"And a friend to Jersey at the same time, eh?" was the sneering reply. 

Detricand was in the humour to tell the truth even to this man whohated him. He was giving himself the luxury of auricular confession. But Philip did not see that when once such a man has stood in his ownpillory, sat in his own stocks, voluntarily paid the piper, he will takeno after insult. 

Detricand still would not be tempted out of his composure. "No, " heanswered, "I've been an enemy to Jersey too, both by act and example;but people here have been kind enough to forget the act, and the exampleI set is not unique. "

"You've never thought that you've outstayed your welcome, eh?"

"As to that, every country is free to whoever wills, if one cares topay the entrance fee and can endure the entertainment. One hasn't toapologise for living in a country. You probably get no better treatmentthan you deserve, and no worse. One thing balances another. "

The man's cool impeachment and defence of himself irritated Philip, themore so because Guida was present, and this gentlemanly vagrant had himat advantage. 

"You paid no entrance fee here; you stole in through a hole in the wall. You should have been hanged. "

"Monsieur d'Avranche!" said Guida reproachfully, turning round from thefire. 

Detricand's answer came biting and dry. "You are an officer of yourKing, as was I. You should know that hanging the invaders of Jerseywould have been butchery. We were soldiers of France; we had thedistinction of being prisoners of war, monsieur. "

This shot went home. Philip had been touched in that nerve calledmilitary honour. He got to his feet. "You are right, " he answeredwith reluctant frankness. "Our grudge is not individual, it is againstFrance, and we'll pay it soon with good interest, monsieur. "

"The individual grudge will not be lost sight of in the general, Ihope?" rejoined Detricand with cool suggestion, his clear, persistentgrey eye looking straight into Philip's. 

"I shall do you that honour, " said Philip with mistaken disdain. 

Detricand bowed low. "You will always find me in the suite of the Princeof Vaufontaine, monsieur, and ready to be so distinguished by you. "Turning to Guida, he added: "Mademoiselle will perhaps do me the honourto notice me again one day?" then, with a mocking nod to Philip, he leftthe house. 

Guida and Philip stood looking after him in silence for a minute. Suddenly Guida said to herself: "My handkerchief--why did he take myhandkerchief? He put it in his pocket again. "

Philip turned on her impatiently. 

"What was that adventurer saying to you, Guida? In the suite of thePrince of Vaufontaine, my faith! What did he come here for?"

Guida looked at him in surprise. She scarcely grasped the significanceof the question. Before she had time to consider, he pressed it again, and without hesitation she told him all that had happened--it was sovery little, of course--between Detricand and herself. She omittednothing save that Detricand had carried off the handkerchief, and shecould not have told, if she had been asked, why she did not speak of it. 

Philip raged inwardly. He saw the meaning of the whole situation fromDetricand's stand-point, but he was wise enough from his own stand-pointto keep it to himself; and so both of them reserved something, she fromno motive that she knew, he from an ulterior one. He was angry too:angry at Detricand, angry at Guida for her very innocence, and becauseshe had caught and held even the slight line of association Detricandhad thrown. 

In any case, Detricand was going to-morrow, and to-day-to-day shoulddecide all between Guida and himself. Used to bold moves, in this affairof love he was living up to his custom; and the encounter with Detricandhere added the last touch to his resolution, nerved him to follow hisstrong impulse to set all upon one hazard. A month ago he had told Guidathat he loved her; to-day there should be a still more daring venture. A thing not captured by a forlorn hope seemed not worth having. The girlhad seized his emotions from the first moment, and had held them. To himshe was the most original creature he had ever met, the most natural, the most humorous of temper, the most sincere. She had no duplicity, noguile, no arts. 

He said to himself that he knew his own mind always. He believed ininspirations, and he would back his knowledge, his inspiration, by anirretrievable move. Yesterday had come an important message from hiscommander. That had decided him. To-day Guida should hear a messagebeyond all others in importance. 

"Won't you come into the garden?" he said presently. 

"A moment--a moment, " she answered him lightly, for the frown had passedfrom his face, and he was his old buoyant self again. "I'm to make anend to this bashin of berries first, " she added. So saying, she wavedhim away with a little air of tyranny; and he perched himself boyishlyon the big chair in the corner, and with idle impatience began playingwith the flax on the spinning-wheel near by. Then he took to humminga ditty the Jersey housewife used to sing as she spun, while Guidadisposed of the sweet-smelling fruit. Suddenly she stopped and stampedher foot. 

"No, no, that's not right, stupid sailor-man, " she said, and she sang averse at him over the last details of her work:

 "Spin, spin, belle Mergaton! The moon wheels full, and the tide flows high, And your wedding-gown you must put it on Ere the night hath no moon in the sky-- Gigoton Mergaton, spin!"

She paused. He was entranced. He had never heard her sing, and the full, beautiful notes of her contralto voice thrilled him like organ music. His look devoured her, her song captured him. 

"Please go on, " he said, "I never heard it that way. " She wasembarrassed yet delighted by his praise, and she threw into the nextverse a deep weirdness:

 "Spin, spin, belle Mergaton! Your gown shall be stitched ere the old moon fade: The age of a moon shall your hands spin on, Or a wife in her shroud shall be laid-- Gigoton Mergaton, spin!"

"Yes, yes, that's it!" he exclaimed with gay ardour. "That's it. Singon. There are two more verses. "

"I'll only sing one, " she answered, with a little air of wilfulness. 

 "Spin, spin, belle Mergaton! The Little Good Folk the spell they have cast; By your work well done while the moon hath shone, Ye shall cleave unto joy at last-- Gigoton Mergaton, spin!"

As she sang the last verse she seemed in a dream, and her rich voice, rising with the spirit of the concluding lines, poured out the noteslike a bird drunk with the air of spring. 

"Guida, " he cried, springing to his feet, "when you sing like that itseems to me I live in a world that has nothing to do with the sordidbusiness of life, with my dull trade--with getting the weather-gauge orsailing in triple line. You're a planet all by yourself, Mistress Guida!Are you ready to come into the garden?"

"Yes, yes, in a minute, " she answered. "You go out to the bigapple-tree, and I'll come in a minute. " The apple-tree was in thefarthest corner of the large garden. Near it was the summer-house whereGuida and her mother used to sit and read, Guida on the three-leggedstool, her mother on the low, wide seat covered with ferns. This spotGuida used to "flourish" with flowers. The vines, too, crept through therough latticework, and all together made the place a bower, secluded andserene. The water of the little stream outside the hedge made music too. 

Philip placed himself on the bench beneath the appletree. What a changewas all this, he thought to himself, from the staring hot stones ofMalta, the squalor of Constantinople, the frigid cliffs of Spitzbergen, the noisome tropical forests of the Indies! This was Arcady. It waspeace, it was content. His life was sure to be varied and perhapsstormy--here would be the true change, the spirit of all this. Of coursehe would have two sides to his life like most men: that lived before theworld, and that of the home. He would have the fight for fame. He wouldhave to use, not duplicity, but diplomacy, to play a kind of game;but this other side to his life, the side of love and home, should besimple, direct--all genuine and strong and true. In this way he wouldhave a wonderful career. 

He heard Guida's footstep now, and standing up he parted the appleboughs for her entrance. She was dressed all in white, without a touchof colour save in the wild rose at her throat and the pretty red shoeswith the broad buckles which the Chevalier had given her. Her face, too, had colour--the soft, warm tint of the peach-blossom--and her auburnhair was like an aureole. 

Philip's eyes gleamed. He stretched out both his hands in greeting andtenderness. "Guida--sweetheart!" he said. 

She laughed up at him mischievously, and put her hands behind her back. 

"Ma fe, you are so very forward, " she said, seating herself on thebench. "And you must not call me Guida, and you've no right to call mesweetheart. "

"I know I've no right to call you anything, but to myself I always callyou Guida, and sweetheart too, and I've liked to think that you wouldcare to know my thoughts, " he answered. 

"Yes, I wish I knew your thoughts, " she responded, looking up at himintently; "I should like to know every thought in your mind. .. . Do youknow--you don't mind my saying just what I think?--I find myself feelingthat there's something in you that I never touch; I mean, that a friendought to touch, if it's a real friendship. You appear to be so frank, and I know you are frank and good and true, and yet I seem always tobe hunting for something in your mind, and it slips away from mealways--always. I suppose it's because we're two different beings, andno two beings can ever know each other in this world, not altogether. We're what the Chevalier calls 'separate entities. ' I seem to understandhis odd, wise talk better lately. He said the other day: 'Lonely wecome into the world, and lonely we go out of it. ' That's what I mean. Itmakes me shudder sometimes, that part of us which lives alone for ever. We go running on as happy as can be, like Biribi there in the garden, and all at once we stop short at a hedge, just as he does there--a hedgejust too tall to look over and with no foothold for climbing. That'swhat I want so much; I want to look over the Hedge. "

When she spoke like this to Philip, as she sometimes did, she seemedquite unconscious that he was a listener, it was rather as if hewere part of her and thinking the same thoughts. To Philip she seemedwonderful. He had never bothered his head in that way about abstractthings when he was her age, and he could not understand it in her. Whatwas more, he could not have thought as she did if he had tried. She hadthat sort of mind which accepts no stereotyped reflection or idea;she worked things out for herself. Her words were her own, and notanother's. She was not imitative, nor yet was she bizarre; she wasindividual, simple, inquiring. 

"That's the thing that hurts most in life, " she added presently; "thattrying to find and not being able to--voila, what a child I am to babbleso!" she broke off with a little laugh, which had, however, a plaintivenote. There was a touch of undeveloped pathos in her character, for shehad been left alone too young, been given responsibility too soon. 

He felt he must say something, and in a sympathetic tone he replied:

"Yes, Guida, but after a while we stop trying to follow and see andfind, and we walk in the old paths and take things as they are. "

"Have you stopped?" she said to him wistfully. "Oh, no, not altogether, "he replied, dropping his tones to tenderness, "for I've been tryingto peep over a hedge this afternoon, and I haven't done it yet. " "Haveyou?" she rejoined, then paused, for the look in his eyes embarrassedher. .. . "Why do you look at me like that?" she added tremulously. 

"Guida, " he said earnestly, leaning towards her, "a month ago I askedyou if you would listen to me when I told you of my love, and you saidyou would. Well, sometimes when we have met since, I have told you thesame story, and you've kept your promise and listened. Guida, I wantto go on telling you the same story for a long time--even till you or Idie. "

"Do you--ah, then, do you?" she asked simply. "Do you really wish that?"

"It is the greatest wish of my life, and always will be, " he added, taking her unresisting hands. 

"I like to hear you say it, " she answered simply, "and it cannot bewrong, can it? Is there any wrong in my listening to you? Yet why do Ifeel that it is not quite right?--sometimes I do feel that. "

"One thing will make all right, " he said eagerly; "one thing. I loveyou, Guida, love you devotedly. Do you--tell me if you love me? Do notfear to tell me, dearest, for then will come the thing that makes allright. "

"I do not know, " she responded, her heart beating fast, her eyesdrooping before him; "but when you go from me, I am not happy till I seeyou again. When you are gone, I want to be alone that I may remember allyou have said, and say it over to myself again. When I hear you speak Iwant to shut my eyes, I am so happy; and every word of mine seems clumsywhen you talk to me; and I feel of how little account I am beside you. Is that love, Philip--Philip, do you think that is love?"

They were standing now. The fruit that hung above Guida's head was notfairer and sweeter than she. Philip drew her to him, and her eyes liftedto his. 

"Is that love, Philip?" she repeated. "Tell me, for I do not know--ithas all come so soon. You are wiser; do not deceive me; you understand, and I do not. Philip, do not let me deceive myself. "

"As the Judgment of Life is before us, I believe you love me, Guida--though I don't deserve it, " he answered with tender seriousness. 

"And it is right that you should love me; that we should love eachother, Philip?"

"It will be right soon, " he said, "right for ever. Guida mine, I wantyou to marry me. "

His arm tightened round her waist, as though he half feared she wouldfly from him. He was right; she made a motion backward, but he held herfirmly, tenderly. "Marry--marry you, Philip!" she exclaimed in tremblingdismay. 

"Marry--yes, marry me, Guida. That will make all right; that will bindus together for ever. Have you never thought of that?"

"Oh, never, never!" she answered. It was true, she had never thoughtof that; there had not been time. Too much had come all at once. "Whyshould I? I cannot--cannot. Oh, it could not be--not at least for along, long time, not for years and years, Philip. "

"Guida, " he answered gravely and persistently, "I want you to marryme--to-morrow. "

She was overwhelmed. She could scarcely speak. "To-morrow--to-morrow, Philip? You are laughing at me. I could not--how could I marry youto-morrow?"

"Guida, dearest, "--he took her hands more tightly now--"you must indeed. The day after to-morrow my ship is going to Portsmouth for two months. Then we return again here, but I will not go now unless I go as yourhusband!"

"Oh, no, I could not--it is impossible, Philip! It is madness--it iswrong. My grandfather--"

"Your grandfather need not know, sweetheart. "

"How can you say such wicked things, Philip?"

"My dearest, it is not necessary for him to know. I don't want any oneto know until I come back from Portsmouth. Then I shall have a ship ofmy own--commander of the Araminta I shall be then. I have word from theAdmiralty to that effect. But I dare not let them know that I am marrieduntil I get commissioned to my ship. The Admiralty has set its faceagainst lieutenants marrying. "

"Then do not marry, Philip. You ought not, you see. "

Her pleading was like the beating of helpless wings against the bars ofa golden cage. 

"But I must marry you, Guida. A sailor's life is uncertain, and what Iwant I want now. When I come back from Portsmouth every one shall know, but if you love me--and I know you do--you must marry me to-morrow. Until I come back no one shall know about it except the clergyman, Mr. Dow of St. Michael's--I have seen him--and Shoreham, a brother officerof mine. Ah, you must, Guida, you must! Whatever is worth doing isbetter worth doing in the time one's own heart says. I want it more, athousand times more, than I ever wanted anything in my life. "

She looked at him in a troubled sort of way. Somehow she felt wiser thanhe at that moment, wiser and stronger, though she scarcely defined thefeeling to herself, though she knew that in the end her brain wouldyield to her heart in this. 

"Would it make you so much happier, Philip?" she said more kindly thanjoyfully, more in grave acquiescence than delighted belief. 

"Yes, on my honour--supremely happy. "

"You are afraid that otherwise, by some chance, you might lose me?" shesaid it tenderly, yet with a little pain. 

"Yes, yes, that is it, Guida dearest, " he replied. "I suppose women aredifferent altogether from men, " she answered. "I could have waited everso long, believing that you would come again, and that I should neverlose you. But men are different; I see, yes, I see that, Philip. "

"We are more impetuous. We know, we sailors, that now-to-day-is ourtime; that to-morrow may be Fate's, and Fate is a fickle jade: shebeckons you up with one hand to-day, and waves you down with the otherto-morrow. "

"Philip, " she said, scarcely above a whisper, and putting her hands onhis arms, as her head sank towards him, "I must be honest with you--Imust be that or nothing at all. I do not feel as you do about it; Ican't. I would much--much--rather everybody knew. And I feel it almostwrong that they do not. " She paused a minute, her brow clouded slightly, then cleared again, and she went on bravely: "Philip, if--if I should, you must promise me that you will leave me as soon as ever we aremarried, and that you will not try to see me until you come again fromPortsmouth. I am sure that is right, for the deception will not be sogreat. I should be better able then to tell the poor grandpethe. Willyou promise me, Philip-dear? It--it is so hard for me. Ah, can't youunderstand?"

This hopeless everlasting cry of a woman's soul!

He clasped her close. "Yes, Guida, my beloved, I understand, and Ipromise you--I do promise you. " Her head dropped on his breast, her armsran round his neck. He raised her face; her eyes were closed; they weredropping tears. He tenderly kissed the tears away. 

CHAPTER XIV

 "Oh, give to me my gui-l'annee, I pray you, Monseigneur; The king's princess doth ride to-day, And I ride forth with her. Oh! I will ride the maid beside Till we come to the sea, Till my good ship receive my bride, And she sail far with me. Oh, donnez-moi ma gui-l'annee, Monseigneur, je vous prie!"

The singer was perched on a huge broad stone, which, lying athwart othertall perpendicular stones, made a kind of hut, approached by a pathwayof upright narrow pillars, irregular and crude. Vast must have beenthe labour of man's hands to lift the massive table of rock uponthe supporting shafts--relics of an age when they were the onlyarchitecture, the only national monuments; when savage ancestors inlion skins, with stone weapons, led by white-robed Druid priests, camesolemnly here and left the mistletoe wreath upon these Houses of Deathfor their adored warriors. 

Even the words sung by Shoreham on the rock carried on the ancientstory, the sacred legend that he who wore in his breast this mistletoegot from the Druids' altar, bearing his bride forth by sea or land, should suffer no mischance; and for the bride herself, the morgen-gifnshould fail not, but should attest richly the perfect bliss of thenuptial hours. 

The light was almost gone from the day, though the last crimson petalshad scarce dropped from the rose of sunset. Upon the sea beneath therewas not a ripple; it was a lake of molten silver, shading into a leadensilence far away. The tide was high, and the ragged rocks of the Bancdes Violets in the south and the Corbiore in the west were all buthidden. 

Below the mound where the tuneful youth loitered was a path, leadingdown through the fields and into the highway. In this path walkedlingeringly a man and a maid. Despite the peaceful, almost dormant lifeabout them, the great event of their lives had just occurred, that whichis at once a vast adventure and a simple testament of nature: they hadbeen joined in marriage privately in the parish church of St. Michael'snear by. As Shoreham's voice came down the cotil, the two looked up, then passed on out of view. 

But still the voice followed them, and the man looked down at the maid, repeating the refrain of the song:

 "Oh, give to me my gui-l'annee, Monseigneur, je vous prie!"

The maid looked up at the man tenderly, almost devoutly. 

"I have no Druid's mistletoe from the Chapel of St. George, but I willgive you--stoop down, Philip, " she added softly, "I will give you thefirst kiss I have ever given to any man. "

He stooped. She kissed him on the forehead, then upon the lips. 

"Guida, my wife, " Philip said, and drew her to his breast. 

"My Philip, " she answered softly. "Won't you say, 'Philip, my husband'?"

She shyly did as he asked in a voice no louder than a bee's. She wasonly seventeen. 

Presently she looked up at him with a look a little abashed, a littleanxious, yet tender withal. 

"Philip, " she said, "I wonder what we will think of this day a yearfrom now--no, don't frown, Philip, " she added. "You look at things sodifferently from me. To-day is everything to you; to-morrow is very muchto me. It isn't that I am afraid, it is that thoughts of possibilitieswill come whether or no. If I couldn't tell you everything I feel Ishould be most unhappy. You see, I want to be able to do that, to tellyou everything. "

"Of course, of course, " he said, not quite comprehending her, for histhoughts were always more material. He was revelling in the beautyof the girl before him, in her perfect outward self, in her uniquepersonality. The more subtle, the deeper part of her, the searchingsoul never to be content with superficial reasons and the obvious cause, these he did not know--was he ever to know? It was the law of her naturethat she was never to deceive herself, to pretend anything, nor toforgive pretence. To see things, to look beyond the Hedge, that was tobe a passion with her; already it was nearly that. 

"Of course, " Philip continued, "you must tell me everything, and I'llunderstand. And as for what we'll think of this in another year, why, doesn't it hold to reason that we'll think it the best day of ourlives--as it is, Guida?" He smiled at her, and touched her shininghair. "Evil can't come out of good, can it? And this is good, as good asanything in the world can be. .. . There, look into my eyes that way--justthat way. "

"Are you happy--very, very happy, Philip?" she asked, lingering on thewords. 

"Perfectly happy, Guida, " he answered; and in truth he seemed so, hiseyes were so bright, his face so eloquent, his bearing so buoyant. 

"And you think we have done quite right, Philip?" she urged. 

"Of course, of course we have. We are honourably disposing of ourown fates. We love each other, we are married as surely as others aremarried. Where is the wrong? We have told no one, simply because fora couple of months it is best not to do so. The parson wouldn't havemarried us if there'd been anything wrong. "

"Oh, it isn't what the clergyman might think that I mean; it's what weourselves think down, down deep in our hearts. If you, Philip--if yousay it is all right, I will believe that it is right, for you wouldnever want your wife to have one single wrong thing like a dark spot onher life with you--would you? If it is all right to you, it must be allright for me, don't you see?"

He did see that, and it made him grave for an instant, it made him notquite so sure. 

"If your mother were alive, " he answered, "of course she should haveknown; but it isn't necessary for your grandfather to know. He talks; hecouldn't keep it to himself even for a month. But we have been regularlymarried, we have a witness--Shoreham over there, " he pointed towards theDruid's cromlech where the young man was perched--"and it only concernsus now--only you and me. "

"Yet if anything happened to you during the next two months, Philip, andyou did not come back!"

"My dearest, dearest Guida, " he answered, taking her hands in his, and laughing boyishly, "in that case you will announce the marriage. Shoreham and the clergyman are witnesses; besides, there's thecertificate which Mr. Dow will give you to-morrow; and, above all, there's the formal record on the parish register. There, sweetestinterrogation mark in the world, there is the law and the gospel! Come, come, let us be gay, let this be the happiest hour we've yet had in allour lives. "

"How can I be altogether gay, Philip, when we part now, and I shall notsee you for two whole long months?"

"Mayn't I come to you for just a minute to-morrow morning, before I go?"

"No, no, no, you must not, indeed you must not. Remember your promise, remember that you are not to see me again until you come back fromPortsmouth. Even this is not quite what we agreed, for you are stillwith me, and we've been married nearly half an hour!"

"Perhaps we were married a thousand years ago--I don't know, " heanswered, drawing her to him. "It's all a magnificent dream so far. "

"You must go, you must keep your word. Don't break the first promise youever made me, Philip. "

She did not say it very reproachfully, for his look was ardent andworshipful, and she could not be even a little austere in her new joy. 

"I am going, " he answered. "We will go back to the town, I by the road, you by the shore, so no one will see us, and--"

"Philip, " said Guida suddenly, "is it quite the same being marriedwithout banns?"

His laugh had again a youthful ring of delight. "Of course, just thesame, my doubting fay, " said he. "Don't be frightened about anything. Now promise me that--will you promise me?"

She looked at him a moment steadily, her eyes lingering on his face withgreat tenderness, and then she said:

"Yes, Philip, I will not trouble or question any longer. I will onlybelieve that everything is all right. Say good-bye to me, Philip. Iam happy now, but if--if you stay any longer--ah, please, please go, Philip!"

A moment afterwards Philip and Shoreham were entering the high road, waving their handkerchiefs to her as they went. 

She had gone back to the Druid's cromlech where Philip's friend had sat, and with smiling lips and swimming eyes she watched the young men untilthey were lost to view. 

Her eyes wandered over the sea. How immense it was, how mysterious, howit begot in one feelings both of love and of awe! At this moment she wasnot in sympathy with its wonderful calm. There had been times when sheseemed of it, part of it, absorbed by it, till it flowed over her souland wrapped her in a deep content. Now all was different. Mystery andthe million happenings of life lay hidden in that far silver haze. Onthe brink of such a sea her mind seemed to be hovering now. Nothing wasdefined, nothing was clear. She was too agitated to think; life, being, was one wide, vague sensation, partly delight, partly trepidation. Everything had a bright tremulousness. This mystery was no dark cloud, it was a shaking, glittering mist, and yet there rose from it an airwhich made her pulse beat hard, her breath come with joyous lightness. She was growing to a new consciousness; a new glass, through which tosee life, was quickly being adjusted to her inner sight. 

Many a time, with her mother, she had sat upon the shore at St. Aubin'sBay, and looked out where white sails fluttered like the wings ofrestless doves. Nearer, maybe just beneath her, there had risen the keensinging of the saw, and she could see the white flash of the adze as itshaped the beams; the skeleton of a noble ship being covered with itsflesh of wood, and veined with iron; the tall masts quivering to theirplaces as the workmen hauled at the pulleys, singing snatches of patoisrhymes. She had seen more than one ship launched, and a strange shiverof pleasure and of pain had gone through her; for as the water caughtthe graceful figure of the vessel, and the wind bellied out the sails, it seemed to her as if some ship of her own hopes were going out betweenthe reefs to the open sea. What would her ship bring back again to her?Or would anything ever come back?

The books of adventure, poetry, history, and mythology she had read withher mother had quickened her mind, sharpened her intuition, had made hertemperament still more sensitive--and her heart less peaceful. In herwas almost every note of human feeling: home and duty, song and gaiety, daring and neighbourly kindness, love of sky and sea and air andorchards, of the good-smelling earth and wholesome animal life, and allthe incidents, tragic, comic, or commonplace, of human existence. 

How wonderful love was, she thought! How wonderful that so many millionswho had loved had come and gone, and yet of all they felt they hadspoken no word that laid bare the exact feeling to her or to any other. The barbarians who raised these very stones she sat on, they had lovedand hated, and everything they had dared or suffered was recorded--butwhere? And who could know exactly what they felt?

She realised the almost keenest pain of life, that universal agony, thetrying to speak, to reveal; and the proof, the hourly proof even thewisest and most gifted have, that what they feel they can never quiteexpress, by sound, or by colour, or by the graven stone, or by thespoken word. .. . But life was good, ah yes! and all that might berevealed to her she would pray for; and Philip--her Philip--would helpher to the revelation. 

Her Philip! Her heart gave a great throb, for the knowledge that she wasa wife came home to her with a pleasant shock. Her name was no longerGuida Landresse de Landresse, but Guida d'Avranche. She had gone fromone tribe to another, she had been adopted, changed. A new life wasbegun. 

She rose, slowly made her way down to the sea, and proceeded along thesands and shore-paths to the town. Presently a large vessel, with newsails, beautiful white hull, and gracious form, came slowly round apoint. She shaded her eyes to look at it. 

"Why, it's the boat Maitre Ranulph was to launch to-day, " she said. Thenshe stopped suddenly. "Poor Ranulph--poor Ro!" she added gently. Sheknew that he cared for her--loved her. Where had he been these weekspast? She had not seen him once since that great day when they hadvisited the Ecrehos. 

CHAPTER XV

The house of Elie Mattingley the smuggler stood in the Rue d'Egypte, notfar east of the Vier Prison. It had belonged to a jurat of repute, whoparted with it to Mattingley not long before he died. There was no doubtas to the validity of the transfer, for the deed was duly registeredau greffe, and it said: "In consideration of one livre turnois, "etc. Possibly it was a libel against the departed jurat that he andMattingley had had dealings unrecognised by customs law, crystallisingat last into this legacy to the famous pirate-smuggler. 

Unlike any other in the street, this house had a high stone wall infront, enclosing a small square paved with flat stones. In one cornerwas an ivy-covered well, with an antique iron gate, and thebucket, hanging on a hook inside the fern-grown hood, was an oldwine-keg--appropriate emblem for a smuggler's house. In one corner, girdled by about five square feet of green earth, grew a pear tree, bearing large juicy pears, reserved for the use of a distinguishedlodger, the Chevalier du Champsavoys de Beaumanoir. 

In the summer the Chevalier always had his breakfast under this tree. Occasionally one other person breakfasted with him, even Savary ditDetricand, whom however he met less frequently than many people of thetown, though they lived in the same house. Detricand was but a fitfullodger, absent at times for a month or so, and running up bills for foodand wine, of which payment was never summarily demanded by Mattingley, for some day or other he always paid. When he did, he never questionedthe bill, and, what was most important, whether he was sober or "warm asa thrush, " he always treated Carterette with respect, though she was notunsparing with her tongue under slight temptation. 

Despite their differences and the girl's tempers, when the day came forDetricand to leave for France, Carterette was unhappy. Several thingshad come at once: his going, --on whom should she lavish her good adviceand biting candour now?--yesterday's business in the Vier Marchiwith Olivier Delagarde, and the bitter change in Ranulph. Sorrowfulreflections and as sorrowful curiosity devoured her. 

All day she tortured herself. The late afternoon came, and she couldbear it no longer--she would visit Guida. She was about to start, whenthe door in the garden wall opened and Olivier Delagarde entered. Ashe doffed his hat to her she thought she had never seen anything morebeautiful than the smooth forehead, white hair, and long beard of thereturned patriot. That was the first impression; but a closer scrutinydetected the furtive, watery eye, the unwholesome, drooping mouth, the vicious teeth, blackened and irregular. There was, too, somethingsinister in the yellow stockings, luridly contrasting with the blackknickerbockers and rusty blue coat. 

At first Carterette was inclined to run towards the prophet-likefigure--it was Ranulph's father; next she drew back with dislike--hissmile was leering malice under the guise of amiable mirth. But he wasold, and he looked feeble, so her mind instantly changed again, andshe offered him a seat on a bench beside the arched doorway with thesuperscription:

 "Nor Poverty nor Riches, but Daily Bread Under Mine Own Fig Tree. "

After the custom of the country, Carterette at once offered himrefreshment, and brought him brandy--good old brandy was always to begot at the house of Elie Mattingley! As he drank she noticed a peculiar, uncanny twitching of the fingers and eyelids. The old man's eyes werecontinually shifting from place to place. He asked Carterette manyquestions. He had known the house years before--did the deep streamstill run beneath it? Was the round hole still in the floor of the backroom, from which water used to be drawn in old days? Carterette repliedthat it was M. Detricand's bedroom now, and you could plainly hear thestream running beneath the house. Did not the noise of the waterworry poor M. Detricand then? And so it still went straight on to thesea--and, of course, much swifter after such a heavy rain as they hadhad the day before. 

Carterette took him into every room in the house save her own andthe Chevalier's. In the kitchen and in Detricand's bedroom OlivierDelagarde's eyes were very busy. He saw that the kitchen opened onthe garden, which had a gate in the rear wall. He also saw that thelozenge-paned windows swung like doors, and were not securely fastened;and he tried the trap-door in Detricand's bedroom to see the waterflowing beneath, just as it did when he was young--Yes, there it wasrunning swiftly away to the sea! Then he babbled all the way to the doorthat led into the street; for now he would stay no longer. 

When he had gone, Carterette sat wondering why it was that Ranulph'sfather should inspire her with such dislike. She knew that at thismoment no man in Jersey was so popular as Olivier Delagarde. The longershe thought the more puzzled she became. No sooner had she got onetheory than another forced her to move on. In the language of herpeople, she did not know on which foot to dance. 

As she sat and thought, Detricand entered, loaded with parcels andbundles. These were mostly gifts for her father and herself; and fordu Champsavoys there was a fine delft shaving-dish, shaped like aquartermoon to fit the neck. They were distributed, and by the timesupper was over, it was quite dark. Then Detricand said his farewells, for it was ten o'clock, and he must be away at three, when his boat wasto steal across to Brittany, and land him near to the outposts of theRoyalist army under de la Rochejaquelein. There were letters to writeand packing yet to do. He set to work gaily. 

At last everything was done, and he was stooping over a bag to fastenit. The candle was in the window. Suddenly a hand--a long, skinnyhand--reached softly out from behind a large press, and swallowed andcrushed out the flame. Detricand raised his head quickly, astonished. There was no wind blowing--the candle had not even flickered whenburning. But then, again, he had not heard a sound; perhaps that wasbecause his foot was scraping the floor at the moment the light wentout. He looked out of the window, but there was only starlight, and hecould not see distinctly. Turning round he went to the door of the outerhall-way, opened it, and stepped into the garden. As he did so, afigure slipped from behind the press in the bedroom, swiftly raised thetrap-door in the flooring, then, shadowed by the door leading into thehall-way, waited for him. 

Presently his footstep was heard. He entered the hall, stood in thedoorway of the bedroom for a moment, while he searched in his pocketsfor a light, then stepped inside. 

Suddenly his attention was arrested. There was the sound of flowingwater beneath his feet. This could always be heard in his room, but nowhow loud it was! Realising that the trap-door must be open, he listenedfor a second and was instantly conscious of some one in the room. Hemade a step towards the door, but it suddenly closed softly. He movedswiftly to the window, for the presence was near the door. 

What did it mean? Who was it? Was there one, or more? Was murderintended? The silence, the weirdness, stopped his tongue--besides, whatwas the good of crying out? Whatever was to happen would happen at once. He struck a light, and held it up. As he did so some one or somethingrushed at him. What a fool he had been--the light had revealed hisposition! But at the same moment came the instinct to throw himselfto one side; which he did as the rush came. In that one flash he hadseen--a man's white beard. 

Next instant there was a sharp sting in his right shoulder. The knifehad missed his breast--the sudden swerving had saved him. Even as itstruck, he threw himself on his assailant. Then came a struggle. Thelong fingers of the man with the white beard clove to the knife likea dead soldier's to the handle of a sword. Twice Detricand's handwas gashed slightly, and then he pinioned the wrist of his enemy, andtripped him up. The miscreant fell half across the opening in the floor. One foot, hanging down, almost touched the running water. 

Detricand had his foe at his mercy. There was the first inclination todrop him into the stream, but that was put away as quickly as it came. He gave the wretch a sudden twist, pulling him clear of the hole, andwrenched the knife from his fingers at the same moment. 

"Now, monsieur, " said he, feeling for a light, "now we'll have a look atyou. "

The figure lay quiet beneath him. The nervous strength was gone, thebody was limp, the breathing was laboured. The light flared. Detricandheld it down, and there was revealed the haggard, malicious face ofOlivier Delagarde. 

"So, monsieur the traitor, " said Detricand--"so you'd be a murderertoo--eh?"

The old man mumbled an oath. 

"Hand of the devil, " continued Detricand, "was there ever a greaterbeast than you! I held my tongue about you these eleven years past, I held it yesterday and saved your paltry life, and you'd repay me bystabbing me in the dark--in a fine old-fashioned way too, with yourtrap-doors, and blown-out candle, and Italian tricks--"

He held the candle down near the white beard as though he would singeit. 

"Come, sit up against the wall there and let me look at you. "

Cringing, the old man drew himself over to the wall. Detricand, seatinghimself in a chair, held the candle up before him. 

After a moment he said: "What I want to know is, how could a low-flyingcormorant like you beget a gull of the cliffs like Maitre Ranulph?"

The old man did not answer, but sat blinking with malignant yet fearfuleyes at Detricand, who continued: "What did you come back for? Whydidn't you stay dead? Ranulph had a name as clean as a piece of paperfrom the mill, and he can't write it now without turning sick, becauseit's the same name as yours. You're the choice blackamoor of creation, aren't you? Now what have you got to say?"

"Let me go, " whined the old man with the white beard. "Let me go, monsieur. Don't send me to prison. "

Detricand stirred him with his foot, as one might a pile of dirt. 

"Listen, " said he. "In the Vier Marchi they're cutting off the ear ofa man and nailing it to a post, because he ill-used a cow. What do yousuppose they'd do to you, if I took you down there and told them itwas through you Rullecour landed, and that you'd have seen them allmurdered--eh, maitre cormorant?"

The old man crawled towards Detricand on his knees. "Let me go, let mego, " he whined. "I was mad; I didn't know what I was doing; I've notbeen right in the head since I was in the Guiana prison. "

At that moment it struck Detricand that the old man must have hadsome awful experience in prison, for now his eyes had the most painfulterror, the most abject fear. He had never seen so craven a sight. 

"What were you in prison for in Guiana, and what did they do to youthere?" asked Detricand sternly. Again the old man shivered horribly, and tears streamed down his cheeks, as he whined piteously: "Oh no, no, no--for the mercy of Christ, no!" He threw up his hands as if to wardoff a blow. 

Detricand saw that this was not acting, that it was a supreme terror, anawful momentary aberration; for the traitor's eyes were wildly staring, the mouth was drawn in agony, the hands were now rigidly clutching animaginary something, the body stiffened where it crouched. 

Detricand understood now. The old man had been tied to a triangle andwhipped--how horribly who might know? His mood towards the miserablecreature changed: he spoke to him in a firm, quiet tone. 

"There, there, you're not going to be hurt. Be quiet now, and you shallnot be touched. "

Then he stooped over, and quickly undoing the old man's waistcoat, hepulled down the coat and shirt and looked at his back. As far as hecould see it was scarred as though by a red-hot iron, and the healedwelts were like whipcords on the shrivelled skin. The old man whimperedyet, but he was growing quieter. Detricand lifted him up, and buttoningthe shirt and straightening the coat again, he said:

"Now, you're to go home and sleep the sleep of the unjust, and you're tokeep the sixth commandment, and you're to tell no more lies. You've madea shameful mess of your son's life, and you're to die now as soon as youcan without attracting notice. You're to pray for an accident to takeyou out of the world: a wind to blow you over a cliff, a roof to fall onyou, a boat to go down with you, a hole in the ground to swallow you up, a fever or a plague to end you in a day. "

He opened the door to let him go; but suddenly catching his arms heldhim in a close grip. "Hark!" he said in a mysterious whisper. 

There was only the weird sound of the running water through the opentrap-door of the floor. He knew how superstitious was every Jerseyman, from highest to lowest, and he would work upon that weakness now. 

"You hear that water running to the sea?" he said solemnly. "You triedto kill and drown me to-night. You've heard how when one man has drownedanother an invisible stream follows the murderer wherever he goes, andhe hears it, hour after hour, month after month, year after year, untilsuddenly one day it comes on him in a huge flood, and he is found, whether in the road, or in his bed, or at the table, or in the field, drowned, and dead?"

The old man shivered violently. 

"You know Manon Moignard the witch? Well, if you don't do what Isay--and I shall find out, mind you--she shall bewitch the flood onyou. Be still . .. Listen! That's the sound you'll hear every day of yourlife, if you break the promise you've got to make to me now. "

He spoke the promise with ghostly deliberation, and the old man, allthe desperado gone out of him, repeated it in a husky voice. WhereuponDetricand led him into the garden, saw him safe out on the road andwatched him disappear. Then rubbing his fingers, as though to rid themof pollution, with an exclamation of disgust he went back to the house. 

By another evening--that is, at the hour when Guida arrived home afterher secret marriage with Philip d'Avranche--he saw the lights of thearmy of de la Rochejaquelein in the valley of the Vendee. 

CHAPTER XVI

The night and morning after Guida's marriage came and went. The day drewon to the hour fixed for the going of the Narcissus. Guida had workedall forenoon with a feverish unrest, not trusting herself, though thetemptation was sore, to go where she might see Philip's vessel lying inthe tide-way. She had resolved that only at the moment fixed for sailingwould she go to the shore; yet from her kitchen door she could see awide acreage of blue water and a perfect sky; and out there was NoirmontPoint, round which her husband's ship would go, and be lost to hervision thereafter. 

The day wore on. She got her grandfather's dinner, saw him bestowed inthe great arm-chair for his afternoon sleep, and, when her householdwork was done, settled herself at the spinning wheel. 

The old man loved to have her spin and sing as he drowsed. To-day hiseyes had followed her everywhere. He could not have told why it was, butsomehow all at once he seemed to deeply realise her--her beauty, the joyof this innocent living intelligence moving through his home. She hadalways been necessary to him, but he had taken her presence as a matterof course. She had always been to him the most wonderful child evergiven to comfort an old man's life, but now as he abstractedly tooka pinch of snuff from the silver box and then forgot to put it tohis nose, he seemed suddenly to get that clearness of sight, thatperspective, from which he could see her as she really was. He tookanother pinch of snuff, and again forgot to put it to his nose, butbrushed imaginary dust from his coat, as was his wont, and whispered tohimself:

"Why now, why now, I had not thought she was so much a woman. Flowersof the sea, but what eyes, what carriage, and what an air! I had notthought--h'm--blind old bat that I am--I had not thought she was grownsuch a lady. It was only yesterday, surely but yesterday, since I rockedher to sleep. Francois de Mauprat"--he shook his head at himself--"youare growing old. Let me see--why, yes, she was born the day I sold theblue enamelled timepiece to his Highness the Duc de Mauban. The Duc wasbut putting the watch to his ear when a message comes to say the childthere is born. 'Good, ' says the Duc de Mauban, when he hears, 'give methe honour, de Mauprat, ' says he, 'for the sake of old days inFrance, to offer a name to the brave innocent--for the sake of oldassociations, ' says de Mauban. 'You knew my wife, de Mauprat, ' says he;'you knew the Duchesse Guida-Guidabaldine. She's been gone these tenyears, alas! You were with me when we were married, de Mauprat, ' saysthe Duc; 'I should care to return the compliment if you will allow me tooffer a name, eh?' 'Duc, ' said I, 'there is no honour I more desire formy grandchild. ' 'Then let the name of Guidabaldine be somewhere amongothers she will carry, and--and I'll not forget her, de Mauprat, I'llnot forget her. '. .. Eh, eh, I wonder--I wonder if he has forgotten thelittle Guidabaldine there? He sent her a golden cup for the christening, but I wonder--I wonder--if he has forgotten her since? So quick oftongue, so bright of eye, so light of foot, so sweet a face--if onecould but be always young! When her grandmother, my wife, my Julie, whenshe was young--ah, she was fair, fairer than Guida, but not so tall--notquite so tall. Ah!. .. "

He was slipping away into sleep when he realised that Guida was singing

 "Spin, spin, belle Mergaton! The moon wheels full, and the tide flows high, And your wedding-gown you must put it on Ere the night hath no moon in the sky-- Gigoton Mergaton, spin!"

"I had never thought she was so much a woman, " he said drowsily; "I--Iwonder why--I never noticed it. "

He roused himself again, brushed imaginary snuff from his coat, keepingtime with his foot to the wheel as it went round. "I--I suppose she willwed soon. .. . I had forgotten. But she must marry well, she must marrywell--she is the godchild of the Duc de Mauban. How the wheel goesround! I used to hear--her mother--sing that song, 'Gigoton, Mergatonspin-spin-spin. '" He was asleep. 

Guida put by the wheel, and left the house. Passing through the Rue desSablons, she came to the shore. It was high tide. This was the time thatPhilip's ship was to go. She had dressed herself with as much care asto what might please his eye as though she were going to meet him inperson. Not without reason, for, though she could not see him from theland, she knew he could see her plainly through his telescope, if hechose. 

She reached the shore. The time had come for him to go, but there washis ship at anchor in the tide-way still. Perhaps the Narcissus wasnot going; perhaps, after all, Philip was to remain! She laughed withpleasure at the thought of that. Her eyes wandered lovingly over theship which was her husband's home upon the sea. Just such another vesselPhilip would command. At a word from him those guns, like long, black, threatening arms thrust out, would strike for England with thunder andfire. 

A bugle call came across the still water, clear, vibrant, andcompelling. It represented power. Power--that was what Philip, withhis ship, would stand for in the name of England. Danger--oh yes, therewould be danger, but Heaven would be good to her; Philip should go safethrough storm and war, and some day great honours would be done him. Heshould be an admiral, and more perhaps; he had said so. He was goingto do it as much for her as for himself, and when he had done it, to beproud of it more for her than for himself; he had said so: she believedin him utterly. Since that day upon the Ecrehos it had never occurredto her not to believe him. Where she gave her faith she gave it wholly;where she withdrew it--

The bugle call sounded again. Perhaps that was the signal to set sail. No, a boat was putting out from the Narcissus. It was coming landward. As she watched its approach she heard a chorus of boisterous voicesbehind her. She turned and saw nearing the shore from the Rue d'Egypte ahalf-dozen sailors, singing cheerily:

 "Get you on, get you on, get you on, Get you on to your fo'c'stle'ome; Leave your lassies, leave your beer, For the bugle what you 'ear Pipes you on to your fo'c'stle 'ome-- 'Ome--'ome--'ome, Pipes you on to your fo'c'stle 'ome. "

Guida drew near. 

"The Narcissus is not leaving to-day?" she asked of the foremost sailor. 

The man touched his cap. "Not to-day, lady. "

"When does she leave?"

"Well, that's more nor I can say, lady, but the cap'n of the main-top, yander, 'e knows. "

She approached the captain of the main-top. "When does the Narcissusleave?" she asked. 

He looked her up and down, at first glance with something like boldness, but instantly he touched his hat. 

"To-morrow, mistress--she leaves at 'igh tide tomorrow. "

With an eye for a fee or a bribe, he drew a little away from the others, and said to her in a low tone: "Is there anything what I could do foryou, mistress? P'r'aps you wanted some word carried aboard, lady?"

She hesitated an instant, then said: "No-no, thank you. "

He still waited, however, rubbing his hand on his hip with mockbashfulness. There was an instant's pause, then she divined his meaning. 

She took from her pocket a shilling. She had never given away so muchmoney in her life before, but she seemed to feel instinctively that nowshe must give freely--now that she was the wife of an officer of thenavy. Strange how these sailors to-day seemed so different to her fromever before--she felt as if they all belonged to her. She offered theshilling to the captain of the main-top. His eyes gloated, but he saidwith an affected surprise:

"No, I couldn't think of it, yer leddyship. "

"Ah, but you will take it!" she said. "I--I have a r-relative"--shehesitated at the word--"in the navy. "

"'Ave you now, yer leddyship?" he said. "Well, then, I'm proud to 'avethe shilling to drink 'is 'ealth, yer leddyship. "

He touched his hat, and was about to turn away. "Stay a little, " shesaid with bashful boldness. The joy of giving was rapidly growing toa vice. "Here's something for them, " she added, nodding towards hisfellows, and a second shilling came from her pocket. "Just as you say, yer leddyship, " he said with owlish gravity; "but for my part I thinkthey've 'ad enough. I don't 'old with temptin' the weak passions ofman. "

A moment afterwards the sailors were in the boat, rowing towards theNarcissus. Their song came back across the water:

 ". .. O you A. B. Sailor-man, Wet your whistle while you can, For the piping of the bugle calls you 'ome! 'Ome--'ome--'ome, Calls you on to your fo'c'stle 'ome!"

The evening came down, and Guida sat in the kitchen doorway lookingout over the sea, and wondering why Philip had sent her no message. Ofcourse he would not come himself, he must not: he had promised her. Buthow much she would have liked to see him for just one minute, to feelhis arms about her, to hear him say good-bye once more. Yet she lovedhim the better for not coming. 

By and by she became very restless. She would have been almost happierif he had gone that day: he was within call of her, still they were notto see each other. 

She walked up and down the garden, Biribi the dog by her side. Sittingdown on the bench beneath the appletree, she recalled every word thatPhilip had said to her two days before. Every tone of his voice, everylook he had given her, she went over in her thoughts. There is noreporting in the world so exact, so perfect, as that in a woman's mind, of the words, looks, and acts of her lover in the first days of mutualconfession and understanding. 

It can come but once, this dream, fantasy, illusion--call it what youwill: it belongs to the birth hour of a new and powerful feeling; it isthe first sunrise of the heart. What comes after may be the calmer joyof a more truthful, a less ideal emotion, but the transitory glory ofthe love and passion of youth shoots higher than all other gloriesinto the sky of time. The splendour of youth is its madness, and thesplendour of that madness is its unconquerable belief. And great is thestrength of it, because violence alone can destroy it. It does not yieldto time nor to decay, to the long wash of experience that wears away thestone, nor to disintegration. It is always broken into pieces at a blow. In the morning all is well, and ere the evening come the radiant templeis in ruins. 

At night when Guida went to bed she could not sleep at first. Then camea drowsing, a floating between waking and sleeping, in which a hundredswift images of her short past flashed through her mind:

A butterfly darting in the white haze of a dusty road, and the cap ofthe careless lad that struck it down. .. . Berry-picking along the hedgesbeyond the quarries of Mont Mado, and washing her hands in the strangegreen pools at the bottom of the quarries. .. . Stooping to a stream andsaying of it to a lad: "Ro, won't it never come back?". .. From the frontdoorway watching a poor criminal shrink beneath the lash with which hewas being flogged from the Vier Marchi to the Vier Prison. .. Seeinga procession of bride and bridegroom with young men and women gay inribbons and pretty cottons, calling from house to house to receive thegood wishes of their friends, and drinking cinnamon wine and mulledcider--the frolic, the gaiety of it all. Now, in a room full of people, she was standing on a veille flourished with posies of broom andwildflowers, and Philip was there beside her, and he was holding herhand, and they were waiting and waiting for some one who never came. Nobody took any notice of her and Philip, she thought; they stood therewaiting and waiting--why, there was M. Savary dit Detricand in thedoorway, waving a handkerchief at her, and saying: "I've found it--I'vefound it!"--and she awoke with a start. 

Her heart was beating hard, and for a moment she was dazed; butpresently she went to sleep again, and dreamed once more. 

This time she was on a great warship, in a storm which was drivingtowards a rocky shore. The sea was washing over the deck. She recognisedthe shore: it was the cliff at Plemont in the north of Jersey, andbehind the ship lay the awful Paternosters. They were drifting, driftingon the wall of rock. High above on the land there was a solitary stonehut. The ship came nearer and nearer. The storm increased in strength. In the midst of the violence she looked up and saw a man standing inthe doorway of the hut. He turned his face towards her: it was RanulphDelagarde, and he had a rope in his hand. He saw her and called to her, making ready to throw the rope, but suddenly some one drew her back. Shecried aloud, and then all grew black. .. . 

And then, again, she knew she was in a small, dark cabin of the ship. She could hear the storm breaking over the deck. Now the ship struck. She could feel her grinding upon the rocks. She seemed to be sinking, sinking--There was a knocking, knocking at the door of the cabin, and avoice calling to her--how far away it seemed!. .. Was she dying, wasshe drowning? The words of a nursery rhyme rang in her ears distinctly, keeping time to the knocking. She wondered who should be singing anursery rhyme on a sinking ship:

 "La main morte, La main morte, Tapp' a la porte, Tapp' a la porte. "

She shuddered. Why should the dead hand tap at her door? Yet there itwas tapping louder, louder. .. . She struggled, she tried to cry out, thensuddenly she grew quiet, and the tapping got fainter and fainter--hereyes opened: she was awake. 

For an instant she did not know where she was. Was it a dream still? Forthere was a tapping, tapping at her door--no, it was at the window. A shiver ran through her from head to foot. Her heart almost stoppedbeating. Some one was calling to her. 

"Guida! Guida!"

It was Philip's voice. Her cheek had been cold the moment before; nowshe felt the blood tingling in her face. She slid to the floor, threw ashawl round her, and went to the casement. 

The tapping began again. For a moment she could not open the window. Shewas trembling from head to foot. Philip's voice reassured her a little. 

"Guida, Guida, open the window a moment. "

She hesitated. She could not--no--she could not do it. He tapped stilllouder. 

"Guida, don't you hear me?" he asked. 

She undid the catch, but she had hardly the courage even yet. He heardher now, and pressed the window a little. Then she opened it slowly, andher white face showed. 

"O Philip, " she said breathlessly, "why have you frightened me so?"

He caught her hand in his own. "Come out into the garden, sweetheart, "he said, and he kissed the hand. "Put on a dress and your slippers andcome, " he urged again. 

"Philip, " she said, "O Philip, I cannot! It is too late. It is midnight. Do not ask me. Why, why did you come?"

"Because I wanted to speak with you for one minute. I have only a littlewhile. Please come outside and say good-bye to me again. We are sailingto-morrow--there's no doubt about it this time. "

"O Philip, " she answered, her voice quivering, "how can I? Say good-byeto me here, now. "

"No, no, Guida, you must come. I can't kiss you good-bye where you are. "

"Must I come to you?" she said helplessly. "Well, then, Philip, " sheadded, "go to the bench by the apple-tree, and I shall be there in amoment. "

"Beloved!" he exclaimed ardently. She shut the window slowly. 

For a moment he looked about him; then went lightly through thegarden, and sat down on the bench under the apple-tree, near to thesummer-house. At last he heard her footstep. He rose quickly to meether, and as she came timidly to him, clasped her in his arms. 

"Philip, " she said, "this isn't right. You ought not to have come; youhave broken your promise. "

"Are you not glad to see me?"

"Oh, you know, you know that I'm glad to see you, but you shouldn't havecome--hark! what's that?" They both held their breath, for there was asound outside the garden wall. Clac-clac! clac-clac!--a strange, uncannyfootstep. It seemed to be hurrying away--clac-clac! clac-clac!

"Ah, I know, " whispered Guida: "it is Dormy Jamais. How foolish of me tobe afraid!"

"Of course, of course, " said Philip--"Dormy Jamais, the man who neversleeps. "

"Philip--if he saw us!"

"Foolish child, the garden wall is too high for that. Besides--"

"Yes, Philip?"

"Besides, you are my wife, Guida!"

"No, no, Philip, no; not really so until all the world is told. "

"My beloved Guida, what difference can that make?" She sighed and shookher head. "To me, Philip, it is only that which makes it right--that thewhole world knows. Philip, I am so afraid of--of secrecy, and cheating. "

"Nonsense-nonsense!" he answered. "Poor little wood-bird, you'refrightened at nothing at all. Come and sit by me. " He drew her close tohim. 

Her trembling presently grew less. Hundreds of glow-worms wereshimmering in the hedge. The grass-hoppers were whirring in the miellesbeyond; a flutter of wings went by overhead. The leaves were rustlinggently; a fresh wind was coming up from the sea upon the soft, fragrantdusk. 

They talked a little while in whispers, her hands in his, his voicesoothing her, his low, hurried words giving her no time to think. Butpresently she shivered again, though her heart was throbbing hotly. 

"Come into the summer-house, Guida; you are cold, you are shivering. " Herose, with his arm round her waist, raising her gently at the same time. 

"Oh no, Philip dear, " she said, "I'm not really cold--I don't know whatit is--"

"But indeed you are cold, " he answered. "There's a stiff south-easterrising, and your hands are like ice. Come into the arbour for a minute. It's warm there, and then--then we'll say good-bye, sweetheart. "

His arm round her, he drew her with him to the summer-house, talking toher tenderly all the time. There was reassurance, comfort, loving carein his very tones. 

How brightly the stars shone, how clearly the music of the streamcame over the hedge! With what lazy restfulness the distant All's wellfloated across the mielles from a ship at anchor in the tide-way, howlike a slumber-song the wash of the sea rolled drowsily along the wind!How gracious the smell of the earth, drinking up the dew of the affluentair, which the sun, on the morrow, should turn into life-blood for thegrass and trees and flowers!

CHAPTER XVII

Philip was gone. Before breakfast was set upon the table, Guida saw theNarcissus sail round Noirmont Point and disappear. 

Her face had taken on a new expression since yesterday. An old touch ofdreaminess, of vague anticipation was gone--that look which belongs toyouth, which feels the confident charm of the unknown future. Lifewas revealed; but, together with joy, wonder and pain informed therevelation. 

A marvel was upon her. Her life was linked to another's, she was a wife. She was no longer sole captain of herself. Philip would signal, and shemust come until either he or she should die. He had taken her hand, andshe must never let it go; the breath of his being must henceforth giveher new and healthy life, or inbreed a fever which should corrode theheart and burn away the spirit. Young though she was, she realisedit--but without defining it. The new-found knowledge was diffused in hercharacter, expressed in her face. 

Seldom had a day of Guida's life been so busy. It seemed to her thatpeople came and went far more than usual. She talked, she laughed alittle, she answered back the pleasantries of the seafaring folk whopassed her doorway or her garden. She was attentive to hergrandfather; exact with her household duties. But all the time she wasthinking--thinking--thinking. Now and again she smiled, but at times tootears sprang to her eyes, to be quickly dried. More than once she drewin her breath with a quick, sibilant sound, as though some thoughtwounded her; and she flushed suddenly, then turned pale, then came toher natural colour again. 

Among those who chanced to visit the cottage was Maitresse Aimable. Shecame to ask Guida to go with her and Jean to the island of Sark, twelvemiles away, where Guida had never been. They would only be gone onenight, and, as Maitresse Aimable said, the Sieur de Mauprat could verywell make shift for once. 

The invitation came to Guida like water to thirsty ground. She longed toget away from the town, to be where she could breathe; for all this daythe earth seemed too small for breath: she gasped for the sea, to bealone there. To sail with Jean Touzel was practically to be alone, forMaitresse Aimable never talked; and Jean knew Guida's ways, knewwhen she wished to be quiet. In Jersey phrase, he saw beyond hisspectacles--great brass-rimmed things, giving a droll, childlike kind ofwisdom to his red rotund face. 

Having issued her invitation, Maitresse Aimable smiled placidly andseemed about to leave, when, all at once, without any warning, shelowered herself like a vast crate upon the veille, and sat there lookingat Guida. 

At first the grave inquiry of her look startled Guida. She was beginningto know that sensitive fear assailing those tortured by a secret. Howshe loathed this secrecy! How guilty she now felt, where, indeed, noguilt was! She longed to call aloud her name, her new name, from thehousetops. 

The voice of Maitresse Aimable roused her. Her ponderous visitor hadmade a discovery which had yet been made by no other human being. Herown absurd romance, her ancient illusion, had taught her to know whenlove lay behind another woman's face. And after her fashion, MaitresseAimable loved Jean Touzel as it is given to few to love. 

"I was sixteen when I fell in love; you're seventeen--you, " she said. "Ah bah, so it goes!"

Guida's face crimsoned. What--how much did Maitresse Aimable know? Bywhat necromancy had this fat, silent fisher-wife learned the secretwhich was the heart of her life, the soul of her being--which wasPhilip? She was frightened, but danger made her cautious. 

"Can you guess who it is?" she asked, without replying directly to theoblique charge. 

"It is not Maitre Ranulph, " answered her friendly inquisitor; "it is notthat M'sieu' Detricand, the vaurien. " Guida flushed with annoyance. "Itis not that farmer Blampied, with fifty vergees, all potatoes; it is notM'sieu' Janvrin, that bat'd'lagoule of an ecrivain. Ah bah, so it goes!"

"Who is it, then?" persisted Guida. "Eh ben, that is the thing!"

"How can you tell that one is in love, Maitresse Aimable?" persistedGuida. 

The other smiled with a torturing placidity, then opened her mouth;but nothing came of it. She watched Guida moving about the kitchenabstractedly. Her eye wandered to the racllyi, with its flitches ofbacon, to the dreschiaux and the sanded floor, to the great Elizabethanoak chair, and at last back to Guida, as though through her the lostvoice might be charmed up again. 

The eyes of the two met now, fairly, firmly; and Guida was conscious ofa look in the other's face which she had never seen before. Had thena new sight been given to herself? She saw and understood the look inMaitresse Aimable's face, and instantly knew it to be the same that wasin her own. 

With a sudden impulse she dropped the bashin she was polishing, and, going over quickly, she silently laid her cheek against her oldfriend's. She could feel the huge breast heave, she felt the vast faceturn hot, she was conscious of a voice struggling back to life, and sheheard it say at last:

"Gatd'en'ale, rosemary tea cures a cough, but nothing cures the love--ahbah, so it goes!"

"Do you love Jean?" whispered Guida, not showing her face, but longingto hear the experience of another who suffered that joy called love. 

Maitresse Aimable's face grew hotter; she did not speak, but pattedGuida's back with her heavy hand and nodded complacently. 

"Have you always loved him?" asked Guida again, with an eagerinquisition, akin to that of a wayside sinner turned chapel-going saint, hungry to hear what chanced to others when treading the primrose path. 

Maitresse Aimable again nodded, and her arm drew closer about Guida. There was a slight pause, then came an unsophisticated question:

"Has Jean always loved you?"

A short silence, and then the voice said with the deliberate prudence ofan unwilling witness:

"It is not the man who wears the wedding-ring. " Then, as if she had beendisloyal in even suggesting that Jean might hold her lightly, she added, almost eagerly--an enthusiasm tempered by the pathos of a half-truth:

"But my Jean always sleeps at home. "

This larger excursion into speech gave her courage, and she said more;and even as Guida listened hungrily--so soon had come upon her theapprehensions and wavering moods of loving woman!--she was wondering tohear this creature, considered so dull by all, speak as though out of awatchful and capable mind. What further Maitresse Aimable said was proofthat if she knew little and spake little, she knew that little well; andif she had gathered meagrely from life, she had at least winnowed outsome small handfuls of grain from the straw and chaff. At last hersagacity impelled her to say:

"If a man's eyes won't see, elder-water can't make him; if he will--ahbah, glad and good!" Both arms went round Guida, and hugged herawkwardly. 

Her voice came up but once more that morning. As she left Guida in thedoorway, she said with a last effort:

"I will have one bead to pray for you, trejous. " She showed her rosary, and, Huguenot though she was, Guida touched the bead reverently. "And ifthere is war, I will have two beads, trejous. A bi'tot--good-bye!"

Guida stood watching her from the doorway, and the last words of thefisher-wife kept repeating themselves through her brain: "And if thereis war, I will have two beads, trejous. "

So, Maitresse Aimable knew she loved Philip! How strange it was that oneshould read so truly without words spoken, or through seeing acts whichreveal. She herself seemed to read Maitresse Aimable all at once--readher by virtue, and in the light, of true love, the primitive andconsuming feeling in the breast of each for a man. Were not wordsnecessary for speech after all? But here she stopped short suddenly;for if love might find and read love, why was it she needed speech ofPhilip? Why was it her spirit kept beating up against the hedge beyondwhich his inner self was, and, unable to see that beyond, neededreassurance by words, by promises and protestations?

All at once she was angry with herself for thinking thus concerningPhilip. Of course Philip loved her deeply. Had she not seen the light oftrue love in his eyes, and felt the arms of love about her? Suddenly sheshuddered and grew bitter, and a strange rebellion broke loose in her. Why had Philip failed to keep his promise not to see her again afterthe marriage, till he should return from Portsmouth? It was selfish, painfully, terribly selfish of him. Why, even though she had beenfoolish in her request--why had he not done as she wished? Was thatlove--was it love to break the first promise he had ever made to hiswife?

Yet she excused him to herself. Men were different from women, and mendid not understand what troubled a woman's heart and spirit; they werenot shaken by the same gusts of emotion; they--they were not so fine;they did not think so deeply on what a woman, when she loves, thinksalways, and acts upon according to her thought. If Philip were only hereto resolve these fears, these perplexities, to quiet the storm inher! And yet, could he--could he? For now she felt that this storm wasrooting up something very deep and radical in her. It frightened her, but for the moment she fought it passionately. 

She went into her garden; and here among her animals and her flowers itseemed easier to be gay of heart; and she laughed a little, and was mosttender and pretty with her grandfather when he came home from spendingthe afternoon with the Chevalier. 

In this manner the first day of her marriage passed--in happyreminiscence and in vague foreboding; in affection yet in reproach asthe secret wife; and still as the loving, distracted girl, frightened ather own bitterness, but knowing it to be justified. 

The late evening was spent in gaiety with her grandfather and theChevalier; but at night when she went to bed she could not sleep. Shetossed from side to side; a hundred thoughts came and went. She grewfeverish, her breath choked her, and she got up and opened the window. It was clear, bright moonlight, and from where she was she could see themielles and the ocean and the star-sown sky above and beyond. There shesat and thought and thought till morning. 

CHAPTER XVIII

At precisely the same moment in the morning two boats set sail from thesouth coast of Jersey: one from Grouville Bay, and one from the harbourof St. Heliers. Both were bound for the same point; but the first was tosail round the east coast of the island, and the second round the westcoast. 

The boat leaving Grouville Bay would have on her right the Ecrehos andthe coast of France, with the Dirouilles in her course; the other wouldhave the wide Atlantic on her left, and the Paternosters in her course. The two converging lines should meet at the island of Sark. 

The boat leaving Grouville Bay was a yacht carrying twelve swivel-guns, bringing Admiralty despatches to the Channel Islands. The boat leavingSt. Heliers harbour was a new yawl-rigged craft owned by Jean Touzel. Itwas the fruit of ten years' labour, and he called her the Hardi Biaou, which, in plain English, means "very beautiful. " This was the third timeshe had sailed under Jean's hand. She carried two carronades, for warwith France was in the air, and it was Jean's whim to make a show ofpreparation, for, as he said: "If the war-dogs come, my pups can barktoo. If they don't, why, glad and good, the Hardi Biaou is big enough tohold the cough-drops. "

The business of the yacht Dorset was important that was why so small aboat was sent on the Admiralty's affairs. Had she been a sloop she mighthave attracted the attention of a French frigate or privateer wanderingthe seas in the interests of Vive la Nation! The business of the yawlwas quite unimportant. Jean Touzel was going to Sark with kegs of wineand tobacco for the seigneur, and to bring over whatever small cargomight be waiting for Jersey. The yacht Dorset had aboard her theReverend Lorenzo Dow, an old friend of her commander. He was to bedropped at Sark, and was to come back with Jean Touzel in the HardiBiaou, the matter having been arranged the evening before in the VierMarchi. The saucy yawl had aboard Maitresse Aimable, Guida, and a lad toassist Jean in working the sails. Guida counted as one of the crew, forthere was little in the handling of a boat she did not know. 

As the Hardi Biaou was leaving the harbour of St. Heliers, Jean toldGuida that Mr. Dow was to join them on the return journey. She hada thrill of excitement, for this man was privy to her secret, he wasconnected with her life history. But before the little boat passed St. Brelade's Bay she was lost in other thoughts: in picturing Philip on theNarcissus, in inwardly conning the ambitious designs of his career. Whathe might yet be, who could tell? She had read more than a little of thedoings of great naval commanders, both French and British. She knew howsimple midshipmen had sometimes become admirals, and afterwards peers ofthe realm. 

Suddenly a new thought came to her. Suppose that Philip should rise tohigh places, would she be able to follow? What had she seen--what didshe know--what social opportunities had been hers? How would she fitwith an exalted station?

Yet Philip had said that she could take her place anywhere with graceand dignity; and surely Philip knew. If she were gauche or crude inmanners, he would not have cared for her; if she were not intelligent, he would scarcely have loved her. Of course she had read French andEnglish to some purpose; she could speak Spanish--her grandfather hadtaught her that; she understood Italian fairly--she had read it aloudon Sunday evenings with the Chevalier. Then there were Corneille, Shakespeare, Petrarch, Cervantes--she had read them all; and even Wace, the old Norman trouvere, whose Roman de Rou she knew almost by heart. Was she so very ignorant?

There was only one thing to do: she must interest herself in whatinterested Philip; she must read what he read; she must study navalhistory; she must learn every little thing about a ship of war. ThenPhilip would be able to talk with her of all he did at sea, and shewould understand. 

When, a few days ago, she had said to him that she did not know how shewas going to be all that his wife ought to be, he had answered her:"All I ask is that you be your own sweet self, for it is just you that Iwant, you with your own thoughts and imaginings, and not a Guida whohas dropped her own way of looking at things to take on some oneelse's--even mine. It's the people who try to be clever who never are;the people who are clever never think of trying to be. "

Was Philip right? Was she really, in some way, a little bit clever? Shewould like to believe so, for then she would be a better companion forhim. After all, how little she knew of Philip--now, why did that thoughtalways come up! It made her shudder. They two would really have to beginwith the A B C of understanding. To understand was a passion, it wasbreathing and life to her. She would never, could never, be satisfiedwith skimming the surface of life as the gulls out there skimmed thewater. .. . Ah, how beautiful the morning was, and how the bracing airsoothed her feverishness! All this sky, and light, and upliftingsea were hers, they fed her with their strength--they were all socompanionable. 

Since Philip had gone--and that was but four days ago--she had sat downa dozen times to write to him, but each time found she could not. She, drew back from it because she wanted to empty out her heart, and yet, somehow, she dared not. She wanted to tell Philip all the feelings thatpossessed her; but how dared she write just what she felt: love andbitterness, joy and indignation, exaltation and disappointment, all inone? How was it these could all exist in a woman's heart at once? Wasit because Love was greater than all, deeper than all, overcame all, forgave all? and was that what women felt and did always? Was that theirlot, their destiny? Must they begin in blind faith, then be plunged intothe darkness of disillusion, shaken by the storm of emotion, taste thesting in the fruit of the tree of knowledge--and go on again the same, yet not the same?

More or less incoherently these thoughts flitted through Guida's mind. As yet her experiences were too new for her to fasten securely upontheir meaning. In a day or two she would write to Philip freely andwarmly of her love and of her hopes; for, maybe, by that time nothingbut happiness would be left in the caldron of feeling. There was apacket going to England in three days--yes, she would wait for that. And Philip--alas! a letter from him could not reach her for at leasta fortnight yet; and then in another month after that he would be withher, and she would be able to tell the whole world that she was the wifeof Captain Philip d'Avranche, of the good ship Araminta--for that he wasto be when he came again. 

She was not sad now, indeed she was almost happy, for her thoughts hadbrought her so close to Philip that she could feel his blue eyes lookingat her, the strong clasp of his hand. She could almost touch the brownhair waving back carelessly from the forehead, untouched by powder, in the fashion of the time; and she could hear his cheery laugh quiteplainly, so complete was the illusion. 

St. Ouen's Bay, l'Etacq, Plemont, dropped behind them as they sailed. They drew on to where the rocks of the Paternosters foamed to theunquiet sea. Far over between the Nez du Guet and the sprawlinggranite pack of the Dirouilles, was the Admiralty yacht winging tothe nor'-west. Beyond it again lay the coast of France, the tall whitecliffs, the dark blue smoky curve ending in Cap de la Hague. 

To-day there was something new in this picture of the coast of France. Against the far-off sands were some little black spots, seemingly nobigger than a man's hand. Again and again Jean Touzel had eyed thesemoving specks with serious interest; and Maitresse Aimable eyed Jean, for Jean never looked so often at anything without good reason. If, perchance, he looked three times at her consecutively, she gaped withexpectation, hoping that he would tell her that her face was not so redto-day as usual--a mark of rare affection. 

At last Guida noticed Jean's look. "What is it that you see, MaitreJean?" she said. 

"Little black wasps, I think, ma'm'selle-little black wasps that sting. "

Guida did not understand. 

Jean gave a curious cackle, and continued: "Ah, those wasps--they havea sting so nasty!" He paused an instant, then he added in a lower voice, and not quite so gaily: "Yon is the way that war begins. "

Guida's fingers suddenly clinched rigidly upon the tiller. "War? Do--doyou think that's a French fleet, Maitre Jean?"

"Steadee--steadee-keep her head up, ma'm'selle, " he answered, for Guidahad steered unsteadily for the instant. "Steadee--shale ben! that'sright--I remember twenty years ago the black wasps they fly on thecoast of France like that. Who can tell now?" He shrugged his shoulders. "P'rhaps they are coum out to play, but see you, when there is troublein the nest it is my notion that wasps come out to sting. Look at Francenow, they all fight each other there, ma fuifre! When folks begin toslap faces at home, look out when they get into the street. That is whenthe devil have a grand fete. "

Guida's face grew paler as he spoke. The eyes of Maitresse Aimable werefixed on her now, and unconsciously the ponderous good-wife felt in thatwarehouse she called her pocket for her rosary. An extra bead was therefor Guida, and one for another than Guida. But Maltresse Aimable didmore: she dived into the well of silence for her voice; and for thefirst time in her life she showed anger with Jean. As her voice cameforth she coloured, her cheeks expanded, and the words sallied out inpuffs:

"Nannin, Jean, you smell shark when it is but herring. You cry waspwhen the critchett sing. I will believe war when I see the splintersfly--me!"

Jean looked at his wife in astonishment. That was the longest speechhe had ever heard her make. It was also the first time that her rasp ofcriticism had ever been applied to him, and with such asperity too. Hecould not make it out. He looked from his wife to Guida; then, suddenlyarrested by the look in her face, he scratched his shaggy head indespair, and moved about in his seat. 

"Sit you still, Jean, " said his wife sharply; "you're like peas on a hotgriddle. "

This confused Jean beyond recovery, for never in his life had Aimablespoken to him like that. He saw there was something wrong, and he didnot know whether to speak or hold his tongue; or, as he said to himself, he "didn't know which eye to wink. " He adjusted his spectacles, and, pulling himself together, muttered: "Smoke of thunder, what's all this?"

Guida wasn't a wisp of quality to shiver with terror at the mere mentionof war with France; but ba su, thought Jean, there was now in her face asharp, fixed look of pain, in her eyes a bewildered anxiety. 

Jean scratched his head still more. Nothing particular came of that. There was no good trying to work the thing out suddenly, he wasn'tclever enough. Then out of an habitual good-nature he tried to bringbetter weather fore and aft. 

"Eh ben, " said he, "in the dark you can't tell a wasp from a honey-beetill he lights on you; and that's too far off there"--he jerked a fingertowards the French shore--"to be certain sure. But if the wasp nip, youmake him pay for it, the head and the tail--yes, I think-me. .. . There'sthe Eperquerie, " he added quickly, nodding in front of him. 

The island of Sark lifted a green bosom above her perpendicular cliffs, with the pride of an affluent mother among her brood. Dowered by sunand softened by a delicate haze like an exquisite veil of modesty, this youngest daughter of the isles clustered with her kinsfolk in theemerald archipelago between the great seas. 

The outlines of the coast grew plainer as the Hardi Biaou drew nearerand nearer. From end to end there was no harbour upon this southernside. There was no roadway, as it seemed no pathway at all up theoverhanging cliffs-ridges of granite and grey and green rock, beltedwith mist, crowned by sun, and fretted by the milky, upcasting surf. Little islands, like outworks before it, crouched slumberously to thesea, as a dog lays its head in its paws and hugs the ground close, withvague, soft-blinking eyes. 

By the shore the air was white with sea-gulls flying and circling, rising and descending, shooting up straight into the air; theirbodies smooth and long like the body of a babe in white samite, theirfeathering tails spread like a fan, their wings expanding on the ambientair. In the tall cliffs were the nests of dried seaweed, fastened to theedge of a rocky bracket on lofty ledges, the little ones within pipingto the little ones without. Every point of rock had its sentinel gull, looking-looking out to sea like some watchful defender of a mysticcity. Piercing might be the cries of pain or of joy from the earth, morepiercing were their cries; dark and dreadful might be the woe of thosewho went down to the sea in ships, but they shrilled on unheeding, theiryellow beaks still yellowing in the sun, keeping their everlasting watchand ward. 

Now and again other birds, dark, quick-winged, low-flying, shot inamong the white companies of sea-gulls, stretching their long necks, and turning their swift, cowardly eyes here and there, the cruel beakextended, the body gorged with carrion. Black marauders among blithebirds of peace and joy, they watched like sable spirits near the nests, or on some near sea rocks, sombre and alone, blinked evilly at the tallbright cliffs and the lightsome legions nestling there. 

These swart loiterers by the happy nests of the young were like spiritsof fate who might not destroy, who had no power to harm the living, yet who could not be driven forth: the ever-present death-heads at thefeast, the impressive acolytes by the altars of destiny. 

As the Hardi Biaou drew near the lofty, inviolate cliffs, there openedup sombre clefts and caverns, honeycombing the island at all points ofthe compass. She slipped past rugged pinnacles, like buttresses to theisland, here trailed with vines, valanced with shrubs of unnameablebeauty, and yonder shrivelled and bare like the skin of an elephant. 

Some rocks, indeed, were like vast animals round which molten granitehad been poured, preserving them eternally. The heads of great dogs, like the dogs of Ossian, sprang out in profile from the repulsingmainland; stupendous gargoyles grinned at them from dark points ofexcoriated cliff. Farther off, the face of a battered sphinx stared withunheeding look into the vast sea and sky beyond. From the dark depthsof mystic crypts came groanings, like the roaring of lions penned besidethe caves of martyrs. 

Jean had startled Guida with his suggestions of war between England andFrance. Though she longed to have Philip win glory in some great battle, yet her first natural thought was of danger to the man she loved--andthe chance too of his not coming back to her from Portsmouth. But nowas she looked at this scene before her, there came again to her face theold charm of blitheness. The tides of temperament in her were fast toflow and quick to ebb. The reaction from pain was in proportion to hersplendid natural health. 

Her lips smiled. For what can long depress the youthful and the lovingwhen they dream that they are entirely beloved? Lands and thronesmay perish, plague and devastation walk abroad with death, misery andbeggary crawl naked to the doorway, and crime cower in the hedges; butto the egregious egotism of young love there are only two identitiesbulking in the crowded universe. To these immensities all other beingsare audacious who dream of being even comfortable and obscure--happinesswould be a presumption; as though Fate intended each living human beingat some one moment to have the whole world to himself. And who shall cryout against that egotism with which all are diseased?

So busy was Guida with her own thoughts that she scarcely noticed theyhad changed their course, and were skirting the coast westerly, wherebyto reach Havre Gosselin on the other side of the island. There on theshore above lay the seigneurie, the destination of the Hardi Biaou. 

As they passed the western point of the island, and made their courseeasterly by a channel between rocky bulwarks opening Havre Gosselin, they suddenly saw a brig rounding the Eperquerie. She was making to thesouth-east under full sail. Her main and mizzen masts were not visible, and her colours could not be seen, but Jean's quick eye had lightedon something which made him cast apprehensive glances at his wife andGuida. There was a gun in the stern port-hole of the vanishing brig; andhe also noted that it was run out for action. 

His swift glance at his wife and Guida assured him that they had notnoticed the gun. 

Jean's brain began working with unusual celerity. He was certain thatthe brig was a French sloop or a privateer. In other circumstances, thatin itself might not have given him much trouble of mind, for more thanonce French frigates had sailed round the Channel Isles in insultingstrength and mockery; but at this moment every man knew that France andEngland were only waiting to see who should throw the ball first and setthe red game going. Twenty French frigates could do little harm to theisland of Sark; a hundred men could keep off an army and navy there;but Jean knew that the Admiralty yacht Dorset was sailing at this momentwithin half a league of the Eperquerie. He would stake his life thatthe brig was French and hostile and knew it also. At all costs he mustfollow and learn the fate of the yacht. 

If he landed at Havre Gosselin and crossed the island on foot, whateverwas to happen would be over and done, and that did not suit the book ofJean Touzel. More than once he had seen a little fighting, and more thanonce shared in it. If there was to be a fight--he looked affectionatelyat his carronades--then he wanted to be within seeing or strikingdistance. 

Instead of running into Havre Gosselin, he set for the Bec du Nez, theeastern point of the island. His object was to land upon the rocks ofthe Eperquerie, where the women would be safe whatever befell. The tidewas running strong round the point, and the surf was heavy, so that onceor twice the boat was almost overturned; but Jean had measured well thecurrents and the wind. 

This was one of the most exciting moments in his life, for, as theyrounded the Bec du Nez, there was the Dorset going about to make forGuernsey, and the brig, under full sail, bearing down upon her. Even asthey rounded the point, up ran the tricolour to the brig's mizzen-mast, and the militant shouts of the French sailors came over the water. 

Too late had the little yacht with her handful of guns seen the dangerand gone about. The wind was fair for her; but it was as fair for thebrig, able to outsail her twice over. As the Hardi Biaou neared thelanding-place of the Eperquerie, a gun was fired from the privateeracross the bows of the Dorset, and Guida realised what was happening. 

As they landed another shot was fired, then came a broadside. Guida puther hands before her eyes, and when she looked again the main-mast ofthe yacht was gone. And now from the heights of Sark above thererang out a cry from the lips of the affrighted islanders:"War--war--war--war!"

Guida sank down upon the rock, and her face dropped into her hands. Shetrembled violently. Somehow all at once, and for the first time in herlife, there was borne in upon her a feeling of awful desolation andloneliness. She was alone--she was alone--she was alone that was therefrain of her thoughts. 

The cry of war rang along the cliff tops; and war would take Philip fromher. Perhaps she would never see him again. The horror of it, the pityof it, the peril of it. 

Shot after shot the twelve-pounders of the Frenchman drove like dun hailat the white timbers of the yacht, and her masts and spars were flying. The privateer now came drawing down to where she lay lurching. 

A hand touched Guida upon the shoulder. "Cheer thee, my dee-ar, " saidMaitresse Aimable's voice. Below, Jean Touzel had eyes only forthis sea-fight before him, for, despite the enormous difference, theEnglishmen were now fighting their little craft for all that she wascapable. But the odds were terribly against her, though she had thewindward side, and the firing of the privateer was bad. The carronadeson her flush decks were replying valiantly to the twelve-pounders ofthe brig. At last a chance shot carried away her mizzenmast, andanother dismounted her single great gun, killing a number of men. Thecarronades, good for only a few discharges, soon left her to the furyof her assailant, and presently the Dorset was no better than a batteredraisin-box. Her commander had destroyed his despatches, and nothingremained now but to be sunk or surrender. 

In not more than twenty minutes from the time the first shot was fired, the commander and his brave little crew yielded to the foe, and theDorset's flag was hauled down. 

When her officers and men were transferred to the Frenchman, her onepassenger and guest, the Rev. Lorenzo Dow, passed calmly from thegallant little wreck to the deck of the privateer, with a finger betweenthe leaves of his book of meditations. With as much equanimity as hewould have breakfasted with a bishop, made breaches of the rubric, or drunk from a sailor's black-jack, he went calmly into captivity inFrance, giving no thought to what he left behind; quite heedless thathis going would affect for good or ill the destiny of the young wife ofPhilip d'Avranche. 

Guida watched the yacht go down, and the brig bear away towards Francewhere those black wasps of war were as motes against the white sands. Then she remembered that there had gone with it one of the three peoplein the world who knew her secret, the man who had married her to Philip. She shivered a little, she scarcely knew why, for it did not then seemof consequence to her whether Mr. Dow went or stayed, though he hadnever given her the marriage certificate. Indeed, was it not betterhe should go? Thereby one less would know her secret. But still anundefined fear possessed her. 

"Cheer thee, cheer thee, my dee-ar, my sweet dormitte, " said MaitresseAimable, patting her shoulder. "It cannot harm thee, ba su! 'Tis but aflash in the pan. "

Guida's first impulse was to throw herself into the arms of theslow-tongued, great-hearted woman who hung above her like a cloud ofmercy, and tell her whole story. But no, she would keep her word toPhilip, till Philip came again. Her love--the love of the young, lonelywife, must be buried deep in her own heart until he appeared and gaveher the right to speak. 

Jean was calling to them. They rose to go. Guida looked about her. Wasit all a dream-all that had happened to her, and around her? The worldwas sweet to look upon, and yet was it true that here before her eyesthere had been war, and that out of war peril must come to her. 

A week ago she was free as air, happy as healthy body, truthful mind, simple nature, and tender love can make a human being. She was then onlya young, young girl. To-day-she sighed. 

Long after they put out to sea again she could still hear the affrightedcry of the peasants from the cliff-or was it only the plaintive echo ofher own thoughts?

"War--war--war--war!"

IN FRANCE--NEAR FIVE MONTHS AFTER

CHAPTER XIX

"A moment, monsieur le duc. "

The Duke turned at the door, and looked with listless inquiry into theface of the Minister of Marine, who, picking up an official paper fromhis table, ran an eye down it, marked a point with the sharp corner ofhis snuff-box, and handed it over to his visitor, saying:

"Our roster of English prisoners taken in the action off Brest. "

The Duke, puzzled, lifted his glass and scanned the roll mechanically. 

"No, no, Duke, just where I have marked, " interposed the Minister. 

"My dear Monsieur Dalbarade, " remarked the Duke a little querulously, "Ido not see what interest--"

He stopped short, however, looked closer at the document, and thenlowering it in a sort of amazement, seemed about to speak; but, instead, raised the paper again and fixed his eyes intently on the spot indicatedby the Minister. 

"Most curious, " he said after a moment, making little nods of his headtowards Dalbarade; "my own name--and an English prisoner, you say?"

"Precisely so; and he gave our fellows some hard knocks before hisfrigate went on the reefs. "

"Strange that the name should be my own. I never heard of an Englishbranch of our family. "

A quizzical smile passed over the face of the Minister, adding to hisvisitor's mystification. "But suppose he were English, yet French too?"he rejoined. 

"I fail to understand the entanglement, " answered the Duke stiffly. 

"He is an Englishman whose name and native language are French--hespeaks as good French as your own. "

The Duke peevishly tapped a chair with his stick. "I am no readerof riddles, monsieur, " he said acidly, although eager to know moreconcerning this Englishman of the same name as himself, ruler of thesovereign duchy of Bercy. 

"Shall I bid him enter, Prince?" asked the Minister. The Duke's facerelaxed a little, for the truth was, at this moment of his long life hewas deeply concerned with his own name and all who bore it. 

"Is he here then?" he asked, nodding assent. 

"In the next room, " answered the Minister, turning to a bell andringing. "I have him here for examination, and was but beginning when Iwas honoured by your Highness's presence. " He bowed politely, yet therewas, too, a little mockery in the bow, which did not escape the Duke. These were days when princes received but little respect in France. 

A subaltern entered, received an order, and disappeared. The Dukewithdrew to the embrasure of a window, and immediately the prisoner wasgruffly announced. 

The young Englishman stood quietly waiting, his quick eyes going fromDalbarade to the wizened figure by the window, and back again to theMinister. His look carried both calmness and defiance, but the defiancecame only from a sense of injury and unmerited disgrace. 

"Monsieur, " said the Minister with austerity, "in your furtherexamination we shall need to repeat some questions. "

The prisoner nodded indifferently, and for a brief space there wassilence. The Duke stood by the window, the Minister by his table, theprisoner near the door. Suddenly the prisoner, with an abrupt motionof the hand towards two chairs, said with an assumption of ordinarypoliteness:

"Will you not be seated?"

The remark was so odd in its coolness and effrontery, that the Dukechuckled audibly. The Minister was completely taken aback. He glancedstupidly at the two chairs--the only ones in the room--and at theprisoner. Then the insolence of the thing began to work upon him, andhe was about to burst forth, when the Duke came forward, and politelymoving a chair near to the young commander, said:

"My distinguished compliments, monsieur le capitaine. I pray you acceptthis chair. "

With quiet self-possession and a matter-of-course air the prisoner bowedpolitely, and seated himself, then with a motion of the hand backwardtowards the door, said to the Duke: "I've been standing five hourswith some of those moutons in the ante-room. My profound thanks tomonseigneur. "

Touching the angry Minister on the arm, the Duke said quietly:

"Dear monsieur, will you permit me a few questions to the prisoner?"

At that instant there came a tap at the door, and an orderly enteredwith a letter to the Minister, who glanced at it hurriedly, then turnedto the prisoner and the Duke, as though in doubt what to do. 

"I will be responsible for the prisoner, if you must leave us, " said theDuke at once. 

"For a little, for a little--a matter of moment with the Minister ofWar, " answered Dalbarade, nodding, and with an air of abstraction leftthe room. 

The Duke withdrew to the window again, and seated himself in theembrasure, at some little distance from the Englishman, who at once gotup and brought his chair closer. The warm sunlight of spring, streamingthrough the window, was now upon his pale face, and strengthened it, giving it fulness and the eye fire. 

"How long have you been a prisoner, monsieur?" asked the Duke, at thesame time acknowledging the other's politeness with a bow. 

"Since March, monseigneur. "

"Monseigneur again--a man of judgment, " said the Duke to himself, pleased to have his exalted station recognised. "H'm, and it is nowJune--four months, monsieur. You have been well used, monsieur?"

"Vilely, monseigneur, " answered the other; "a shipwrecked enemy shouldnever be made prisoner, or at least he should be enlarged on parole; butI have been confined like a pirate in a sink of a jail. "

"Of what country are you?"

Raising his eyebrows in amazement the young man answered:

"I am an Englishman, monseigneur. "

"Monsieur is of England, then?"

"Monseigneur, I am an English officer. "

"You speak French well, monsieur. "

"Which serves me well in France, as you see, monseigneur. "

The Duke was a trifle nettled. "Where were you born, monsieur?"

There was a short pause, and then the prisoner, who had enjoyed theother's perplexity, said:

"On the Isle of Jersey, monseigneur. "

The petulant look passed immediately from the face of the Duke; thehorizon was clear at once. 

"Ah, then, you are French, monsieur!"

"My flag is the English flag; I was born a British subject, and I shalldie one, " answered the other steadily. 

"The sentiment sounds estimable, " answered the Duke; "but as for lifeand death, and what we are or what we may be, we are the sport of Fate. "His brow clouded. "I myself was born under a monarchy; I shall probablydie under a Republic. I was born a Frenchman; I may die--"

His tone had become low and cynical, and he broke off suddenly, as though he had said more than he meant. "Then you are a Norman, monsieur, " he added in a louder tone. 

"Once all Jerseymen were Normans, and so were many Englishmen, monseigneur. "

"I come of Norman stock too, monsieur, " remarked the Duke graciously, yet eyeing the young man keenly. 

"Monseigneur has not the kindred advantage of being English?" added theprisoner dryly. 

The Duke protested with a deprecatory wave of the fingers and a flashof the sharp eyes, and then, after a slight pause, said: "What is yourname, monsieur?"

"Philip d'Avranche, " was the brief reply; then with droll impudence:"And monseigneur's, by monseigneur's leave?"

The Duke smiled, and that smile relieved the sourness, the fret of aface which had care and discontent written upon every line of it. It wasa face that had never known happiness. It had known diversion, however, and unusual diversion it knew at this moment. 

"My name, " he answered with a penetrating quizzical look, "--my name isPhilip d'Avranche. "

The young man's quick, watchful eyes fixed themselves like needles onthe Duke's face. Through his brain there ran a succession of queries andspeculations, and dominating them all one clear question-was he to gainanything by this strange conversation? Who was this great man with aname the same as his own, this crabbed nobleman with skin as yellow asan orange, and body like an orange squeezed dry? He surely meant him noharm, however, for flashes of kindliness had lighted the shrivelled faceas he talked. His look was bent in piercing comment upon Philip, who, trying hard to solve the mystery, now made a tentative rejoinder tohis strange statement. Rising from his chair and bowing, he said, withshrewd foreknowledge of the effect of his words:

"I had not before thought my own name of such consequence. "

The old man grunted amiably. "My faith, the very name begets a toweringconceit wherever it goes, " he answered, and he brought his stick down onthe floor with such vehemence that the emerald and ruby rings rattled onhis shrunken fingers. 

"Be seated--cousin, " he said with dry compliment, for Philip hadremained standing, as if with the unfeigned respect of a cadet in theaugust presence of the head of his house. It was a sudden and boldsuggestion, and it was not lost on the Duke. The aged nobleman was tookeen an observer not to see the designed flattery, but he was in a moodwhen flattery was palatable, seeing that many of his own class werearrayed against him for not having joined the army of the Vendee; andthat the Revolutionists, with whom he had compromised, for the safetyof his lands of d'Avranche and his duchy of Bercy, regarded him withsuspicion. Between the two, the old man--at heart most profoundly aRoyalist--bided his time, in some peril but with no fear. The spirit ofthis young Englishman of his own name pleased him; the flattery, patentas it was, gratified him, for in revolutionary France few treated himwith deference now. Even the Minister of Marine, with whom he was ongood terms, called him "citizen" at times. 

All at once it flashed on the younger man that this must be the Princed'Avranche, Duc de Bercy, of that family of d'Avranche from which hisown came in long descent--even from the days of Rollo, Duke of Normandy. He recalled on the instant the token of fealty of the ancient House ofd'Avranche--the offering of a sword. 

"Your Serene Highness, " he said with great deference and as great tact, "I must first offer my homage to the Prince d'Avranche, Duc de Bercy--"Then with a sudden pause, and a whimsical look, he added: "But, indeed, I had forgotten, they have taken away my sword!"

"We shall see, " answered the Prince, well pleased, "we shall seeabout that sword. Be seated. " Then, after a short pause: "Tell me now, monsieur, of your family, of your ancestry. "

His eyes were bent on Philip with great intentness, and his thin lipstightened in some unaccountable agitation. 

Philip instantly responded. He explained how in the early part of thethirteenth century, after the great crusade against the Albigenses, acadet of the house of d'Avranche had emigrated to England, and hadcome to place and honour under Henry III, who gave to the son of thisd'Avranche certain tracts of land in Jersey, where he settled. Philipwas descended in a direct line from this same receiver of king'sfavours, and was now the only representative of his family. 

While Philip spoke the Duke never took eyes from his face--that face sofacile in the display of feeling or emotion. The voice also had a liltof health and vitality which rang on the ears of age pleasantly. As helistened he thought of his eldest son, partly imbecile, all but a lususnaturae, separated from his wife immediately after marriage, throughwhom there could never be succession--he thought of him, and for themillionth time in his life winced in impotent disdain. He thought too ofhis beloved second son, lying in a soldier's grave in Macedonia; of thebuoyant resonance of that by-gone voice, of the soldierly good spiritslike to the good spirits of the prisoner before him, and "his heartyearned towards the young man exceedingly. " If that second son had butlived there would be now no compromising with this Republican Governmentof France; he would be fighting for the white flag with the goldenlilies over in the Vendee. 

"Your ancestors were mine, then, " remarked the Duke gravely, aftera pause, "though I had not heard of that emigration to England. However--however! Come, tell me of the engagement in which you lost yourship, " he added hurriedly in a low tone. He was now so intent thathe did not stir in his seat, but sat rigidly still, regarding Philipkindly. Something in the last few moments' experience had loosened thepuckered skin, softened the crabbed look in the face, and Philip had nolonger doubt of his friendly intentions. 

"I had the frigate Araminta, twenty-four guns, a fortnight out fromPortsmouth, " responded Philip at once. "We fell in with a Frenchfrigate, thirty guns. She was well to leeward of us, and the Aramintabore up under all sail, keen for action. The Frenchman was as ready asourselves for a brush, and tried to get the weather of us, but, failing, she shortened sail and gallantly waited for us. The Araminta overhauledher on the weather quarter, and hailed. She responded with cheers anddefiance--as sturdy a foe as man could wish. We lost no time in gettingto work, and, both running before the wind, we fired broadsides as wecracked on. It was tit-for-tat for a while with splinters flying andneither of us in the eye of advantage, but at last the Araminta shotaway the main-mast and wheel of the Niobe, and she wallowed like a tubin the trough of the sea. We bore down on her, and our carronades rakedher like a comb. Then we fell thwart her hawse, and tore her up throughher bowline-ports with a couple of thirty-two-pounders. But before wecould board her she veered, lurched, and fell upon us, carrying away ourforemast. We cut clear of the tangle, and were making once more to boardher, when I saw to windward two French frigates bearing down on us underfull sail. And then--"

The Prince exclaimed in surprise: "I had not heard of this, " he said. "They did not tell the world of those odds against you. "

"Odds and to spare, monsieur le due! We had had all we could manage inthe Niobe, though she was now disabled, and we could hurt her no more. If the others came up on our weather we should be chewed like a bone ina mastiff's jaws. If she must fight again, the Araminta would be littlefit for action till we cleared away the wreckage; so I sheered off tomake all sail. We ran under courses with what canvas we had, and gotaway with a fair breeze and a good squall whitening to windward, whileour decks were cleared for action again. The guns on the main-deckhad done good service and kept their places. On the quarter-deckand fo'castle there was more amiss, but as I watched the frigatesoverhauling us I took heart of grace still. There was the creaking andscreaming of the carronade-slides, the rattling of the carriages of thelong twelve-pounders amidships as they were shotted and run out again, the thud of the carpenters' hammers as the shot-holes were plugged--goodsounds in the ears of a fighter--"

"Of a d'Avranche--of a d'Avranche!" interposed the Prince. 

"We were in no bad way, and my men were ready for another brush withour enemies, everything being done that could be done, everything in itsplace, " continued Philip. "When the frigates were a fair gunshot off, Isaw that the squall was overhauling us faster than they. This meant goodfortune if we wished escape, bad luck if we would rather fight. But Ihad no time to think of that, for up comes Shoreham, my lieutenant, witha face all white. 'For God's sake, sir, ' says he, 'shoal water-shoalwater! We're ashore. ' So much, monsieur le prince, for Admiralty chartsand soundings! It's a hateful thing to see--the light green water, the deadly sissing of the straight narrow ripple like the grooves of awash-board: and a ship's length ahead the water breaking over the reefs, two frigates behind ready to eat us. 

"Up we came to the wind, the sheets were let run, and away flew thehalyards. All to no purpose, for a minute later we came broadside onthe reef, and were gored on a pinnacle of rock. The end wasn't long incoming. The Araminta lurched off the reef on the swell. We watchedour chance as she rolled, and hove overboard our broadside of longtwelve-pounders. But it was no use. The swishing of the water as itspouted from the scuppers was a deal louder than the clang of thechain-pumps. It didn't last long. The gale spilled itself upon us, andthe Araminta, sick and spent, slowly settled down. The last I saw ofher"--Philip raised his voice as though he would hide what he feltbehind an unsentimental loudness--"was the white pennant at the main-topgallant masthead. A little while, and then I didn't see it, and--and sogood-bye to my first command! Then"--he smiled ironically--"then I wasmade prisoner by the French frigates, and have been closely confinedever since, against every decent principle of warfare. And now here Iam, monsieur le duc. "

The Duke had listened with an immovable attention, the grey eyebrowstwitching now and then, the arid face betraying a grim enjoyment. When Philip had finished, he still sat looking at him with steadyslow-blinking eyes, as though unwilling to break the spell the tale hadthrown round him. But an inquisition in the look, a slight cocking ofthe head as though weighing important things, the ringed fingers softlydrumming on the stick before him--all these told Philip that somethingwas at stake concerning himself. 

The Duke seemed about to speak, when the door of the room opened and theMinister of Marine entered. The Duke, rising and courteously layinga hand on his arm, drew him over to the window, and engaged him inwhispered conversation, of which the subject seemed unwelcome to theMinister, for now and then he interrupted sharply. 

As the two stood fretfully debating, the door of the room again opened. There appeared an athletic, adventurous-looking officer in brilliantuniform who was smiling at something called after him from theantechamber. His blue coat was spick and span and very gay with doubleembroidery at the collar, coat-tails, and pockets. His white waistcoatand trousers were spotless; his netted sash of blue with its starson the silver tassels had a look of studied elegance. The blackthree-cornered hat, broidered with gold, and adorned with three ostrichtips of red and a white and blue aigrette, was, however, the glory ofhis bravery. He seemed young to be a General of Division, for such hisdouble embroideries and aigrette proclaimed him. 

He glanced at Philip, and replied to his salute with a half-quizzicalsmile on his proud and forceful face. "Dalbarade, Dalbarade, " said heto the Minister, "I have but an hour--ah, monsieur le prince!" he addedsuddenly, as the latter came hurriedly towards him, and, grasping hishand warmly, drew him over to Dalbarade at the window. Philip now knewbeyond doubt that he was the subject of debate, for all the time thatthe Duke in a low tone, half cordial, half querulous, spoke to thenew-comer, the latter let his eyes wander curiously towards Philip. Thathe was an officer of great importance was to be seen from the deferencepaid him by Dalbarade. 

All at once he made a polite gesture towards the Duke, and, facing theMinister, said in a cavalier-like tone, and with a touch of patronage:"Yes, yes, Dalbarade; it is of no consequence, and I myself will besurety for both. " Then turning to the nobleman, he added: "We arebeginning to square accounts, Duke. Last time we met I had a largefavour of you, and to-day you have a small favour of me. Pray introduceyour kinsman here, before you take him with you, " and he turned squarelytowards Philip. 

Philip could scarcely believe his ears. The Duke's kinsman! Had theDuke then got his release on the ground that they were of kin--a kinshipwhich, even to be authentic, must go back seven centuries for proof?

Yet here he was being introduced to the revolutionary general as "mykinsman of the isles of Normandy. " Here, too, was the same GeneralGrandjon-Larisse applauding him on his rare fortune to be thus releasedon parole through the Duc de Bercy, and quoting with a laugh, half sneerand half raillery, the old Norman proverb: "A Norman dead a thousandyears cries Haro! Haro! if you tread on his grave. "

So saying, he saluted the Duke with a liberal flourish of the hand and afriendly bow, and turned away to Dalbarade. 

A half-hour later Philip was outside with the Duke, walking slowlythrough the court-yard to an open gateway, where waited a carriage withunliveried coachman and outriders. No word was spoken till they enteredthe carriage and were driven swiftly away. 

"Whither now, your Highness?" asked Philip. 

"To the duchy, " answered the other shortly, and relapsed into sombremeditation. 

CHAPTER XX

The castle of the Prince d'Avranche, Duc de Bercy, was set upon a vastrock, and the town of Bercy huddled round the foot of it and on greatgranite ledges some distance up. With fifty defenders the castle, on itslofty pedestal, might have resisted as many thousands; and, indeed, it had done so more times than there were rubies in the rings ofthe present Duke, who had rescued Captain Philip d'Avranche from theclutches of the Red Government. 

Upon the castle, with the flag of the duchy, waved the republicantricolour, where for a thousand years had floated a royal banner. WhenFrance's great trouble came to her, and the nobles fled, or wentto fight for the King in the Vendee, the old Duke, with a dreamyindifference to the opinion of Europe, had proclaimed alliance with thenew Government. He felt himself privileged in being thus selfish; and hehad made the alliance that he might pursue, unchecked, the one remainingobject of his life. 

This object had now grown from a habit into a passion. It was now hisone ambition to arrange a new succession excluding the Vaufontaines, a detested branch of the Bercy family. There had been an ancient feudbetween his family and the Vaufontaines, whose rights to the succession, after his eldest son, were to this time paramount. For three years pasthe had had a whole monastery of Benedictine monks at work to find somecollateral branch from which he might take a successor to Leopold John, his imbecile heir--but to no purpose. 

In more than a little the Duke was superstitious, and on the day when hemet Philip d'Avranche in the chamber of M. Dalbarade he had twice turnedback after starting to make the visit, so great was his dislike topay homage to the revolutionary Minister. He had nerved himself to thedistasteful duty, however, and had gone. When he saw the name of theyoung English prisoner--his own name--staring him in the face, he hadhad such a thrill as a miracle might have sent through the veins of adoubting Christian. 

Since that minute he, like Philip, had been in a kind of dream; on hispart, to find in the young man, if possible, an heir and successor; onPhilip's to make real exalted possibilities. There had slipped pasttwo months, wherein Philip had seen a new and brilliant avenue of lifeopening out before him. Most like a dream indeed it seemed. He had beenshut out from the world, cut off from all connection with England andhis past, for M. Dalbarade made it a condition of release that he shouldsend no message or correspond with any one outside Castle Bercy. Hehad not therefore written to Guida. She seemed an interminable distanceaway. He was as completely in a new world as though he had beentransplanted; he was as wholly in the air of fresh ambitions as thoughhe were beginning the world again--ambitions as gorgeous as bewildering. 

For, almost from the first, the old nobleman treated him like a son. He spoke freely to him of the most private family matters, of the mostimportant State affairs. He consulted with him, he seemed to lean uponhim. He alluded often, in oblique phrase, to adoption and succession. Inthe castle Philip was treated as though he were in truth a high kinsmanof the Duke. Royal ceremony and state were on every hand. He who hadnever had a servant of his own, now had a score at his disposal. He hadspent his early days in a small Jersey manor-house; here he was walkingthe halls of a palace with the step of assurance, the most honouredfigure in a principality next to the sovereign himself. "Adoption andsuccession" were words that rang in his ears day and night. The wilddream had laid feverish hands upon him. Jersey, England, the Navy, seemed very far away. 

Ambition was the deepest passion in him, even as defeating the hopes ofthe Vaufontaines was more than a religion with the Duke. By no trickery, but by a persistent good-nature, alertness of speech, avoidance ofdangerous topics, and aptness in anecdote, he had hourly made hisposition stronger, himself more honoured at the Castle Bercy. He hadalso tactfully declined an offer of money from the Prince--none the lessdecidedly because he was nearly penniless. The Duke's hospitality he wasready to accept, but not his purse--not yet. 

Yet he was not in all acting a part. He was sincere in his likingfor the soured, bereaved sovereign, forced to endure alliance witha Government he loathed. He even admired the Duke for his vexingidiosyncrasies, for they came of a strong individuality which, inhappier case, should have made him a contented and beloved monarch. Asit was, the people of his duchy were loyal to him beyond telling, doinghis bidding without cavil: standing for the King of France at his will, declaring for the Republic at his command; for, whatever the Duke wasto the world outside, within his duchy he was just and benevolent, ifimperious. 

All these things Philip had come to know in his short sojourn. He had, with the Duke, mingled freely, yet with great natural dignity, among thepeople of the duchy, and was introduced everywhere, and at all times, asthe sovereign's kinsman--"in a direct line from an ancient branch, " ashis Highness declared. He had been received gladly, and had made himselfan agreeable figure in the duchy, to the delight of the Duke, whowatched his every motion, every word, and their effect. He came to knowthe gossip gone abroad that the Duke had already chosen him for heir. Afantastic rumour, maybe, yet who could tell?

One day the Duke arranged a conference of the civil and militaryofficers of his duchy. He chuckled to see how reluctant they all were atfirst to concede their homage to his favourite, and how soon they fellunder that favourite's influence--all save one man, the Intendant ofthe duchy. Philip himself was quick to see that this man, Count CarignanDamour, apprehensive for his own selfish ends, was bitterly opposed tohim. But Damour was one among many, and the Duke was entirely satisfied, for the common people received Philip with applause. 

On this very day was laid before the Duke the result of the longresearches of the monks into the genealogy of the d'Avranches, andthere, clearly enough, was confirmation of all Philip had said abouthis ancestors and their relation to the ancient house of d'Avranche. The Duke was overjoyed, and thereupon secretly made ready for Philip'sformal adoption and succession. It never occurred to him that Philipmight refuse. 

On the same afternoon he sent for Philip to come to him in the highestroom of the great tower. It was in this room that, many years ago, theDuke's young and noble wife, from the province of Aquitaine, had givenbirth to the second son of the house of Bercy, and had died a yearlater, happy that she should at last leave behind a healthy, beautifulchild, to do her honour in her lord's eyes. 

In this same room the Duke and the brave second son had spent unnumberedhours; and here it had come home to him that the young wife wasfaultless as to the elder, else she had not borne him this perfectyounger son. Thus her memory came to be adored; and thus, when thenoble second son, the glory of his house and of his heart, was killedin Macedonia, the Duke still came to the little upper room for hiscommunion of remembrance. Hour after hour he would sit looking fromthe great window out over the wide green valley, mourning bitterly, andfeeling his heart shrivel up within him, his body grow crabbed and cold, and his face sour and scornful. 

When Philip now entered this sanctuary, the Duke nodded and motioned himto a chair. In silence he accepted, and in silence they sat for a time. Philip knew the history of this little room--he had learned it firstfrom Frange Pergot, the porter at the castle gates with whom he had madefriends. The silence gave him opportunity to recall the whole story. 

At length the motionless brown figure huddled in the great chair, notlooking at Philip but out over the wide green valley, began to speak ina low, measured tone, as a dreamer might tell his dream, or a priest hisvision:

"A breath of life has come again to me through you. Centuries ago ourancestors were brothers--far back in the direct line, brothers--themonks have proved it. 

"Now I shall have my spite of the Vaufoutaines, and now shall I haveanother son--strong, and with good blood in him to beget good blood. "

A strange, lean sort of smile passed over his lips, his eyebrowstwitched, his hands clinched the arm of the chair wherein he sat, and hemade a motion of his jaws as though enjoying a toothsome morsel. 

"H'm, Henri Vaufontaine shall see--and all his tribe! They shall notfeed upon these lands of the d'Avranches, they shall not carouse at mytable when I am gone and the fool I begot has returned to his Maker. Thefault of him was never mine, but God's--does the Almighty think we canforget that? I was ever sound and strong. When I was twenty I killed twomen with my own sword at a blow; when I was thirty, to serve the KingI rode a hundred and forty miles in one day--from Paris to Dracourtit was. We d'Avranches have been men of power always. We foughtfor Christ's sepulchre in the Holy Land, and three bishops and twoarchbishops have gone from us to speak God's cause to the world. And mywife, she came of the purest stock of Aquitaine, and she was constant, in her prayers. What discourtesy was it then, for God, who hath beenserved well by us, to serve me in return with such mockery: to send me abloodless zany, whom his wife left ere the wedding meats were cold. "

His foot tapped the floor in anger, his eyes wandered restlessly outover the green expanse. Suddenly a dove perched upon the window-sillbefore him. His quick, shifting gaze settled on it and stayed, softeningand quieting. 

After a slight pause, he turned to Philip and spoke in a still lowertone. "Last night in the chapel I spake to God and I said: 'Lord God, let there be fair speech between us. Wherefore hast Thou nailed me likea malefactor to the tree? Why didst Thou send me a fool to lead ourhouse, and afterwards a lad as fine and strong as Absalom, and then layhim low like a wisp of corn in the wind, leaving me wifeless--with aprince to follow me, the by-word of men, the scorn of women--and of theVaufontaines?"'

He paused again, and his eyes seemed to pierce Philip's, as though hewould read if each word was burning its way into his brain. 

"As I stood there alone, a voice spoke to me as plainly as now I speakto you, and it said: 'Have done with railing. That which was the elder'sshall be given to the younger. The tree hath grown crabbed and old, itbeareth no longer. Behold the young sapling by thy door--I have plantedit there. The seed is the seed of the old tree. Cherish it, lest agrafted tree flourish in thy house. '". .. . His words rose triumphantly. "Yes, yes, I heard it with my own ears, the Voice. The crabbed tree, that is the main line, dying in me; the grafted tree is the Vaufontaine, the interloper and the mongrel; and the sapling from the same seed asthe crabbed old tree"--he reached out as though to clutch Philip's arm, but drew back, sat erect in his chair, and said with ringing decision:"the sapling is Philip d'Avranche, of the Jersey Isle. "

For a moment there was silence between the two. A strong wind camerushing up the valley through the clear sunlight, the great treesbeneath the castle swayed, and the flapping of the tricolour could beheard within. From the window-sill the dove, caught up on the wave ofwind, sailed away down the widening glade. 

Philip's first motion was to stand up and say: "I dare not think yourHighness means in very truth to make me your kinsman in the succession. "

"And why not, why not?" testily answered the Duke, who liked not to beimperfectly apprehended. Then he added more kindly: "Why not--come, tellme that, cousin? Is it then distasteful?"

Philip's heart gave a leap and his face flushed. "I have no otherkinsman, " he answered in a low tone of feeling. "I knew I had youraugust friendship--else all the tokens of your goodness to me weremockery; but I had scarce let myself count on the higher, more intimatehonour--I, a poor captain in the English navy. "

He said the last words slowly, for, whatever else he was, he was a loyalEnglish sailor, and he wished the Duc de Bercy to know it, the moreconvincingly the better for the part he was going to play in this duchy, if all things favoured. 

"Tut, tut, what has that to do with it?" answered the Duke. "What haspoverty to do with blood? Younger sons are always poor, younger cousinspoorer. As for the captaincy of an English warship, that's of noconsequence where greater games are playing--eh?"

He eyed Philip keenly, yet too there was an unasked question in hislook. He was a critic of human nature, he understood the code of honour, none better; his was a mind that might be wilfully but never crasslyblind. He was selfish where this young gentleman was concerned, yet heknew well how the same gentleman ought to think, speak, and act. 

The moment of the great test was come. 

Philip could not read behind the strange, shrivelled face. Instinctcould help him much, but it could not interpret that parchment. He didnot know whether his intended reply would alienate the Duke or not, butif it did, then he must bear it. He had come, as he thought, to the cruxof this adventure. All in a moment he was recalled again to his realposition. The practical facts of his life possessed him. He was standingbetween a garish dream and commonplace realities. Old feelings cameback--the old life. The ingrain loyalty of all his years was his again. Whatever he might be, he was still an English officer, and he was notthe man to break the code of professional honour lightly. If the Duke'sfavour and adoption must depend on the answer he must now give, well, let it be; his last state could not be worse than his first. 

So, still standing, he answered the Duke boldly, yet quietly, his newkinsman watching him with a grim curiosity. 

"Monsieur le prince, " said Philip, "I am used to poverty, that matterslittle; but whatever you intend towards me--and I am persuaded it is tomy great honour and happiness--I am, and must still remain, an officerof the English navy. "

The Duke's brow contracted, and his answer came cold and incisive: "Thenavy--that is a bagatelle; I had hoped to offer you heritage. Pooh, pooh, commanding a frigate is a trade--a mere trade!"

Philip's face did not stir a muscle. He was in spirit the bornadventurer, the gamester who could play for life's largest stakes, loseall, draw a long breath--and begin the world again. 

"It's a busy time in my trade now, as Monsieur Dalbarade would tell you, Duke. "

The Duke's lips compressed as though in anger. "You mean to say, monsieur, that you would let this wretched war between France andEngland stand before our own kinship and alliance? What are you and I inthis great shuffle of events? Have less egotism, less vanity, monsieur. You are no more than a million others--and I--I am nothing. Come, come, there is more than one duty in the life of every man, and sometime hemust choose between one and the other. England does not need you"--hisvoice and manner softened, he leaned towards Philip, the eyes almostclosing as he peered into his face--"but you are needed by the House ofBercy. "

"I was commissioned to a warship in time of war, " answered Philipquietly, "and I lost that warship. When I can, it is my duty to goback to the powers that sent me forth. I am still an officer in fullcommission. Your Highness knows well what honour claims of me. "

"There are hundreds of officers to take your place; in the duchy ofBercy there is none to stand for you. You must choose between your tradeand the claims of name and blood, older than the English navy, olderthan Norman England. "

Philip's colour was as good, his manner as easy as if nothing were atstake; but in his heart he felt that the game was lost--he saw a stormgathering in the Duke's eyes, the disappointment presently to break outinto wrath, the injured vanity to burst into snarling disdain. But hespoke boldly nevertheless, for he was resolved that, even if he had toreturn from this duchy to prison, he would go with colours flying. 

"The proudest moment of my life was when the Duc de Bercy called mekinsman, " he responded; "the best" (had he then so utterly forgotten thelittle church of St. Michael's?) "was when he showed me friendship. Yet, if my trade may not be reconciled with what he may intend for me, I mustask to be sent back to Monsieur Dalbarade. " He smiled hopelessly, yetwith stoical disregard of consequences, and went on: "For my trade isin full swing these days, and I stand my chance of being exchanged andearning my daily bread again. At the Admiralty I am a master workman onfull pay, but I'm not earning my salt here. With Monsieur Dalbarade myconscience would be easier. "

He had played his last card. Now he was prepared for the fury of ajaundiced, self-willed old man, who could ill brook being thwarted. He had quickly imagined it all, and not without reason, for surely afurious disdain was at the grey lips, lines of anger were corrugatingthe forehead, the rugose parchment face was fiery with distemper. 

But what Philip expected did not come to pass. Rising quickly to hisfeet, the Duke took him by the shoulders, kissed him on both cheeks, andsaid:

"My mind is made up--is made up. Nothing can change it. You have nofather, cousin--well, I will be your father. You shall retain your postin the English navy-officer and patriot you shall be if you choose. Abrave man makes a better ruler. But now there is much to do. Thereis the concurrence of the English King to secure; that shall be--hasalready been--my business. There is the assent of Leopold John toachieve; that I shall command. There are the grave formalities ofadoption to arrange; these I shall expedite. You shall see, MasterInsolence--you, who'd throw me and my duchy over for your trade; youshall see how the Vaufontaines will gnash their teeth!"

In his heart Philip was exultant, though outwardly he was calm. He was, however, unprepared for what followed. Suddenly the Duke, putting a handon his shoulder, said:

"One thing, cousin, one thing: you must marry in our order, and at once. There shall be no delay. Succession must be made sure. I know the verywoman--the Comtesse Chantavoine--young, rich, amiable. You shall meether to-morrow-to-morrow. "

CHAPTER XXI

"The Comtesse Chantavoine, young, rich, amiable. You shall meet herto-morrow". .. !--Long after Philip left the Duke to go to his ownchamber, these words rang in his ears. He suddenly felt the cords offate tightening round him. So real was the momentary illusion that, ashe passed through the great hall where hung the portraits of the Duke'sancestors, he made a sudden outward motion of his arms as though to freehimself from a physical restraint. Strange to say, he had never foreseenor reckoned with this matter of marriage in the designs of the Duke. Hehad forgotten that sovereign dukes must make sure their succession evenunto the third and fourth generation. His first impulse had been to tellthe Duke that to introduce him to the Countess would be futile, forhe was already married. But the instant warning of the mind that hisHighness could never and would never accept the daughter of a Jerseyship-builder restrained him. He had no idea that Guida's descent fromthe noble de Mauprats of Chambery would weigh with the Duke, who wouldonly see in her some apple-cheeked peasant stumbling over her courttrain. 

It was curious that the Duke had never even hinted at the chance of hisbeing already married--yet not so curious either, since completesilence concerning a wife was in itself declaration enough that he wasunmarried. He felt in his heart that a finer sense would have offeredGuida no such humiliation, for he knew the lie of silence to be as evilas the lie of speech. 

He had not spoken, partly because he had not yet become used to the factthat he really was married. It had never been brought home to him bythe ever-present conviction of habit. One day of married life, or, inreality, a few hours of married life, with Guida had given the sensationmore of a noble adventure than of a lasting condition. With distancefrom that noble adventure, something of the glow of a lover's relationshad gone, and the subsequent tender enthusiasm of mind and memory wasnot vivid enough to make him daring or--as he would have said--recklessfor its sake. Yet this same tender enthusiasm was sincere enough tomake him accept the fact of his marriage without discontent, even in theglamour of new and alluring ambitions. 

If it had been a question of giving up Guida or giving up the duchy ofBercy--if that had been put before him as the sole alternative, he wouldhave decided as quickly in Guida's favour as he did when he thought itwas a question between the duchy and the navy. The straightforwardissue of Guida or the duchy he had not been called upon to face. But, unfortunately for those who are tempted, issues are never put quite soplainly by the heralds of destiny and penalty. They are disguised asdelectable chances: the toss-up is always the temptation of life. Theman who uses trust-money for three days, to acquire in those three daysa fortune, certain as magnificent, would pull up short beforehand if theissue of theft or honesty were put squarely before him. Morally he meansno theft; he uses his neighbour's saw until his own is mended: but hebreaks his neighbour's saw, his own is lost on its homeward way; andhaving no money to buy another, he is tried and convicted on a charge oftheft. Thus the custom of society establishes the charge of immoralityupon the technical defect. But not on that alone; upon the principlethat what is committed in trust shall be held inviolate, with an exactobedience to the spirit as to the letter of the law. 

The issue did not come squarely to Philip. He had not openly lied aboutGuida: so far he had had no intention of doing so. He even figured tohimself with what surprise Guida would greet his announcement that shewas henceforth Princesse Guida d'Avranche, and in due time would beher serene highness the Duchesse de Bercy. Certainly there was nothingimmoral in his ambitions. If the reigning Prince chose to establish himas heir, who had a right to complain?

Then, as to an officer of the English navy accepting succession in asovereign duchy in suzerainty to the present Government of France, whileEngland was at war with her, the Duke had more than once, in almost somany words, defined the situation. Because the Duke himself, with nosuccessor assured, was powerless to side with the Royalists against theRed Government, he was at the moment obliged, for the very existenceof his duchy, to hoist the tricolour upon the castle with his own flag. Once the succession was secure beyond the imbecile Leopold John, then hewould certainly declare against the present fiendish Government and forthe overthrown dynasty. 

Now England was fighting France, not only because she was revolutionaryFrance, but because of the murder of Louis XVI and for the restorationof the overthrown dynasty. Also she was in close sympathy with the warof the Vendee, to which she would lend all possible assistance. Philipargued that if it was his duty, as a captain in the English navy, tofight against the revolutionaries from without, he would be beyondcriticism if, as the Duc de Bercy, he also fought against them fromwithin. 

Indeed, it was with this plain statement of the facts that the secondmilitary officer of the duchy had some days before been sent to theCourt of St. James to secure its intervention for Philip's freedom byexchange of prisoners. This officer was also charged with securing theconsent of the English King for Philip's acceptance of succession in theduchy, while retaining his position in the English navy. The envoy hadbeen instructed by the Duke to offer his sympathy with England in thewar and his secret adherence to the Royalist cause, to become open sosoon as the succession through Philip was secured. 

To Philip's mind all that side of the case was in his favour, and sortedwell with his principles of professional honour. His mind was not soacutely occupied with his private honour. To tell the Duke now of hismarriage would be to load the dice against himself: he felt that theopportunity for speaking of it had passed. 

He seated himself at a table and took from his pocket a letter ofGuida's written many weeks before, in which she had said firmly that shehad not announced the marriage, and would not; that he must do it, and he alone; that the letter written to her grandfather had not beenreceived by him, and that no one in Jersey knew their secret. 

In reading this letter again a wave of feeling rushed over him. Herealised the force and strength of her nature: every word had a clear, sharp straightforwardness and the ring of truth. 

A crisis was near, and he must prepare to meet it. 

The Duke had said that he must marry; a woman had already been chosenfor him, and he was to meet her to-morrow. But, as he said to himself, that meant nothing. To meet a woman was not of necessity to marry her. 

Marry--he could feel his flesh creeping! It gave him an ugly, startledsensation. It was like some imp of Satan to drop into his ear thesuggestion that princes, ere this, had been known to have two wives--oneof them unofficial. He could have struck himself in the face for theiniquity of the suggestion; he flushed from the indecency of it; butso have sinners ever flushed as they set forth on the garish road toAvernus. Yet--yet somehow he must carry on the farce of being singleuntil the adoption and the succession had been formally arranged. 

Vexed with these unbidden and unwelcome thoughts, he got up and walkedabout his chamber restlessly. "Guida--poor Guida!" he said to himselfmany times. He was angry, disgusted that those shameful, irresponsiblethoughts should have come to him. He would atone for all that--andmore--when he was Prince and she Princess d'Avranche. But, nevertheless, he was ill at ease with himself. Guida was off there alone inJersey--alone. Now, all at once, another possibility flashed intohis mind. Suppose, why, suppose--thoughtless scoundrel that he hadbeen--suppose that there might come another than himself and Guida tobear his name! And she there alone, her marriage still kept secret--thedanger of it to her good name. But she had said nothing in her letters, hinted nothing. No, in none had there been the most distant suggestion. Then and there he got them, one and all, and read every word, everyline, all through to the end. No; there was not one hint. Of course itcould not be so; she would have--but no, she might not have! Guida wasunlike anybody else. 

He read on and on again. And now, somehow, he thought he caught in oneof the letters a new ring, a pensive gravity, a deeper tension, whichwere like ciphers or signals to tell him of some change in her. For amoment he was shaken. Manhood, human sympathy, surged up in him. Theflush of a new sensation ran through his veins like fire. The firstinstinct of fatherhood came to him, a thrilling, uplifting feeling. Butas suddenly there shot through his mind a thought which brought him tohis feet with a spring. 

But suppose--suppose that it was so--suppose that through Guida thefurther succession might presently be made sure, and suppose he went tothe Prince and told him all; that might win his favour for her; and therest would be easy. That was it, as clear as day. Meanwhile he wouldhold his peace, and abide the propitious hour. 

For, above all else--and this was the thing that clinched the purposein his mind--above all else, the Duke had, at best, but a brief time tolive. Only a week ago the Court physician had told him that any violenceor mental shock might snap the thread of existence. Clearly, the thingwas to go on as before, keep his marriage secret, meet the Countess, apparently accede to all the Duke proposed, and wait--and wait. 

With this clear purpose in his mind colouring all that he might say, yetcrippling the freedom of his thought, he sat down to write to Guida. He had not yet written to her, according to his parole: this issue wasclear; he could not send a letter to Guida until he was freed from thatcondition. It had been a bitter pill to swallow; and many times hehad had to struggle with himself since his arrival at the castle. Forwhatever the new ambitions and undertakings, there was still a womanin the lonely distance for whose welfare he was responsible, for whosehappiness he had yet done nothing, unless to give her his name undersombre conditions was happiness for her. All that he had done to remindhim of the wedded life he had so hurriedly, so daringly, so eloquentlyentered upon, was to send his young wife fifty pounds. Somehow, asthis fact flashed to his remembrance now, it made him shrink; it had acertain cold, commercial look which struck him unpleasantly. Perhaps, indeed, the singular and painful shyness--chill almost--with which Guidahad received the fifty pounds now communicated itself to him by theintangible telegraphy of the mind and spirit. 

All at once that bare, glacial fact of having sent her fifty poundsacted as an ironical illumination of his real position. He feltconscious that Guida would have preferred some simple gift, some littlething that women love, in token and remembrance, rather than thiscontribution to the common needs of existence. Now that he came to thinkof it, since he had left her in Jersey, he had never sent her ever sosmall a gift. He had never given her any gifts at all save the Maltesecross in her childhood--and her wedding-ring. As for the ring, it hadnever occurred to him that she could not wear it save in the stillnessof the night, unseen by any eye save her own. He could not know thatshe had been wont to go to sleep with the hand clasped to her breast, pressing close to her the one outward token she had of a new life, begunwith a sweetness which was very bitter and a bitterness only a littlesweet. 

Philip was in no fitting mood to write a letter. Too many emotions werein conflict in him at once. They were having their way with him; and, perhaps, in this very complexity of his feelings he came nearer to beingreally and acutely himself than he had ever been in his life. Indeed, there was a moment when he was almost ready to consign the Duke and allthat appertained to the devil or the deep sea, and to take his fate asit came. But one of the other selves of him calling down from the littleattic where dark things brood, told him that to throw up his presentchances would bring him no nearer and no sooner to Guida, and mustreturn him to the prison whence he came. 

Yet he would write to Guida now, and send the letter when he wasreleased from parole. His courage grew as the sentences spread outbefore him; he became eloquent. He told her how heavily the days andmonths went on apart from her. He emptied out the sensations of absence, loneliness, desire, and affection. All at once he stopped short. Itflashed upon him now that always his letters had been entirely of hisown doings; he had pictured himself always: his own loneliness, his owngrief at separation. He had never yet spoken of the details of her life, questioned her of this and of that, of all the little things which fillthe life of a woman--not because she loves them, but because she is awoman, and the knowledge and governance of little things is the habitof her life. His past egotism was borne in upon him now. He would try toatone for it. Now he asked her many questions in his letter. But onehe did not ask. He knew not how to speak to her of it. The fact that hecould not was a powerful indictment of his relations towards her, of histreatment of her, of his headlong courtship and marriage. 

So portions of this letter of his had not the perfect ring of truth, notthe conviction which unselfish love alone can beget. It was only at thelast, only when he came to a close, that the words went from him withthe sharp photography of his own heart. It came, perhaps, from a remorsewhich, for the instant, foreshadowed danger ahead; from an acute pityfor her; or perchance from a longing to forego the attempt upon anexalted place, and get back to the straightforward hours, such as thoseupon the Ecrehos, when he knew that he loved her. But the sharpness ofhis feelings rendered more intense now the declaration of his love. The phrases were wrung from him. "Good-bye--no, a la bonne heure, mydearest, " he wrote. "Good days are coming--brave, great days, when Ishall be free to strike another blow for England, both from withinand from without France; when I shall be, if all go well, the Princed'Avranche, Duc de Bercy, and you my perfect Princess. Good-bye! ThyPhilip, qui t'aime toujours. "

He had hardly written the last words when there came a knocking at hisdoor, and a servant entered. "His Highness offers his compliments tomonsieur, and will monsieur descend to meet the Marquis Grandjon-Larisseand the Comtesse Chantavoine, who have just arrived. "

For an instant Philip could scarce compose himself, but he sent amessage of obedience to the Duke's command, and prepared to go down. 

So it was come--not to-morrow, but to-day. Already the deep game was on. With a sigh which was half bitter and mocking laughter, he seized thepouncebox, dried his letter to Guida, and put it in his pocket. As hedescended the staircase, the last words of it kept assailing his mind, singing in his brain: "Thy Philip, qui t'aime toujours!"

CHAPTER XXII

Not many evenings after Philip's first interview with the ComtesseChantavoine, a visitor arrived at the castle. From his roundaboutapproach up the steep cliff in the dusk it was clear he wished to avoidnotice. Of gallant bearing, he was attired in a fashion unlike thecitizens of Bercy, or the Republican military often to be seen in thestreets of the town. The whole relief of the costume was white: whitesash, white cuffs turned back, white collar, white rosette and band, white and red bandeau, and the faint glitter of a white shirt. Incontrast were the black hat and plume, black top boots with huge spurs, and yellow breeches. He carried a gun and a sword, and a pistol wasstuck in the white sash. But one thing caught the eye more than allelse: a white square on the breast of the long brown coat, strangelyornamented with a red heart and a cross. He was evidently a soldier ofhigh rank, but not of the army of the Republic. 

The face was that of a devotee, not of peace but of war--of some forlorncrusade. It had deep enthusiasm, which yet to the trained observer wouldseem rather the tireless faith of a convert than the disposition of thenatural man. It was somewhat heavily lined for one so young, and themarks of a hard life were on him, but distinction and energy were in hislook and in every turn of his body. 

Arriving at the castle, he knocked at the postern. At first sight of himthe porter suspiciously blocked the entrance with his person, but seeingthe badge upon his breast, stood at gaze, and a look of keen curiositycrossed over his face. On the visitor announcing himself as aVaufontaine, this curiosity gave place to as keen surprise; he wasadmitted with every mark of respect, and the gates closed behind him. 

"Has his Highness any visitors?" he asked as he dismounted. 

The porter nodded assent. 

"Who are they?" He slipped a coin into the porter's hand. 

"One of the family--for so his Serene Highness calls him. "

"H'm, indeed! A Vaufontaine, friend?"

"No, monsieur, a d'Avranche. "

"What d'Avranche? Not Prince Leopold John?"

"No, monsieur, the name is the same as his Highness's. "

"Philip d'Avranche? Ah, from whence?"

"From Paris, monsieur, with his Highness. "

The visitor, whistling softly to himself, stood thinking a moment. 

Presently he said:

"How old is he?"

"About the same age as monsieur. "

"How does he occupy himself?"

"He walks, rides, talks with his Highness, asks questions of the people, reads in the library, and sometimes shoots and fishes. "

"Is he a soldier?"

"He carries no sword, and he takes long aim with a gun. "

A sly smile was lurking about the porter's mouth. The visitor drew fromhis pocket a second gold piece, and, slipping it into the other's hand, said:

"Tell it all at once. Who is the gentleman, and what is his businesshere? Is he, perhaps, on the side of the Revolution, or does he--keepbetter company?"

He looked keenly into the eyes of the porter, who screwed up his own, returning the gaze unflinchingly. Handing back the gold piece, the mananswered firmly:

"I have told monsieur what every one in the duchy knows; there's nocharge for that. For what more his Highness and--and those in hisHighness's confidence know, " he drew himself up with brusque importance, "there's no price, monsieur. "

"Body o' me, here's pride and vainglory!" answered the other. "But Iknow you, my fine Pergot, I knew you almost too well years ago; andthen you were not so sensitive; then you were a good Royalist like me, Pergot. "

This time he fastened the man's look with his own and held it untilPergot dropped his head before it. 

"I don't remember monsieur, " he answered, perturbed. 

"Of course not. The fine Pergot has a bad memory, like a goodRepublican, who by law cannot worship his God, or make the sign ofthe Cross, or, ask the priest to visit him when he's dying. A redRevolutionist is our Pergot now!"

"I'm as good a Royalist as monsieur, " retorted the man with someasperity. "So are most of us. Only--only his Highness says to us--"

"Don't gossip of what his Highness says, but do his bidding, Pergot. What a fool are you to babble thus! How d'ye know but I'm one ofFouche's or Barere's men? How d'ye know but there are five hundred menbeyond waiting for my whistle?"

The man changed instantly. His hand was at his side like lightning. "They'd never hear that whistle, monsieur, though you be Vaufontaine orno Vaufontaine!"

The other, smiling, reached out and touched him on the shoulder kindly. 

"My dear Frange Pergot, " said he, "that's the man I knew once, and thesort of man that's been fighting with me for the Church and for the Kingthese months past in the Vendee. Come, come, don't you know me, Pergot?Don't you remember the scapegrace with whom, for a jape, you waylaid myuncle the Cardinal and robbed him, then sold him back his jewelled watchfor a year's indulgences?"

"But no, no, " answered the man, crossing himself quickly, and by thedim lanthorn light peering into the visitor's face, "it is not possible, monsieur. The Comte Detricand de Tournay--God rest him!--died in theJersey Isle, with him they called Rullecour. "

"Well, well, you might at least remember this, " rejoined the other, andwith a smile he showed an old scar in the palm of his hand. 

A little later was ushered into the library of the castle the ComteDetricand de Tournay, who, under the name of Savary dit Detricand, had lived in the Isle of Jersey for many years. There he had beena dissipated idler, a keeper of worthless company, an alien coollyaccepting the hospitality of a country he had ruthlessly invaded as aboy. Now, returned from vagabondage, he was the valiant and honouredheir of the House of Vaufontaine, and heir-presumptive of the House ofBercy. 

True to his intention, Detricand had joined de la Rochejaquelein, theintrepid, inspired leader of the Vendee, whose sentiments became hisown--"If I advance, follow me; if I retreat, kill me; if I fall, avengeme. "

He had proven himself daring, courageous, resourceful. His unvaryinggaiety of spirits infected the simple peasants with a rebounding energy;his fearlessness inspired their confidence; his kindness to the wounded, friend or foe, his mercy to prisoners, the respect he showed devotedpriests who shared with the peasants the perils of war, made himbeloved. 

From the first all the leaders trusted him, and he sprang in a day, ashad done the peasants Cathelineau, d'Elbee, and Stofflet, or gentlemenlike Lescure and Bonchamp, and noble fighters like d'Antichamp and thePrince of Talmont, to an outstanding position in the Royalist army. Again and again he had been engaged in perilous sorties and leadingforlorn hopes. He had now come from the splendid victory at Saumur tourge his kinsman, the Duc de Bercy, to join the Royalists. 

He had powerful arguments to lay before a nobleman the whole traditionsof whose house were of constant alliance with the Crown of France, whosevery duchy had been the gift of a French monarch. Detricand had not seenthe Duke since he was a lad at Versailles, and there would be much inhis favour, for of all the Vaufontaines the Duke had reason to dislikehim least, and some winning power in him had of late grown deep andpenetrating. 

When the Duke entered upon him in the library, he was under theimmediate influence of a stimulating talk with Philip d'Avranche and thechief officers of the duchy. With the memory of past feuds and hatredsin his mind, and predisposed against any Vaufontaine, his greeting wascourteously disdainful, his manner preoccupied. 

Remarking that he had but lately heard of monsieur le comte's return toFrance, he hoped he had enjoyed his career in--was it then England orAmerica? But yes, he remembered, it began with an expedition to take theChannel Isles from England, an insolent, a criminal business in time ofpeace, fit only for boys or buccaneers. Had monsieur le comte then spentall these years in the Channel Isles--a prisoner perhaps? No? Fasteninghis eyes cynically on the symbol of the Royalist cause on Detricand'sbreast, he asked to what he was indebted for the honour of this presentvisit. Perhaps, he added drily, it was to inquire after his own health, which, he was glad to assure monsieur le comte and all his cousins ofVaufontaine, was never better. 

The face was like a leather mask, telling nothing of the arid sarcasm inthe voice. The shoulders were shrunken, the temples fallen in, the neckbehind was pinched, and the eyes looked out like brown beads alive withfire, and touched with the excitement of monomania. His last word hada delicate savagery of irony, though, too, there could be heard in thetone a defiance, arguing apprehension, not lost upon his visitor. 

Detricand had inwardly smiled during the old man's monologue, brokenonly by courteous, half-articulate interjections on his own part. Heknew too well the old feud between their houses, the ambition that hadpossessed many a Vaufontaine to inherit the dukedom of Bercy, and theDuke's futile revolt against that possibility. But for himself, now heirto the principality of Vaufontaine, and therefrom, by reversion, to thatof Bercy, it had no importance. 

He had but one passion now, and it burned clear and strong, itdominated, it possessed him. He would have given up any worldly honourto see it succeed. He had idled and misspent too many years, beenvaurien and ne'er-do-well too long to be sordid now. Even as thegrievous sinner, come from dark ways, turns with furious and tirelessstrength to piety and good works, so this vagabond of noble family, wheeling suddenly in his tracks, had thrown himself into a cause whichwas all sacrifice, courage, and unselfish patriotism--a holy warfare. The last bitter thrust of the Duke had touched no raw flesh, his witherswere unwrung. Gifted to thrust in return, and with warrant to do so, he put aside the temptation, and answered his kinsman with daylightclearness. 

"Monsieur le duc, " said he, "I am glad your health is good--it bettersuits the purpose of this interview. I am come on business, and on thatalone. I am from Saumur, where I left de la Rochejaquelein, Stofflet, Cathelineau, and Lescure masters of the city and victors over Coustard'sarmy. We have taken eleven thousand prisoners, and--"

"I have heard a rumour--" interjected the Duke impatiently. 

"I will give you fact, " continued Detricand, and he told of the seriesof successes lately come to the army of the Vendee. It was the heyday ofthe cause. 

"And how does all this concern me?" asked the Duke. 

"I am come to beg you to join us, to declare for our cause, for theChurch and for the King. Yours is of the noblest names in France. Willyou not stand openly for what you cannot waver from in your heart? Ifthe Duc de Bercy declares for us, others will come out of exile, andfrom submission to the rebel government, to our aid. My mission is tobeg you to put aside whatever reasons you may have had for alliance withthis savage government, and proclaim for the King. "

The Duke never took his eyes from Detricand's. 

What was going on behind that parchment face, who might say?

"Are you aware, " he answered Detricand at last, "that I could send youstraight from here to the guillotine?"

"So could the porter at your gates, but he loves France almost as wellas does the Duc de Bercy. "

"You take refuge in the fact that you are my kinsman, " returned the Dukeacidly. 

"The honour is stimulating, but I should not seek salvation by it. Ihave the greater safety of being your guest, " answered Detricand withdignity. 

"Too premature a sanctuary for a Vaufontaine!" retorted the Duke, fighting down growing admiration for a kinsman whose family he wouldgladly root out, if it lay in his power. 

Detricand made a gesture of impatience, for he felt that his appeal hadavailed nothing, and he had no heart for a battle of words. His wit hadbeen tempered in many fires, his nature was non-incandescent to praiseor gibe. He had had his share of pastime; now had come his share oftoil, and the mood for give and take of words was not on him. 

He went straight to the point now. Hopelessly he spoke the plain truth. 

"I want nothing of the Prince d'Avranche but his weight and power in acause for which the best gentlemen of France are giving their lives. Ifasten my eyes on France alone: I fight for the throne of Louis, not forthe duchy of Bercy. The duchy of Bercy may sink or swim for all of me, if so be it does not stand with us in our holy war. "

The Duke interjected a disdainful laugh. Suddenly there shot intoDetricand's mind a suggestion, which, wild as it was, might afterall belong to the grotesque realities of life. So he added withdeliberation:

"If alliance must still be kept with this evil government of France, then be sure there is no Vaufontaine who would care to inherit a duchyso discredited. To meet that peril the Duc de Bercy will do well toconsult his new kinsman--Philip d'Avranche. "

For a moment there was absolute silence in the room. The old nobleman'slook was like a flash of flame in a mask of dead flesh. The short upperlip was arrested in a sort of snarl, the fingers, half-closed, werehooked like talons, and the whole man was a picture of surprise, fury, and injured pride. The Duc de Bercy to be harangued to hisduty, scathed, measured, disapproved, and counselled, by a striplingVaufontaine--it was monstrous. 

It had the bitterness of aloes also, for in his own heart he knew thatDetricand spoke truth. The fearless appeal had roused him, for a momentat least, to the beauty and righteousness of a sombre, all but hopeless, cause, while the impeachment had pierced every sore in his heart. Hefelt now the smarting anger, the outraged vanity of the wrong-doer who, having argued down his own conscience, and believing he has blindedothers as himself, suddenly finds that himself and his motives are nakedbefore the world. 

Detricand had known regretfully, even as he spoke, that the Duke, nomatter what the reason, would not now ally himself with the Royalists;though, had his life been in danger, he still would have spoken thetruth. So he had been human enough to try and force open the doorof mystery by a biting suggestion; for he had a feeling that in thepresence of the mysterious kinsman, Philip d'Avranche, lay the cause ofthe Duke's resistance to his prayer. Who was this Philip d'Avranche? Atthe moment it seemed absurd to him that his mind should travel back tothe Isle of Jersey. 

The fury of the Duke was about to break forth, when the door of thechamber opened and Philip stepped inside. The silence holding two mennow held three, and a curious, cold astonishment possessed thetwo younger. The Duke was too blind with anger to see the startof recognition his visitors gave at sight of each other, and by aconcurrence of feeling neither Detricand nor Philip gave sign ofacquaintance. Wariness was Philip's cue, wondering caution Detricand'sattitude. 

The Duke spoke first. Turning from Philip, he said to Detricand withmalicious triumph:

"It will disconcert your pious mind to know I have yet one kinsman whocounts it no shame to inherit Bercy. Monsieur le comte, I give you herethe honour to know Captain Philip d'Avranche. "

Something of Detricand's old buoyant self came back to him. His faceflushed with sudden desire to laugh, then it paled in dumb astonishment. So this man, Philip d'Avranche, was to be set against him even in theheritage of his family, as for one hour in a Jersey kitchen they hadbeen bitter opposites. For the heritage of the Houses of Vaufontaineand Bercy he cared little--he had deeper ambitions; but this adventuringsailor roused in him again the private grudge he had once begged him toremember. Recovering himself, he answered meaningly, bowing low:

"The honour is memorable--and monstrous. " Philip set his teeth, butreplied: "I am overwhelmed to meet one whose reputation is known--inevery taproom. "

Neither had chance to say more, for the Duke, though not conceiving thecause or meaning of the biting words, felt the contemptuous suggestionin Detricand's voice, and burst out in anger:

"Go tell the prince of Vaufontaine that the succession is assured to myhouse. Monsieur my cousin, Captain Philip d'Avranche, is now my adoptedson; a wife is chosen for him, and soon, monsieur le comte, there willbe still another successor to the title. "

"The Duc de Bercy should add inspired domestic prophecy to the familyrecord in the 'Almanach de Gotha, "' answered Detricand. 

"God's death!" cried the old nobleman, trembling with rage, andstretching towards the bell-rope, "you shall go to Paris and the Temple. Fouche will take care of you. "

"Stop, monsieur le duc!" Detricand's voice rang through the room. "Youshall not betray even the humblest of your kinsmen, like that monsterd'Orleans who betrayed the highest of his. Be wise: there are hundredsof your people who still will pass a Royalist on to safety. "

The Duke's hand dropped from the bell-rope. He knew that Detricand'swords were true. Ruling himself to quiet, he said with cold hatred:

"Like all your breed, crafty and insolent. But I will make you pay forit one day. "

Glancing towards Philip as though to see if he could move him, Detricandanswered: "Make no haste on my behalf; years are not of such moment tome as to your Highness. "

Philip saw Detricand's look, and felt his moment and his chance hadcome. "Monsieur le comte!" he exclaimed threateningly. 

The Duke glanced proudly at Philip. "You will collect the debt, cousin, "said he, and the smile on his face was wicked as he again turned towardsDetricand. 

"With interest well compounded, " answered Philip firmly. 

Detricand smiled. "I have drawn the Norman-Jersey cousin, then?" saidhe. "Now we can proceed to compliments. " Then with a change of mannerhe added quietly: "Your Highness, may the House of Bercy have no worseenemy than I! I came only to plead the cause which, if it give death, gives honour too. And I know well that at least you are not against usin heart. Monsieur d'Avranche"--he turned to Philip, and his wordswere slow and deliberate--"I hope we may yet meet in the Place du VierPrison--but when and where you will; and you shall find me in the Vendeewhen you please. " So saying, he bowed, and, turning, left the room. 

"What meant the fellow by his Place du Vier Prison?" asked the Duke. 

"Who knows, monsieur le duc?" answered Philip. "A fanatic like all theVaufontaines--a roysterer yesterday, a sainted chevalier to-morrow, "said the Duke irritably. "But they still have strength andbeauty--always!" he added reluctantly. Then he looked at the strong andcomely frame before him, and was reassured. He laid a hand on Philip'sbroad shoulder, and said admiringly:

"You will of course have your hour with him, cousin: but not--not tillyou are a d'Avranche of Bercy. "

"Not till I am a d'Avranche of Bercy, " responded Philip in a low voice. 

CHAPTER XXIII

With what seemed an unnecessary boldness Detricand slept that night atthe inn, "The Golden Crown, " in the town of Bercy: a Royalist of theVendee exposing himself to deadly peril in a town sworn to alliance withthe Revolutionary Government. He knew that the town, even the inn, mightbe full of spies; but one other thing he also knew: the innkeeper of"The Golden Crown" would not betray him, unless he had greatly changedsince fifteen years ago. Then they had been friends, for his uncleof Vaufontaine had had a small estate in Bercy itself, in ironicalproximity to the castle. 

He walked boldly into the inn parlour. There were but four men in theroom--the landlord, two stout burghers, and Frange Pergot, the porterof the castle, who had lost no time carrying his news: not to betray hisold comrade in escapade, but to tell a chosen few, Royalists under therose, that he had seen one of those servants of God, an officer of theVendee. 

At sight of the white badge with the red cross on Detricand's coat, thefour stood up and answered his greeting with devout respect; and he hadspeedy assurance that in this inn he was safe from betrayal. Presentlyhe learned that three days hence a meeting of the States of Bercy was tobe held for setting the seal upon the Duke's formal adoption of Philip, and to execute a deed of succession. It was deemed certain that, erethis, the officer sent to England would have returned with Philip'sfreedom and King George's licence to accept the succession in the duchy. From interest in these matters alone Detricand would not have remainedat Bercy, but he thought to use the time for secretly meeting officersof the duchy likely to favour the cause of the Royalists. 

During these three days of waiting he heard with grave concern arumour that the great meeting of the States would be marked by Philip'sbetrothal with the Comtesse Chantavoine. He cared naught for thesuccession, but there was ever with him the remembrance of GuidaLandresse de Landresse, and what touched Philip d'Avranche he had cometo associate with her. Of the true relations between Guida and Philip heknew nothing, but from that last day in Jersey he did know that Philiphad roused in her emotions, perhaps less vital than love but certainlyless equable than friendship. 

Now in his fear that Guida might suffer, the more he thought of theComtesse Chantavoine as the chosen wife of Philip the more it troubledhim. He could not shake off oppressive thoughts concerning Guidaand this betrothal. They interwove themselves through all his secretbusiness with the Royalists of Bercy. For his own part, he would havegone far and done much to shield her from injury. He had seen andknown in her something higher than Philip might understand--a simplewomanliness, a profound depth of character. His pledge to her hadbeen the key-note of his new life. Some day, if he lived and his causeprospered, he would go back to Jersey--too late perhaps to tell herwhat was in his heart, but not too late to tell her the promise had beenkept. 

It was a relief when the morning of the third day came, bright andjoyous, and he knew that before the sun went down he should be on hisway back to Saumur. 

His friend the innkeeper urged him not to attend the meeting of theStates of Bercy, lest he should be recognised by spies of government. Hewas, however, firm in his will to go, but he exchanged his coat with thered cross for one less conspicuous. 

With this eventful morn came the news that the envoy to England hadreturned with Philip's freedom by exchange of prisoners, and withthe needful licence from King George. But other news too was carryingthrough the town: the French Government, having learned of the Duke'sintentions towards Philip, had despatched envoys from Paris to forbidthe adoption and deed of succession. 

Though the Duke would have defied them, it behoved him to end thematter, if possible, before these envoys' arrival. The States thereforewas hurriedly convened two hours before the time appointed, and the racebegan between the Duke and the emissaries of the French Government. 

It was a perfect day, and as the brilliant procession wound down thegreat rock from the castle, in ever-increasing, glittering line, theeffect was mediaeval in its glowing splendour. All had been ready fortwo days, and the general enthusiasm had seized upon the occasion withan adventurous picturesqueness, in keeping with this strange elevationof a simple British captain to royal estate. This buoyant, clear-faced, stalwart figure had sprung suddenly out of the dark into the garishlight of sovereign place, and the imagination of the people had beentouched. He was so genial too, so easy-mannered, this d'Avranche ofJersey, whose genealogy had been posted on a hundred walls and carriedby a thousand mouths through the principality. As Philip rode past onthe left of the exulting Duke, the crowds cheered him wildly. Only onthe faces of Comte Carignan Damour and his friends was discontent, andthey must perforce be still. Philip himself was outwardly calm, with that desperate quiet which belongs to the most perilous, mostadventurous achieving. Words he had used many years ago in Jersey keptringing in his ears--"'Good-bye, Sir Philip'--I'll be more than thatsome day. "

The Assembly being opened, in a breathless silence the Governor-Generalof the duchy read aloud the licence of the King of England for Philipd'Avranche, an officer in his navy, to assume the honours to beconferred upon him by the Duke and the States of Bercy. Then, by commandof the Duke, the President of the States read aloud the new order ofsuccession:

"1. To the Hereditary Prince Leopold John and his heirs male; in defaultof which to

"2. The Prince successor, Philip d'Avranche and his heirs male; indefault of which to

"3. The heir male of the House of Vaufontaine. "

Afterwards came reading of the deed of gift by which the Duke made overto Prince Philip certain possessions in the province of d'Avranche. Toall this the assent of Prince Leopold John had been formally secured. After the Assembly and the chief officers of the duchy should haveratified these documents and the Duke signed them, they were to beenclosed in a box with three locks and deposited with the SovereignCourt at Bercy. Duplicates were also to be sent to London and registeredin the records of the College of Arms. Amid great enthusiasm, theStates, by unanimous vote, at once ratified the documents. The onenotable dissentient was the Intendant, Count Carignan Damour, thedevout ally of the French Government. It was he who had sent Fouche wordconcerning Philip's adoption; it was also he who had at last, throughhis spies, discovered Detricand's presence in the town, and had takenaction thereupon. In the States, however, he had no vote, and wisdomkept him silent, though he was watchful for any chance to delay eventsagainst the arrival of the French envoys. 

They should soon be here, and, during the proceedings in the States, he watched the doors anxiously. Every minute that passed made him morerestless, less hopeful. He had a double motive in preventing this newsuccession. With Philip as adopted son and heir there would be fewerspoils of office; with Philip as duke there would be none at all, for the instinct of distrust and antipathy was mutual. Besides, as aRepublican, he looked for his reward from Fouche in good time. 

Presently it was announced by the President that the signatures to theacts of the States would be set in private. Thereupon, with all theconcourse standing, the Duke, surrounded by the law, military, and civilofficers of the duchy, girded upon Philip the jewelled sword whichhad been handed down in the House of d'Avranche from generation togeneration. The open function being thus ended, the people were enjoinedto proceed at once to the cathedral, where a Te Deum would be sung. 

The public then retired, leaving the Duke and a few of the highestofficials of the duchy to formally sign and seal the deeds. When theouter doors were closed, one unofficial person remained--Comte Detricandde Tournay, of the House of Vaufontaine. Leaning against a pillar, hestood looking calmly at the group surrounding the Duke at the greatcouncil-table. 

Suddenly the Duke turned to a door at the right of the President'schair, and, opening it, bowed courteously to some one beyond. An instantafterwards there entered the Comtesse Chantavoine, with her uncle theMarquis Grandjon-Larisse, an aged and feeble but distinguished figure. They advanced towards the table, the lady on the Duke's arm, and Philip, saluting them gravely, offered the Marquis a chair. At first the Marquisdeclined it, but the Duke pressed him, and in the subsequent proceedingshe of all the number was seated. 

Detricand apprehended the meaning of the scene. This was the lady whomthe Duke had chosen as wife for the new Prince. The Duke had invited theComtesse to witness the final act which was to make Philip d'Avranchehis heir in legal fact as by verbal proclamation; not doubting that theromantic nature of the incident would impress her. He had even hopedthat the function might be followed by a formal betrothal in thepresence of the officials; and the situation might still have beencritical for Philip had it not been for the pronounced reserve of theComtesse herself. 

Tall, of gracious and stately carriage, the curious quietness of theface of the Comtesse would have been almost an unbecoming gravity wereit not that the eyes, clear, dark, and strong, lightened it. The mouthhad a somewhat set sweetness, even as the face was somewhat fixed inits calm. In her bearing, in all her motions, there was a regal quality;yet, too, something of isolation, of withdrawal, in her self-possessionand unruffled observation. She seemed, to Detricand, a figure apart, a woman whose friendship would be everlasting, but whose love would bemore an affectionate habit than a passion; and in whom devotion would bestrong because devotion was the key-note of her nature. The dress of anun would have turned her into a saint; of a peasant would have made hera Madonna; of a Quaker, would have made her a dreamer and a devote; of aqueen, would have made her benign yet unapproachable. It struck himall at once as he looked, that this woman had one quality in absolutekinship with Guida Landresse--honesty of mind and nature; only withthis young aristocrat the honesty would be without passion. She hadstraight-forwardness, a firm if limited intellect, a clear-mindednessbelonging somewhat to narrowness of outlook, but a genuine capacity forunderstanding the right and the wrong of things. Guida, so Detricandthought, might break her heart and live on; this woman would break herheart and die: the one would grow larger through suffering, the othershrink to a numb coldness. 

So he entertained himself by these flashes of discernment, presentlymerged in wonderment as to what was in Philip's mind as he stood there, destiny hanging in that drop of ink at the point of the pen in theDuke's fingers!

Philip was thinking of the destiny, but more than all else just now hewas thinking of the woman before him and the issue to be faced by himregarding her. His thoughts were not so clear nor so discerning asDetricand's. No more than he understood Guida did he understandthis clear-eyed, still, self-possessed woman. He thought her cold, unsympathetic, barren of that glow which should set the pulses of a manlike himself bounding. It never occurred to him that these still watersran deep, that to awaken this seemingly glacial nature, to kindle a fireon this altar, would be to secure unto his life's end a steady, enduringflame of devotion. He revolted from her; not alone because he had awife, but because the Comtesse chilled him, because with her, in anycase, he should never be able to play the passionate lover as he haddone with Guida; and with Philip not to be the passionate lover was tobe no lover at all. One thing only appealed to him: she was the ComtesseChantavoine, a fitting consort in the eyes of the world for a sovereignduke. He was more than a little carried off his feet by the marvel ofthe situation. He could think of nothing quite clearly; everything wasconfused and shifting in his mind. 

The first words of the Duke were merely an informal greeting to hiscouncil and the high officers present. He was about to speak furtherwhen some one drew his attention to Detricand's presence. An order wasgiven to challenge the stranger, but Detricand, without waiting for theapproach of the officer, advanced towards the table, and, addressing theDuke, said:

"The Duc de Bercy will not forbid the presence of his cousin, Detricandde Tournay, at this impressive ceremony?"

The Duke, dumfounded, though he preserved an outward calm, could notanswer for an instant. Then with a triumphant, vindictive smile whichpuckered his yellow cheeks like a wild apple, he said:

"The Comte de Tournay is welcome to behold an end of the ambitions ofthe Vaufontaines. " He looked towards Philip with an exultingpride. "Monsieur le Comte is quite right, " he added, turning to hiscouncil--"he may always claim the privileges of a relative of theBercys; but the hospitality goes not beyond my house and my presence, and monsieur le comte will understand my meaning. "

At that moment Detricand caught the eye of Damour the Intendant, and heunderstood perfectly. This man, the innkeeper had told him, was known tobe a Revolutionary, and he felt he was in imminent danger. 

He came nearer, however, bowing to all present, and, making no reply tothe Duke save a simple, "I thank your Highness, " took a place near thecouncil-table. 

The short ceremony of signing the deeds immediately followed. A fewformal questions were asked of Philip, to which he briefly replied, andafterwards he made the oath of allegiance to the Duke, with his handupon the ancient sword of the d'Avranches. These preliminaries ended, the Duke was just stooping to put his pen to the paper for signature, when the Intendant, as much to annoy Philip as still to stay theproceedings against the coming of Fouche's men, said:

"It would appear that one question has been omitted in the formalitiesof this Court. " He paused dramatically. He was only aiming a randomshot; he would make the most of it. 

The Duke looked up perturbed, and said sharply: "What is that--what isthat, monsieur?"

"A form, monsieur le duc, a mere form. Monsieur"--he bowed towardsPhilip politely--"monsieur is not already married? There is no--" Hepaused again. 

For an instant there was absolute stillness. Philip had felt his heartgive one great thump of terror: Did the Intendant know anything? DidDetricand know anything. 

Standing rigid for a moment, his pen poised, the Duke looked sharplyat the Intendant and then still more sharply at Philip. The progress ofthat look had granted Philip an instant's time to recover his composure. He was conscious that the Comtesse Chantavoine had given a little start, and then had become quite still and calm. Now her eyes were intentlyfixed upon him. 

He had, however, been too often in physical danger to lose his nerve atthis moment. The instant was big with peril; it was the turning pointof his life, and he felt it. His eyes dropped towards the spot of ink atthe point of the pen the Duke held. It fascinated him, it was destiny. 

He took a step nearer to the table, and, drawing himself up, looked hisprincely interlocutor steadily in the eyes. 

"Of course there is no marriage--no woman?" asked the Duke a littlehoarsely, his eyes fastened on Philip's. With steady voice Philipreplied: "Of course, monsieur le duc. "

There was another stillness. Some one sighed heavily. It was theComtesse Chantavoine. 

The next instant the Duke stooped, and wrote his signature three timeshurriedly upon the deeds. 

A moment afterwards, Detricand was in the street, making towards "TheGolden Crown. " As he hurried on he heard the galloping of horses aheadof him. Suddenly some one plucked him by the arm from a doorway. 

"Quick--within!" said a voice. It was that of the Duke's porter, FrangePergot. Without hesitation or a word, Detricand did as he was bid, andthe door clanged to behind him. 

"Fouche's men are coming down the street; spies have betrayed you, "whispered Pergot. "Follow me. I will hide you till night, and then youmust away. "

Pergot had spoken the truth. But Detricand was safely hidden, andFouche's men came too late to capture the Vendean chief or to forbidthose formal acts which made Philip d'Avranche a prince. 

Once again at Saumur, a week later, Detricand wrote a long letter toCarterette Mattingley, in Jersey, in which he set forth these strangeevents at Bercy, and asked certain questions concerning Guida. 

CHAPTER XXIV

Since the day of his secret marriage with Guida, Philip had been carriedalong in the gale of naval preparation and incidents of war as a leaf isborne onward by a storm--no looking back, to-morrow always the goal. Butas a wounded traveller nursing carefully his hurt seeks shelter fromthe scorching sun and the dank air, and travels by little stages lesthe never come at all to friendly hostel, so Guida made her way slowlythrough the months of winter and of spring. 

In the past, it had been February to Guida because the yellow Lentenlilies grew on all the sheltered cotils; March because the periwinkleand the lords-and-ladies came; May when the cliffs were a blaze ofgolden gorse and the perfume thereof made all the land sweet as ahoneycomb. 

Then came the other months, with hawthorn trees and hedges all in blow;the honeysuckle gladdening the doorways, the lilac in bloomy thickets;the ox-eyed daisy of Whitsuntide; the yellow rose of St. Brelade thatlies down in the sand and stands up in the hedges; the "mergots" which, like good soldiers, are first in the field and last out of it; theunscented dog-violets, orchises and celandines; the osier beds, the ivyon every barn; the purple thrift in masses on the cliff; the sea-thistlein its glaucous green--"the laughter of the fields whose laugh wasgold. " And all was summer. 

Came a time thereafter, when the children of the poor gatheredblackberries for preserves and home made wine; when the wild stockflowered in St. Ouen's Bay; when the bracken fern was gathered fromevery cotil, and dried for apple-storing, for bedding for the cherishedcow, for back-rests for the veilles, and seats round the winter fire;when peaches, apricots, and nectarines made the walls sumptuous red andgold; when the wild plum and crab-apple flourished in secluded roadways, and the tamarisk dropped its brown pods upon the earth. And all this wasautumn. 

At last, when the birds of passage swept aloft, snipe and teal andbarnacle geese, and the rains began; when the green lizard with itsturquoise-blue throat vanished; when the Jersey crapaud was heardcroaking no longer in the valleys and the ponds; and the cows were wellblanketed--then winter had come again. 

Such was the association of seasons in Guida's mind until one day of acertain year, when for a few hours a man had called her his wife, andthen had sailed away. There was no log that might thereafter record thedays and weeks unwinding the coils of an endless chain into that seawhither Philip had gone. 

Letters she had had, two letters, one in January, one in March. Howmany times, when a Channel-packet came in, did she go to the doorway andwatch for old Mere Rossignol, making the rounds with her hand basket, chanting the names of those for whom she had letters; and how many timesdid she go back to the kitchen, choking down a sob!

The first letter from Philip was at once a blessing and a blow; it wasa reassurance and it was a misery. It spoke of bread, as it were, yetoffered a stone. It eloquently, passionately told of his love; but italso told, with a torturing ease, that the Araminta was commissionedwith sealed orders, and he did not know when he should see her nor whenhe should be able to write again. War had been declared against France, and they might not touch a port nor have chance to send a letter bya homeward vessel for weeks, and maybe months. This was painful, ofcourse, but it was fate, it was his profession, and it could not behelped. Of course--she must understand--he would write constantly, telling her, as through a kind of diary, what he was doing every day, and then when the chance came the big budget should go to her. 

A pain came to Guida's heart as she read the flowing tale of his buoyantlove. Had she been the man and he the woman, she could never havewritten so smoothly of "fate, " and "profession, " nor told of thisseparation with so complaisant a sorrow. With her the words would havebeen wrenched forth from her heart, scarred into the paper with thebitterness of a spirit tried beyond enduring. 

With what enthusiasm did Philip, immediately after his heart-breakingnews, write of what the war might do for him; what avenues ofadvancement it might open up, what splendid chances it would offerfor success in his career! Did he mean that to comfort her, she askedherself. Did he mean it to divert her from the pain of the separation, to give her something to hope for? She read the letter over and overagain--yet no, she could not, though her heart was so willing, find thatmeaning in it. It was all Philip, Philip full of hope, purpose, prowess, ambition. Did he think--did he think that that could ease the pain, could lighten the dark day settling down on her? Could he imagine thatanything might compensate for his absence in the coming months, inthis year of all years in her life? His lengthened absence might beinevitable, it might be fate, but could he not see the bitter cruelty ofit? He had said that he would be back with her again in two months; andnow--ah, did he not know!

As the weeks came and went again she felt that indeed he did notknow--or care, maybe. 

Some natures cling to beliefs long after conviction has been shattered. These are they of the limited imagination, the loyal, the pertinacious, and the affectionate, the single-hearted children of habit; blindwhere they do not wish to see, stubborn where their inclinations lie, unamenable to reason, wholly held by legitimate obligations. 

But Guida was not of these. Her brain and imagination were as strong asher affections. Her incurable honesty was the deepest thing in her; shedid not know even how to deceive herself. As her experience deepenedunder the influence of a sorrow which still was joy, and a joy thatstill was sorrow, her vision became acute and piercing. Her mind waslike some kaleidoscope. Pictures of things, little and big, which hadhappened to her in her life, flashed by her inner vision in furiousprocession. It was as if, in the photographic machinery of the brain, some shutter had slipped from its place, and a hundred orderless andungoverned pictures, loosed from natural restraint, rushed by. 

Five months had gone since Philip had left her: two months since shehad received his second letter, months of complexity of feeling; oftremulousness of discovery; of hungry eagerness for news of the war; ofsudden little outbursts of temper in her household life--a new thingin her experience; of passionate touches of tenderness towards hergrandfather; of occasional biting comments in the conversations betweenthe Sieur and the Chevalier, causing both gentlemen to look at eachother in silent amaze; of as marked lapses into listless disregard ofany talk going on around her. 

She had been used often to sit still, doing nothing, in a sort ofphysical content, as the Sieur and his visitors talked; now her handswere always busy, knitting, sewing, or spinning, the steady gaze uponthe work showing that her thoughts were far away. Though the Chevalierand her grandfather vaguely noted these changes, they as vaguely setthem down to her growing womanhood. In any case, they held it was notfor them to comment upon a woman or upon a woman's ways. And a girl likeGuida was an incomprehensible being, with an orbit and a system allher own; whose sayings and doings were as little to be reduced to theirunderstandings as the vagaries of any star in the Milky Way or thecurrents in St. Michael's Basin. 

One evening she sat before the fire thinking of Philip. Her grandfatherhad retired earlier than usual. Biribi lay asleep on the veille. Therewas no sound save the ticking of the clock on the mantel above her head, the dog's slow breathing, the snapping of the log on the fire, and asoft rush of heat up the chimney. The words of Philip's letters, fromwhich she had extracted every atom of tenderness they held, were alwaysin her ears. At last one phrase kept repeating itself to her like someplaintive refrain, torturing in its mournful suggestion. It was this:"But you see, beloved, though I am absent from you I shall have suchsplendid chances to get on. There's no limit to what this war may do forme. "

Suddenly Guida realised how different was her love from Philip's, howdifferent her place in his life from his place in her life. She reasonedwith herself, because she knew that a man's life was work in the world, and that work and ambition were in his bones and in his blood, hadbeen carried down to him through centuries of industrious, ambitiousgenerations of men: that men were one race and women were another. A manwas bound by the conditions governing the profession by which he earnedhis bread and butter and played his part in the world, while strivingto reach the seats of honour in high places. He must either live by thelaw, fulfil to the letter his daily duties in the business of life, ordrop out of the race; while a woman, in the presence of man's immoderateambition, with bitterness and tears, must learn to pray, "O Lord, havemercy upon us, and incline our hearts to keep this law. "

Suddenly the whole thing resolved itself in Guida's mind, and herthinking came to a full stop. She understood now what was the right andwhat the wrong; and, child as she was in years, woman in thought andexperience, yielding to the impulse of the moment, she buried her facein her hands and burst into tears. 

"O Philip, Philip, Philip, " she sobbed aloud, "it was not right of youto marry me; it was wicked of you to leave me!" Then in her mind shecarried on the impeachment and reproach. If he had married her openlyand left her at once, it would have been hard to bear, but in thecircumstances it might have been right. If he had married her secretlyand left her at the altar, so keeping the vow he had made her when shepromised to become his wife, that might have been pardonable. But tomarry her as he did, and then, breaking his solemn pledge, leave her--itwas not right in her eyes; and if not right in the eyes of her who lovedhim, in whose would it be right?

To these definitions she had come at last. 

It is an eventful moment, a crucial ordeal for a woman, when she forcesherself to see the naked truth concerning the man she has loved, yet theman who has wronged her. She is born anew in that moment: it may be tolove on, to blind herself, and condone and defend, so lowering her ownmoral tone; or to congeal in heart, become keener in intellect, scornfuland bitter with her own sex and merciless towards the other, indifferentto blame and careless of praise, intolerant, judging all the world byher own experience, incredulous of any true thing. Or again she maybecome stronger, sadder, wiser; condoning nothing, minimising nothing, deceiving herself in nothing, and still never forgiving at least onething--the destruction of an innocent faith and a noble credulity;seeing clearly the whole wrong; with a strong intelligence measuringperfectly the iniquity; but out of a largeness of nature and by virtueof a high sense of duty, devoting her days to the salvation of a man'shonour, to the betterment of one weak or wicked nature. 

Of these last would have been Guida. 

"O Philip, Philip, you have been wicked to me!" she sobbed. 

Her tears fell upon the stone hearth, and the fire dried them. Everyteardrop was one girlish feeling and emotion gone, one bright fancy, onetender hope vanished. She was no longer a girl. There were troubles anddangers ahead of her, but she must now face them dry-eyed and alone. 

In his second letter Philip had told her to announce the marriage, andsaid that he would write to her grandfather explaining all, and also tothe Rev. Lorenzo Dow. She had waited and watched for that letter to hergrandfather, but it had not come. As for Mr. Dow, he was a prisoner withthe French; and he had never given her the marriage certificate. 

There was yet another factor in the affair. While the island wasagog over Mr. Dow's misfortune, there had been a bold robbery at St. Michael's Rectory of the strong-box containing the communion plate, theparish taxes for the year, and--what was of great moment to at least oneperson--the parish register of deaths, baptisms, and marriages. Thus itwas that now no human being in Jersey could vouch that Guida had beenmarried. 

Yet these things troubled her little. How easily could Philip set allright! If he would but come back--that at first was her only thought;for what matter a ring, or any proof or proclamation without Philip!

It did not occur to her at first that all these things were needed tosave her from shame in the eyes of the world. If she had thought ofthem apprehensively, she would have said to herself, how easy to set allright by simply announcing the marriage! And indeed she would have doneso when war was declared and Philip received his new command, but thatshe had wished the announcement to come from him. Well, that would comein any case when his letter to her grandfather arrived. No doubt it hadmissed the packet by which hers came, she thought. 

But another packet and yet another arrived; and still there was noletter from Philip for the Sieur de Mauprat. Winter had come, and springhad gone, and now summer was at hand. Haymaking was beginning, the wildstrawberries were reddening among the clover, and in her garden, appleshad followed the buds on the trees beneath which Philip had told hisfateful tale of love. 

At last a third letter arrived, but it brought little joy to her heart. It was extravagant in terms of affection, but somehow it fell shortof the true thing, for its ardour was that of a mind preoccupied, andunderneath all ran a current of inherent selfishness. It delighted inthe activity of his life, it was full of hope, of promise of happinessfor them both in the future, but it had no solicitude for Guida in thepresent. It chilled her heart--so warm but a short season ago--thatPhilip to whom she had once ascribed strength, tenderness, profoundthoughtfulness, should concern himself so little in the details of herlife. For the most part, his letters seemed those of an ardent lover whoknew his duty and did it gladly, but with a self-conscious and flowingeloquence, costing but small strain of feeling. 

In this letter he was curious to know what the people in Jersey saidabout their marriage. He had written to Lorenzo Dow and her grandfather, he said, but had heard afterwards that the vessel carrying the lettershad been taken by a French privateer; and so they had not arrived inJersey. But of course she had told her grandfather and all the islandof the ceremony performed at St. Michael's. He was sending her fiftypounds, his first contribution to their home; and, the war over, a pretty new home she certainly should have. He would write to hergrandfather again, though this day there was no time to do so. 

Guida realised now that she must announce the marriage at once. But whatproofs of it had she? There was the ring Philip had given her, inscribedwith their names; but she was sophisticated enough to know that thiswould not be adequate evidence in the eyes of her Jersey neighbours. The marriage register of St. Michael's, with its record, was stolen, and that proof was gone. Lastly, there were Philip's letters; but no--athousand times no!--she would not show Philip's letters to any humanbeing; even the thought of it hurt her delicacy, her self-respect. Herheart burned with fresh bitterness to think that there had been a secretmarriage. How hard it was at this distance of time to tell the world thetale, and to be forced to prove it by Philip's letters. No, no, in spiteof all, she could not do it--not yet. She would still wait the arrivalof his letter to her grandfather. If it did not come soon, then she mustbe brave and tell her story. 

She went to the Vier Marchi less now. Also fewer folk stood gossipingwith her grandfather in the Place du Vier Prison, or by the well atthe front door--so far he had not wondered why. To be sure, MaitresseAimable came oftener; but, since that notable day at Sark, Guida hadresolutely avoided reference, however oblique, to Philip and herself. In her dark days the one tenderly watchful eye upon her was that of theegregiously fat old woman called the "Femme de Ballast, " whose thicktongue clave to the roof of her mouth, whose outer attractions were someagre that even her husband's chief sign of affection was to pull hergreat toe, passing her bed of a morning to light the fire. 

Carterette Mattingley also came, but another friend who had watched overGuida for years before Philip appeared in the Place du Vier Prisonnever entered her doorway now. Only once or twice since that day onthe Ecrehos, so fateful to them both, had Guida seen Ranulph. He hadwithdrawn to St. Aubin's Bay, where his trade of ship-building wascarried on, and having fitted up a small cottage, lived a secluded lifewith his father there. Neither of them appeared often in St. Heliers, and they were seldom or never seen in the Vier Marchi. 

Carterette saw Ranulph little oftener than did Guida, but she knew whathe was doing, being anxious to know, and every one's business beingevery one else's business in Jersey. In the same way Ranulph knew ofGuida. What Carterette was doing Ranulph was not concerned to know, andso knew little; and Guida knew and thought little of how Ranulph fared:which was part of the selfishness of love. 

But one day Carterette received a letter from France which excited hergreatly, and sent her off hot-foot to Guida. In the same hour Ranulphheard a piece of hateful gossip which made him fell to the ground theman who told him, and sent him with white face, and sick, yet indignantheart, to the cottage in the Place du Vier Prison. 

CHAPTER XXV

Guida was sitting on the veille reading an old London paper she hadbought of the mate of the packet from Southampton. One page containedan account of the execution of Louis XVI; another reported the fightbetween the English thirty-six gun frigate Araminta and the FrenchNiobe. The engagement had been desperate, the valiant Araminta havingbeen fought, not alone against odds as to her enemy, but against theirresistible perils of a coast upon which the Admiralty charts gavecruelly imperfect information. To the Admiralty we owed the fact, thejournal urged, that the Araminta was now at the bottom of the sea, and its young commander confined in a French fortress, his brave anddistinguished services lost to the country. Nor had the government yetsought to lessen the injury by arranging a cartel for the release of theunfortunate commander. 

The Araminta! To Guida the letters of the word seemed to stand out fromthe paper like shining hieroglyphs on a misty grey curtain. The rest ofthe page was resolved into a filmy floating substance, no more tangiblethan the ashy skeleton on which writing still lives when the paperitself has been eaten by flame, and the flame swallowed by the air. 

Araminta--this was all her eyes saw, that familiar name in the flaringhandwriting of the Genius of Life, who had scrawled her destiny in thatone word. 

Slowly the monstrous ciphers faded from the grey hemisphere of space, and she saw again the newspaper in her trembling fingers, the kitcheninto which the sunlight streamed from the open window, the dog Biribibasking in the doorway. That living quiet which descends upon a housewhen the midday meal and work are done came suddenly home to her, incontrast to the turmoil in her mind and being. 

So that was why Philip had not written to her! While her heart was dailygrowing more bitter against him, he had been fighting his vessel againstgreat odds, and at last had been shipwrecked and carried off a prisoner. A strange new understanding took possession of her. Her life suddenlywidened. She realised all at once how the eyes of the whole world mightbe fixed upon a single ship, a few cannon, and some scores of men. Thegeneral of a great army leading tens of thousands into the clash ofbattle--that had been always within her comprehension; but this wasalmost miraculous, this sudden projection of one ship and her commanderupon the canvas of fame. Philip had left her, unknown save to a few. With the nations turned to see, he had made a gallant and splendidfight, and now he was a prisoner in a French fortress. 

This then was why her grandfather had received no letter from himconcerning the marriage. Well, now she must speak for herself; she mustannounce it. Must she show Philip's letters?--No, no, she could not. .. . Suddenly a new suggestion came to her: there was one remaining proof. Since no banns had been published, Philip must have obtained a licensefrom the Dean of the island, and he would have a record of it. All shehad to do now was to get a copy of this record--but no, a license tomarry was no proof of marriage; it was but evidence of intention. 

Still, she would go to the Dean this very moment. 

It was not right that she should wait longer: indeed, in waiting so longshe had already done great wrong to herself--and to Philip perhaps. 

She rose from the veille with a sense of relief. No more of thissecrecy, making her innocence seem guilt; no more painful dreams ofpunishment for some intangible crime; no starting if she heard a suddenfootstep; no more hurried walk through the streets, looking neither toright nor to left; no more inward struggles wearing away her life. 

To-morrow--to-morrow--no, this very night, her grandfather and oneother, even Maitresse Aimable, should know all; and she should sleepquietly--oh, so quietly to-night!

Looking into a mirror on the wall--it had been a gift from hergrandfather--she smiled at herself. Why, how foolish of her it had beento feel so much and to imagine terrible things! Her eyes were shiningnow, and her hair, catching the sunshine from the window, glistened likeburnished copper. She turned to see how it shone on the temple and theside of her head. Philip had praised her hair. Her look lingered for amoment placidly on herself-then she started suddenly. A wave of feeling, a shiver, passed through her, her brow gathered, she flushed deeply. 

Turning away from the mirror, she went and sat down again on the edgeof the veille. Her mind had changed. She would go to the Dean's--butnot till it was dark. She suddenly thought it strange that the Dean hadnever said anything about the license. Why, again, perhaps he had. Howshould she know what gossip was going on in the town! But no, she wasquick to feel, and if there had been gossip she would have felt it inthe manner of her neighbours. Besides, gossip as to a license to marrywas all on the right side. She sighed--she had sighed so often oflate--to think what a tangle it all was, of how it would be smoothed outtomorrow, of what--

There was a click of the garden-gate, a footstep on the walk, ahalf-growl from Biribi, and the face of Carterette Mattingley appearedin the kitchen doorway. Seeing Guida seated on the veille, she came inquickly, her dancing dark eyes heralding great news. 

"Don't get up, ma couzaine, " she said, "please no. Sit just there, andI'll sit beside you. Ah, but I have the most wonderfuls!"

Carterette was out of breath. She had hurried here from her home. As shesaid herself, her two feet weren't in one shoe on the way, and that withher news made her quiver with excitement. 

At first, bursting with mystery, she could do no more than sit and lookin Guida's face. Carterette was quick of instinct in her way, but yetshe had not seen any marked change in her friend during the past fewmonths. She had been so busy thinking of her own particular secret thatshe was not observant of others. At times she met Ranulph, and then shewas uplifted, to be at once cast down again; for she saw that hisold cheerfulness was gone, that a sombreness had settled on him. Sheflattered herself, however, that she could lighten his gravity if shehad the right and the good opportunity; the more so that he no longervisited the cottage in the Place du Vier Prison. 

This drew her closer to Guida also, for, in truth, Carterette had noloftiness of nature. Like most people, she was selfish enough to hold aperson a little dearer for not standing in her own especial light. Longago she had shrewdly guessed that Guida's interest lay elsewhere thanwith Ranulph, and a few months back she had fastened upon Philip as theobject of her favour. That seemed no weighty matter, for many sailorshad made love to Carterette in her time, and knowing it was here to-dayand away to-morrow with them, her heart had remained untouched. Whythen should she think Guida would take the officer seriously where sheherself held the sailor lightly? But at the same time she felt sure thatwhat concerned Philip must interest Guida, she herself always cared tohear the fate of an old admirer, and this was what had brought her tothe cottage to-day. 

"Guess who's wrote me a letter?" she asked of Guida, who had taken upsome sewing, and was now industriously regarding the stitches. 

At Carterette's question, Guida looked up and said with a smile, "Someone you like, I see. "

Carterette laughed gaily. "Ba su, I should think I did--in a way. Butwhat's his name? Come, guess, Ma'm'selle Dignity. "

"Eh ben, the fairy godmother, " answered Guida, trying not to show aninterest she felt all too keenly; for nowadays it seemed to her that allnews should be about Philip. Besides, she was gaining time and preparingherself for--she knew not what. 

"O my grief!" responded the brown-eyed elf, kicking off a red slipper, and thrusting her foot into it again, "never a fairy godmother had I, unless it's old Manon Moignard the witch:

 "'Sas, son, bileton, My grand'methe a-fishing has gone: She'll gather the fins to scrape my jowl, And ride back home on a barnyard fowl!'

"Nannin, ma'm'selle, 'tis plain to be seen you can't guess what acornfield grows besides red poppies. " Laughing in sheer delight at themystery she was making, she broke off again into a whimsical nurseryrhyme:

 "'Coquelicot, j'ai mal au de Coquelicot, qu'est qui l'a fait? Coquelicot, ch'tai mon valet. '"

She kicked off the red slipper again. Flying half-way across the room, it alighted on the table, and a little mud from the heel dropped on theclean scoured surface. With a little moue of mockery, she got slowlyup and tiptoed across the floor, like a child afraid of being scolded. Gathering the dust carefully, and looking demurely askance at Guida thewhile, she tiptoed over again to the fireplace and threw it into thechimney. 

"Naughty Carterette, " she said at herself with admiring reproach, asshe looked in Guida's mirror, and added, glancing with farcical approvalround the room, "and it all shines like peacock's feather, too!"

Guida longed to snatch the letter from Carterette's hand and read it, but she only said calmly, though the words fluttered in her throat:

"You're as gay as a chaffinch, Garcon Carterette. " Garcon Carterette!Instantly Carterette sobered down. No one save Ranulph ever called herGarcon Carterette. Guida used Ranulph's name for Carterette, knowingthat it would change the madcap's mood. Carterette, to hide a suddenflush, stooped and slowly put on her slipper. Then she came back to theveille, and sat down again beside Guida, saying as she did so:

"Yes, I'm gay as a chaffinch--me. "

She unfolded the letter slowly, and Guida stopped sewing, butmechanically began to prick the linen lying on her knee with the pointof the needle. 

"Well, " said Carterette deliberately, "this letter's from a pend'loqueof a fellow--at least, we used to call him that--though if you come tothink, he was always polite as mended porringer. Often he hadn't twosous to rub against each other. And--and not enough buttons for hisclothes. "

Guida smiled. She guessed whom Carterette meant. "Has Monsieur Detricandmore buttons now?" she asked with a little whimsical lift of theeyebrows. 

"Ah bidemme, yes, and gold too, all over him--like that!" She made aquick sweeping gesture which would seem to make Detricand a very spangleof buttons. "Come, what do you think--he's a general now. 

"A general!" Instantly Guida thought of Philip and a kind of envy shotinto her heart that this idler Detricand should mount so high in a fewmonths--a man whose past had held nothing to warrant such success. "Ageneral--where?" she asked. 

"In the Vendee army, fighting for the new King of France--you know therebels cut off the last King's head. "

At another time Guida's heart would have throbbed with elation, forthe romance of that Vendee union of aristocrat and peasant fired herimagination; but she only said in the tongue of the people: "Ma fuifre, yes, I know!"

Carterette was delighted to thus dole out her news, and get due rewardof astonishment. "And he's another name, " she added. "At least it's notanother, he always had it, but he didn't call himself by it. Pardi, he'smore than the Chevalier; he's the Comte Detricand de Tournay--ah, then, believe me if you choose, there it is!"

She pointed to the signature of the letter, and with a gush of eloquenceexplained how it all was about Detricand the vaurien and Detricand theComte de Tournay. 

"Good riddance to Monsieur Savary dit Detricand, and good welcome tothe Comte de Tournay, " answered Guida, trying hard to humour Carterette, that she should sooner hear the news yet withheld. "And what followsafter?"

Carterette was half sorry that her great moment had come. She wishedshe could have linked out the suspense longer. But she let herself becomforted by the anticipated effect of her "wonderfuls. "

"I'll tell you what comes after--ah, but see then what a news I have foryou! You know that Monsieur d'Avranche--well, what do you think has cometo him?"

Guida felt as if a monstrous hand had her heart in its grasp, crushingit. Presentiment seized her. Carterette was busy running over thepages of the letter, and did not notice her colourless face. She hadno thought that Guida had any vital interest in Philip, and ruthlessly, though unconsciously, she began to torture the young wife as few aretortured in this world. 

She read aloud Detricand's description of his visit to the Castle ofBercy, and of the meeting with Philip. "'See what comes of a name!'"wrote Detricand. "'Here was a poor prisoner whose ancestor, hundredsof years ago, may or mayn't have been a relative of the d'Avranches ofClermont, when a disappointed duke, with an eye open for heirs, takes afancy to the good-looking face of the poor prisoner, and voila! you havehim whisked off to a palace, fed on milk and honey, and adopted into thefamily. Then a pedigree is nicely grown on a summer day, and this fineyoung Jersey adventurer is found to be a green branch from the old root;and there's a great blare of trumpets, and the States of the duchy arecalled together to make this English officer a prince--and that's theThousand and One Nights in Arabia, Ma'm'selle Carterette. '"

Guida was sitting rigid and still. In the slight pause Carterettemade, a hundred confused torturing thoughts swam through her mind andpresently floated into the succeeding sentences of the letter:

"'As for me, I'm like Rabot's mare, I haven't time to laugh at myown foolishness. I'm either up to my knees in grass or clay fightingRevolutionists, or I'm riding hard day and night till I'm round-backedlike a wood-louse, to make up for all the good time I so badly lost inyour little island. You wouldn't have expected that, my friend with thetongue that stings, would you? But then, Ma'm'selle of the red slippers, one is never butted save by a dishorned cow--as your father used tosay. "'

Carterette paused again, saying in an aside: "That is M'sieu' allover, all so gay. But who knows? For he says, too, that the other daya-fighting Fontenay, five thousand of his men come across a cavalry asthey run to take the guns that eat them up like cabbages, and they dropon their knees, and he drops with them, and they all pray to God to helpthem, while the cannon balls whiz-whiz over their heads. And God didhear them, for they fell down flat when the guns was fired and thecannon balls never touched 'em. "

During this interlude, Guida, sick with anxiety, could scarcely sitstill. She began sewing again, though her fingers trembled so she couldhardly make a stitch. But Carterette, the little egoist, did not noticeher agitation; her own flurry dimmed her sight. 

She began reading again. The first few words had little or nosignificance for Guida, but presently she was held as by the fascinationof a serpent. 

"'And Ma'm'selle Carterette, what do you think this young captain, nowPrince Philip d'Avranche, heir to the title of Bercy--what do you thinkhe is next to do? Even to marry a countess of great family the old Dukehas chosen for him; so that the name of d'Avranche may not die out inthe land. And that is the way that love begins. .. . Wherefore, I want youto write and tell me--'"

What he wanted Carterette to tell him Guida never heard, though itconcerned herself, for she gave a moan like a dumb animal in agony, andsat rigid and blanched, the needle she had been using embedded in herfinger to the bone, but not a motion, not a sign of animation in face orfigure. 

All at once, some conception of the truth burst upon the affrightedCarterette. The real truth she imagined as little as had Detricand. 

But now when she saw the blanched face, the filmy eyes and stark look, the finger pierced by the needle, she knew that a human heart had beenpierced too, with a pain worse than death--truly it was worse, for shehad seen death, and she had never seen anything like this in its diremisery and horror. She caught the needle quickly from the finger, wrapped her kerchief round the wound, threw away the sewing from Guida'slap, and running an arm about her waist, made as if to lay a hot cheekagainst the cold brow of her friend. Suddenly, however, with a new andpainful knowledge piercing her intelligence, and a face as white andscared as Guida's own, she ran to the dresser, caught up a hanap, andbrought some water. Guida still sat as though life had fled, and thebody, arrested in its activity, would presently collapse. 

Carterette, with all her seeming lightsomeness, had sense andself-possession. She tenderly put the water to Guida's lips, withcomforting words, though her own brain was in a whirl, and darkforebodings flashed through her mind. 

"Ah, man gui, man pethe!" she said in the homely patois. "There, drink, drink, dear, dear couzaine. " Guida's lips opened, and she drank slowly, putting her hand to her heart with a gesture of pain. Carteretteput down the hanap and caught her hands. "Come, come, these coldhands--pergui, but we must stop that! They are so cold. " She rubbed themhard. "The poor child of heaven--what has come over you? Speak to me. .. Ah, but see, everything will come all right by and by! God is good. Nothing's as bad as what it seems. There was never a grey wind butthere's a greyer. Nanningia, take it not so to heart, my couzaine; thoushalt have love enough in the world. .. . Ah, grand doux d'la vie, butI could kill him!" she added under her breath, and she rubbed Guida'shands still, and looked frankly, generously into her eyes. 

Yet, try as she would in that supreme moment, Carterette could not feelall she once felt concerning Guida. There is something humiliating ineven an undeserved injury, something which, to the human eye, lessensthe worthiness of its victim. To this hour Carterette had looked uponher friend as a being far above her own companionship. All in a moment, in this new office of comforter the relative status was altered. Theplane on which Guida had moved was lowered. Pity, while it deepenedCarterette's tenderness, lessened the gap between them. 

Perhaps something of this passed through Guida's mind, and the deeppride and courage of her nature came to her assistance. She withdrew herhands and mechanically smoothed back her hair, then, as Carterette satwatching her, folded up the sewing and put it in the work-basket hangingon the wall. 

There was something unnatural in her governance of herself now. Sheseemed as if doing things in a dream, but she did them accurately andwith apparent purpose. She looked at the clock, then went to the fire tolight it, for it was almost time to get her grandfather's tea. She didnot seem conscious of the presence of Carterette, who still sat on theveille, not knowing quite what to do. At last, as the flame flashed upin the chimney, she came over to her friend, and said:

"Carterette, I am going to the Dean's. Will you run and ask MaitresseAimable to come here to me soon?" Her voice had the steadiness ofdespair--that steadiness coming to those upon whose nerves has fallen agreat numbness, upon whose sensibilities has settled a cloud that stillsthem as the thick mist stills the ripples on the waters of a fen. 

All the glamour of Guida's youth had dropped away. She had deemed lifegood, and behold, it was not good; she had thought her dayspring was onhigh, and happiness had burnt into darkness like quick-consuming flax. But all was strangely quiet in her heart and mind. Nothing more thatshe feared could happen to her; the worst had fallen, and now there camedown on her the impermeable calm of the doomed. 

Carterette was awed by her face, and saying that she would go at once toMaitresse Aimable, she started towards the door, but as quickly stoppedand came back to Guida. With none of the impulse that usually marked heractions, she put her arms round Guida's neck and kissed her, saying witha subdued intensity:

"I'd go through fire and water for you. I want to help you every way Ican--me. "

Guida did not say a word, but she kissed the hot cheek of thesmuggler-pirate's daughter, as in dying one might kiss the face of afriend seen with filmy eyes. 

When she had gone Guida drew herself up with a shiver. She was consciousthat new senses and instincts were born in her, or were now firstawakened to life. They were not yet under control, but she felt them, and in so far as she had power to think, she used them. 

Leaving the house and stepping into the Place du Vier Prison, she walkedquietly and steadily up the Rue d'Driere. She did not notice that peopleshe met glanced at her curiously, and turned to look after her as shehurried on. 

CHAPTER XXVI

It had been a hot, oppressive day, but when, a half-hour later, Guidahastened back from a fruitless visit to the house of the Dean, who wasabsent in England, a vast black cloud had drawn up from the south-east, dropping a curtain of darkness upon the town. As she neared the doorwayof the cottage, a few heavy drops began to fall, and, in spite ofher bitter trouble, she quickened her footsteps, fearing that hergrandfather had come back, to find the house empty and no light orsupper ready. 

M. De Mauprat had preceded her by not more than five minutes. Hisfootsteps across the Place du Vier Prison had been unsteady, his headbowed, though more than once he raised it with a sort of effort, as itwere in indignation or defiance. He muttered to himself as he opened thedoor, and he paused in the hall-way as though hesitating to go forward. After a moment he made a piteous gesture of his hand towards thekitchen, and whispered to himself in a kind of reassurance. Then heentered the room and stood still. All was dark save for the glimmer ofthe fire. 

"Guida! Guida!" he said in a shaking, muffled voice. There was noanswer. He put by his hat and stick in the corner, and felt his way tothe great chair-he seemed to have lost his sight. Finding the familiar, worn arm of the chair, he seated himself with a heavy sigh. His lipsmoved, and he shook his head now and then, as though in protest againstsome unspoken thought. 

Presently he brought his clinched hand down heavily on the table, andsaid aloud:

"They lie--they lie! The Connetable lies! Their tongues shall be cutout. . .. Ah, my little, little child!. .. The Connetable dared--hedared--to tell me this evil gossip--of the little one--of my Guida!"

He laughed contemptuously, but it was a crackling, dry laugh, painful inits cheerlessness. He drew his snuff-box from his pocket, opened it, andslowly taking a pinch, raised it towards his nose, but the hand pausedhalf-way, as though a new thought arrested it. 

In the pause there came the sound of the front door opening, and thenfootsteps in the hall. 

The pinch of snuff fell from the fingers of the old man on to the whitestuff of his short-clothes, but as Guida entered the room and stoodstill a moment, he did not stir in his seat. The thundercloud had comestill lower and the room was dark, the coals in the fireplace being nowcovered with grey ashes. 

"Grandpethe! Grandpethe!" Guida said. 

He did not answer. His heart was fluttering, his tongue clove to theroof of his mouth, dry and thick. Now he should know the truth, nowhe should be sure that they had lied about his little Guida, thoseslanderers of the Vier Marchi. Yet, too, he had a strange, depressingfear, at variance with his loving faith and belief that in Guida therewas no wrong: such belief as has the strong swimmer that he can reachthe shore through wave and tide; yet also with strange foreboding, prelude to the cramp that makes powerless, defying youth, strength, andskill. He could not have spoken if it had been to save his own life--orhers. 

Getting no answer to her words, Guida went first to the hearth andstirred the fire, the old man sitting rigid in his chair and regardingher with fixed, watchful eyes. Then she found two candles and lightedthem, placing them on the mantel, and turning to the crasset hanging byits osier rings from a beam, slowly lighted it. Turning round, she wasfull in the light of the candles and the shooting flames of the fire. 

De Mauprat's eyes had followed her every motion, unconscious of hispresence as she was. This--this was not the Guida he had known! Thiswas not his grandchild, this woman with the pale, cold face, and dark, unhappy eyes; this was not the laughing girl who but yesterday was ababe at his knee. This was not--

The truth, which had yet been before his blinded eyes how long! burstupon him. The shock of it snapped the filmy thread of being. As theescaping soul found its wings, spread them, and rose from that dunmorass called Life, the Sieur de Mauprat, giving a long, deep sigh, fellback in his great arm-chair dead, and the silver snuff-box rattled tothe floor. 

Guida turned round with a sharp cry. Running to him, she lifted up thehead that lay over on his shoulder. She felt his pulse, she called tohim. Opening his waistcoat, she put her ear to his heart; but it wasstill--still. 

A mist, a blackness, came over her own eyes, and without a cry or aword, she slid to the floor unconscious, as the black thunderstorm brokeupon the Place du Vier Prison. 

The rain was like a curtain let down between the prying, clatteringworld without and the strange peace within: the old man in his perfectsleep; the young, misused wife in that passing oblivion borrowed fromdeath and as tender and compassionate while it lasts. 

As though with merciful indulgence, Fate permitted no one to enter uponthe dark scene save a woman in whom was a deep motherhood which hadnever nourished a child, and to whom this silence and this sorrow gaveno terrors. Silence was her constant companion, and for sorrow she hadbeen granted the touch that assuages the sharpness of pain and the lovecalled neighbourly kindness. Maitresse Aimable came. 

Unto her it was given to minister here. As the night went by, and theoffices had been done for the dead, she took her place by the bedside ofthe young wife, who lay staring into space, tearless and still, the lifeconsuming away within her. 

In the front room of the cottage, his head buried in his hands, RanulphDelagarde sat watching beside the body of the Sieur de Mauprat. 

CHAPTER XXVII

In the Rue d'Driere, the undertaker and his head apprentice wereright merry. But why should they not be? People had to die, quoth theundertaker, and when dead they must be buried. Burying was a trade, andwherefore should not one--discreetly--be cheerful at one's trade? Inundertaking there were many miles to trudge with coffins in a week, and the fixed, sad, sympathetic look long custom had stereotyped waswearisome to the face as a cast of plaster-of-paris. Moreover, theundertaker was master of ceremonies at the house of bereavement as well. He not only arranged the funeral, he sent out the invitations to the"friends of deceased, who are requested to return to the house of themourners after the obsequies for refreshment. " All the preparations forthis feast were made by the undertaker--Master of Burials he chose to becalled. 

Once, after a busy six months, in which a fever had carried off many aJersiais, the Master of Burials had given a picnic to his apprentices, workmen, and their families. At this buoyant function he had raised hisglass and with playful plaintiveness proposed: "The day we celebrate!"

He was in a no less blithesome mood this day. The head apprentice wasreading aloud the accounts for the burials of the month, while themaster checked off the items, nodding approval, commenting, correctingor condemning with strange expletives. 

"Don't gabble, gabble next one slowlee!" said the Master of Burials, as the second account was laid aside, duly approved. "Eh ben, now let'shear the next--who is it?"

"That Josue Anquetil, " answered the apprentice. The Master of Burialsrubbed his hands together with a creepy sort of glee. "Ah, that was aclever piece of work! Too little of a length and a width for the box, but let us be thankful--it might have been too short, and it wasn't. "

"No danger of that, pardingue!" broke in the apprentice. "The first itbelonged to was a foot longer than Josue--he. "

"But I made the most of Josue, " continued the Master. "The mouth wascrooked, but he was clean, clean--I shaved him just in time. And he hadgood hair for combing to a peaceful look, and he was light to carry--Omy good! Go on, what has Josue the centenier to say for himself?"

With a drawling dull indifference, the lank, hatchet-faced servitor ofthe master servitor of the grave read off the items:

 The Relict of Josue Anquetil, Centenier, in account with Etienne Mahye, Master of Burials. 

Item: Livres. Sols. Farth. Paid to Gentlemen of Vingtaine, who carriedhim to his grave. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. . 4 4 0 Ditto to me, Etienne Mahye, forproper gloves of silk and cotton. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 1 0 0 Ditto to me, E. M. , for laying of him out and all that appertains. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 0 7 0Ditto to me, E. M. , for coffin. .. .. .. .. .. . 4 0 0 Ditto to me, E. M. , fordivers. .. .. .. .. .. . 0 4 0

The Master of Burials interrupted. "Bat'dlagoule, you've forgot blackingfor coffin!"

The apprentice made the correction without deigning reply, and then wenton

 Livres. Sols. Farth. 

Ditto to me, E. M. , for black for blackingcoffin. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. . 0 3 0 Ditto to me, E. M. , paid out for supper after obs'quies. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 3 2 0Ditto to me, E. M. , paid out for wine (3 pots and 1 pt. At a shilling)for ditto. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 2 5 6 Ditto to me, E. M. , paid out for oil and candle. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. . 0 70 Ditto to me, E. M. , given to the poor, as fitting station ofdeceased. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 4 0 0

The apprentice stopped. "That's all, " he said. 

There was a furious leer on the face of the Master of Burials. So, afterall his care, apprentices would never learn to make mistakes on hisside. "O my grief, always on the side of the corpse, that can thanknobody for naught!" was his snarling comment. 

"What about those turnips from Denise Gareau, numskull?" he grunted, ina voice between a sneer and a snort. 

The apprentice was unmoved. He sniffed, rubbed his nose with aforefinger, laboriously wrote for a moment, and then added:

Ditto to Madame Denise Gareau for turnips for supper after obs'quies. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. . 10 sols

"Saperlote, leave out the Madame, calf-lugs--, you!"

The apprentice did not move a finger. Obstinacy sat enthroned on him. In a rage, the Master made a snatch at a metal flower-wreath to throw athim. "Shan't! She's my aunt. I knows my duties to my aunt--me, " said theapprentice stolidly. 

The Master burst out in a laugh of scorn. "Gaderabotin, here's familypride for you! I'll go stick dandelines in my old sow's ear--respe d'lacompagnie. "

The apprentice was still calm. "If you want to flourish yourself, don'tmind me, " said he, and picking up the next account, he began reading:

 Mademoiselle Landresse, in the matter of the Burial of the Sieur de Mauprat, to Etienne Mahye, &c. Item--

The first words read by the apprentice had stilled the breaking stormof the Master's anger. It dissolved in a fragrant dew of proudreminiscence, profit, and scandal. 

He himself had no open prejudices. He was an official of the public--orso he counted himself--and he very shrewdly knew his duty in that walkof life to which it had pleased Heaven to call him. The greater thenotoriety of the death, the more in evidence was the Master and allhis belongings. Death with honour was an advantage to him; death withdisaster a boon; death with scandal was a godsend. It brought tearsof gratitude to his eyes when the death and the scandal were in highplaces. These were the only real tears he ever shed. His heart was inhis head, and the head thought solely of Etienne Mahye. Though he worean air of sorrow and sympathy in public, he had no more feeling than ahangman. His sympathy seemed to say to the living, "I wonder how soonyou'll come into my hands, " and to the dead, "What a pity you can onlydie once--and second-hand coffins so hard to get!"

 Item: paid to me, Etienne Mahye, droned the voice of the apprentice, for rosewood coffin--

"O my good, " interrupted the Master of Burials with a barren chuckle, and rubbing his hands with glee, "O my good, that was a day in alifetime! I've done fine work in my time, but upon that day--not a cloudabove, no dust beneath, a flowing tide, and a calm sea. The Royal Court, too, caught on a sudden marching in their robes, turns to and joins thecortegee, and the little birds a-tweeting-tweeting, and two parsons atthe grave. Pardingue, the Lord was--with me that day, and--"

The apprentice laughed--a dry, mirthless laugh of disbelief andridicule. "Ba su, master, the Lord was watching you. There was twosilver bits inside that coffin, on Sieur's eyes. "

"Bigre!" The Master was pale with rage. His lips drew back, disclosinglong dark teeth and sickly gums, in a grimace of fury. He reached out toseize a hammer lying at his hand, but the apprentice said quickly:

"Sapri--that's the cholera hammer!"

The Master of Burials dropped the hammer as though it were at whiteheat, and eyed it with scared scrutiny. This hammer had been used innailing down the coffins of six cholera patients who had died in onehouse at Rozel Bay a year before. The Master would not himself go nearthe place, so this apprentice had gone, on a promise from the RoyalCourt that he should have for himself--this he demanded as reward--freelodging in two small upper rooms of the Cohue Royale, just under thebell which said to the world, "Chicane--chicane! Chicane--chicane!"

This he asked, and this he got, and he alone of all Jersey went outto bury three people who had died of cholera; and then to watch threeothers die, to bury them scarce cold, and come back, with a leer ofsatisfaction, to claim his price. At first people were inclined to makea hero of him, but that only made him grin the more, and at last theisland reluctantly decided that he had done the work solely for fee andreward. 

The hammer used in nailing the coffins, he had carried through the townlike an emblem of terror and death, and henceforth he only, in the shopof the Master, touched it. 

"It won't hurt you if you leave it alone, " said the apprentice grimlyto the Master of Burials. "But, if you go bothering, I'll put it in yourbed, and it'll do after to nail down your coffin. "

Then he went on reading with a malicious calmness, as though the matterwere the dullest trifle:

Item: one dozen pairs of gloves for mourners. 

"Par made, that's one way of putting it!" commented the apprentice, "forwhat mourners was there but Ma'm'selle herself, and she quiet as a mice, and not a teardrop, and all the island necks end to end for look at her, and you, master, whispering to her: 'The Lord is the Giver and Taker, 'and the Femme de Ballast t'other side, saying 'My dee-ar, my dee-ar, bear thee up, bear thee up--thee. '"

"And she looking so steady in front of her, as if never was shame abouther--and her there soon to be; and no ring of gold upon her hand, andall the world staring!" broke in the Master, who, having edged awayfrom the cholera hammer, was launched upon a theme that stirred his verysoul. "All the world staring, and good reason, " he added. 

"And she scarce winking, eh?" said the apprentice. "True that--her eyesdidn't feel the cold, " said the Master of Burials with a leer, for tohis sight as to that of others, only as boldness had been Guida's bittercourage, the blank, despairing gaze, coming from eyes that turn theiragony inward. 

The apprentice took up the account again, and prepared to read it. TheMaster, however, had been roused to a genial theme. "Poor fallen childof Nature!" said he. "For what is birth or what is looks of virtue likea summer flower! It is to be brought down by hand of man. " He was warmedto his text. Habit had long made him so much hypocrite, that he wassentimentalist and hard materialist in one. "Some pend'loque has broughther beauty to this pass, but she must suffer--and also his time willcome, the sulphur, the torment, the worm that dieth not--and no Abrahamfor parched tongue--misery me! They that meet in sin here shall meethereafter in burning fiery furnace. "

The cackle of the apprentice rose above the whining voice. "Murder, too--don't forget the murder, master. The Connetable told the old Sieurde Mauprat what people were blabbing, and in half-hour dead he is--he. "

"Et ben, the Sieur's blood it is upon their heads, " continued the Masterof Burials; "it will rise up from the ground--"

The apprentice interrupted. "A good thing if the Sieur himself doesn'trise, for you'd get naught for coffin or obs'quies. It was you tells theConnetable what folks babbled, and the Connetable tells the Sieur, and the Sieur it kills him dead. So if he rised, he'd not pay you formurdering him--no, bidemme! And 'tis a gobbly mouthful--this, " he added, holding up the bill. 

The undertaker's lips smacked softly, as though in truth he were waitingfor the mouthful. Rubbing his hands, and drawing his lean leg up tillit touched his nose, he looked over it with avid eyes, and said: "Howmuch--don't read the items, but come to total debit--how much she paysme?"

Ma'm'selle Landresse, debtor in all for one hundred and twenty livres, eleven sols and two farthings. 

"Shan't you make it one hundred and twenty-one livres?" added theapprentice. 

"God forbid, the odd sols and farthings are mine--no more!" returned theMaster of Burials. "Also they look exact; but the courage it needs to behonest! O my grief, if--"

"'Sh!" said the apprentice, pointing, and the Master of Burials, turning, saw Guida pass the window. With a hungry instinct for themorbid they stole to the doorway and looked down the Rue d'Driere afterher. The Master was sympathetic, for had he not in his fingers atthat moment a bill for a hundred and twenty livres odd? The way theapprentice craned his neck, and tightened the forehead over his large, protuberant eyes, showed his intense curiosity, but the face wasimplacable. It was like that of some strong fate, superior to allinfluences of sorrow, shame, or death. Presently he laughed--a cracklingcackle like new-lighted kindling wood; nothing could have been moreinhuman in sound. What in particular aroused this arid mirth probably hehimself did not know. Maybe it was a native cruelty which had a sortof sardonic pleasure in the miseries of the world. Or was it only theperception, sometimes given to the dullest mind, of the futility ofgoodness, the futility of all? This perhaps, since the apprentice sharedwith Dormy Jamais his rooms at the top of the Cohue Royale; and theremust have been some natural bond of kindness between the blank, sardonicundertaker's apprentice and the poor beganne, who now officially rangthe bell for the meetings of the Royal Court. 

The dry cackle of the apprentice as he looked after Guida roused amockery of indignation in the Master. "Sacre matin, a back-hander on thejaw'd do you good, slubberdegullion--you! Ah, get go scrub the coffinblacking from your jowl!" he rasped out with furious contempt. 

The apprentice seemed not to hear, but kept on looking after Guida, apitiless leer on his face. "Dame, lucky for her the Sieur died beforehe had chance to change his will. She'd have got ni fiche ni bran fromhim. "

"Support d'en haut, if you don't stop that I'll give you a coffin beforeyour time, keg of nails--you. Sorrow and prayer at the throne of gracethat she may have a contrite heart"--he clutched the funeral billtighter in his fingers--"is what we must feel for her. The day the Sieurdied and it all came out, I wept. Bedtime come I had to sop my eyes withelder-water. The day o' the burial mine eyes were so sore a-draining Ihad to put a rotten sweet apple on 'em over-night--me. "

"Ah bah, she doesn't need rosemary wash for her hair!" said theapprentice admiringly, looking down the street after Guida as she turnedinto the Rue d'Egypte. 

Perhaps it was a momentary sympathy for beauty in distress which madethe Master say, as he backed from the doorway with stealthy step:

"Gatd'en'ale, 'tis well she has enough to live on, and to provide forwhat's to come!"

But if it was a note of humanity in the voice it passed quickly, forpresently, as he examined the bill for the funeral of the Sieur deMauprat, he said shrilly:

"Achocre, you've left out the extra satin for his pillow--you. "

"There wasn't any extra satin, " drawled the apprentice. 

With a snarl the Master of Burials seized a pen and wrote in theaccount:

Item: To extra satin for pillow, three livres. 

CHAPTER XXVIII

Guida's once blithe, rose-coloured face was pale as ivory, the mouth hada look of deep sadness, and the step was slow; but the eye was clearand steady, and her hair, brushed under the black crape of the bonnet assmoothly as its nature would admit, gave to the broad brow a setting ofrare attraction and sombre nobility. It was not a face that knew inwardshame, but it carried a look that showed knowledge of life's crueltiesand a bitter sensitiveness to pain. Above all else it was fearless, andit had no touch of the consciousness or the consequences of sin; it waspurity itself. 

It alone should have proclaimed abroad her innocence, though she said noword in testimony. To most people, however, her dauntless sincerity onlyadded to her crime and to the scandalous mystery. Yet her manner awedsome, while her silence held most back. The few who came to offersympathy, with curiousness in their eyes and as much inhumanity as pityin their hearts, were turned back gently but firmly, more than once withproud resentment. 

So it chanced that soon only Maitresse Aimable came--she who asked noquestions, desired no secrets--and Dormy Jamais. 

Dormy had of late haunted the precincts of the Place du Vier Prison, andwas the only person besides Maitresse Aimable whom Guida welcomed. His tireless feet went clac-clac past her doorway, or halted by it, orentered in when it pleased him. He was more a watch-dog than Biribi; hefetched and carried; he was silent and sleepless--always sleepless. It was as if some past misfortune had opened his eyes to the awfulbitterness of life, and they had never closed again. 

The Chevalier had not been with her, for on the afternoon of the veryday her grandfather died, he had gone a secret voyage to St. Malo, tomeet the old solicitor of his family. He knew nothing of his friend'sdeath or of Guida's trouble. As for Carterette, Guida would not let hercome--for her own sake. 

Nor did Maitre Ranulph visit her after the funeral of the Sieur deMauprat. The horror of the thing had struck him dumb, and his mindwas one confused mass of conflicting thoughts. There--there were theterrifying facts before him; yet, with an obstinacy peculiar to him, hestill went on believing in her goodness and in her truth. Of the man whohad injured her he had no doubt, and his course was clear, in the hourwhen he and Philip d'Avranche should meet. Meanwhile, from a spiritof delicacy, avoiding the Place du Vier Prison, he visited MaitresseAimable, and from day to day learned all that happened to Guida. As ofold, without her knowledge, he did many things for her through the sameMaitresse Aimable. And it quickly came to be known in the island thatany one who spoke ill of Guida in his presence did so at no littlerisk. At first there had been those who marked him as the wrongdoer, butsomehow that did not suit with the case, for it was clear he loved Guidanow as he had always done; and this the world knew, as it had known thathe would have married her all too gladly. Presently Detricand and Philipwere the only names mentioned, but at last, as by common consent, Philipwas settled upon, for such evidence as there was pointed that way. Thegossips set about to recall all that had happened when Philip was inJersey last. Here one came forward with a tittle of truth, and thereanother with tattle of falsehood, and at last as wild a story wasfabricated as might be heard in a long day. 

But in bitterness Guida kept her own counsel. 

This day when she passed the undertaker's shop she had gone to visit thegrave of her grandfather. He had died without knowing the truth, and herheart was hardened against him who had brought misery upon her. Reachingthe cottage in the Place du Vier Prison now, she took from a drawerthe letter Philip had written her on the day he first met the ComtesseChantavoine. She had received it a week ago. She read it through slowly, shuddering a little once or twice. When she had finished, she drew paperto her and began a reply. 

The first crisis of her life was passed. She had met the shock of utterdisillusion; her own perfect honesty now fathomed the black dishonestyof the man she had loved. Death had come with sorrow and unmeritedshame. But an innate greatness, a deep courage supported her. Out of herwrongs and miseries now she made a path for her future, and in that pathPhilip's foot should never be set. She had thought and thought, and hadcome to her decision. In one month she had grown years older in mind. Sorrow gave her knowledge, it threw her back on her native strength andgoodness. Rising above mere personal wrongs she grew to a larger senseof womanhood, to a true understanding of her position and its needs. Sheloved no longer, but Philip was her husband by the law, and even as shehad told him her whole mind and heart in the days of their courtship andmarriage, she would tell him her whole mind and heart now. Once more, tosatisfy the bond, to give full reasons for what she was about to do, shewould open her soul to her husband, and then no more! In all she wroteshe kept but two things back, her grandfather's death--and one other. These matters belonged to herself alone. 

 No, Philip d'Avranche, [she wrote], your message came too late. All that you might have said and done should have been said and done long ago, in that past which I believe in no more. I will not ask you why you acted as you did towards me. Words can alter nothing now. Once I thought you true, and this letter you send would have me still believe so. Do you then think so ill of my intelligence? In the light of the past it may be you have reason, for you know that I once believed in you! Think of it--believed in you!

 How bad a man are you! In spite of all your promises; in spite of the surrender of honest heart and life to you; in spite of truth and every call of honour, you denied me--dared to deny me, at the very time you wrote this letter. 

 For the hopes and honours of this world, you set aside, first by secrecy, and then by falsehood, the helpless girl to whom you once swore undying love. You, who knew the open book of her heart, you threw it in the dust. "Of course there is no wife?" the Duc de Bercy said to you before the States of Bercy. "Of course, " you answered. You told your lie without pity. 

 Were you blind that you did not see the consequences? Or did you not feel the horror of your falsehood?--to play shuttlecock with a woman's life, with the soul of your wife; for that is what your conduct means. Did you not realise it, or were you so wicked that you did not care? For I know that before you wrote me this letter, and afterwards when you had been made prince, and heir to the duchy, the Comtesse Chantavoine was openly named by the Duc de Bercy for your wife. 

 Now read the truth. I understand all now. I am no longer the thoughtless, believing girl whom you drew from her simple life to give her so cruel a fate. Yesterday I was a child, to-day----Oh, above all else, do you think I can ever forgive you for having killed the faith, the joy of life that was in me! You have spoiled for me for ever my rightful share of the joyous and the good. My heart is sixty though my body is not twenty. How dared you rob me of all that was my birthright, of all that was my life, and give me nothing--nothing in return!

 Do you remember how I begged you not to make me marry you; but you urged me, and because I loved you and trusted you, I did? how I entreated you not to make me marry you secretly, but you insisted, and loving you, I did? how you promised you would leave me at the altar and not see me till you came again to claim me openly for your wife, and you broke that sacred promise? Do you remember--my husband!

 Do you remember that night in the garden when the wind came moaning up from the sea? Do you remember how you took me in your arms, and even while I listened to your tender and assuring words, in that moment--ah, the hurt and the wrong and the shame of it! Afterwards in the strange confusion, in my blind helplessness I tried to say, "But he loved me, " and I tried to forgive you. Perhaps in time I might have made myself believe I did; for then I did not know you as you are--and were; but understanding all now I feel that in that hour I really ceased to love you; and when at last I knew you had denied me, love was buried for ever. 

 Your worst torment is to come, mine has already been with me. When my miseries first fell upon me, I thought that I must die. Why should I live on--why should I not die? The sea was near, and it buries deep. I thought of all the people that live on the great earth, and I said to myself that the soul of one poor girl could not count, that it could concern no one but myself. It was clear to me --I must die and end all. 

 But there came to me a voice in the night which said: "Is thy life thine own to give or to destroy?" It was clearer than my own thinking. It told my heart that death by one's own hand meant shame; and I saw then that to find rest I must drag unwilling feet over the good name and memory of my dead loved ones. Then I remembered my mother. If you had remembered her perhaps you would have guarded the gift of my love and not have trampled it under your feet--I remembered my mother, and so I live still. 

 I must go on alone, with naught of what makes life bearable; you will keep climbing higher by your vanity, your strength, and your deceit. But yet I know however high you climb you will never find peace. You will remember me, and your spirit will seek in vain for rest. You will not exist for me, you will not be even a memory; but even against your will I shall always be part of you: of your brain, of your heart, of your soul--the thought of me your torment in your greatest hour. Your passion and your cowardice have lost me all; and God will punish you, be sure of that. 

 There is little more to say. If it lies in my power I shall never see you again while I live. And you will not wish it. Yes, in spite of your eloquent letter lying here beside me, you do not wish it, and it shall not be. I am not your wife save by the law; and little have you cared for law! Little, too, would the law help you in this now; for which you will rejoice. For the ease of your mind I hasten to tell you why. 

 First let me inform you that none in this land knows me to be your wife. Your letter to my grandfather never reached him, and to this hour I have held my peace. The clergyman who married us is a prisoner among the French, and the strong-box which held the register of St. Michael's Church was stolen. The one other witness, Mr. Shoreham, your lieutenant--as you tell me--went down with the Araminta. So you are safe in your denial of me. For me, I would endure all the tortures of the world rather than call you husband ever again. I am firmly set to live my own life, in my own way, with what strength God gives. At last I see beyond the Hedge. 

 Your course is clear. You cannot turn back now. You have gone too far. Your new honours and titles were got at the last by a falsehood. To acknowledge it would be ruin, for all the world knows that Captain Philip d'Avranche of the King's navy is now the adopted son of the Duc de Bercy. Surely the house of Bercy has cause for joy, with an imbecile for the first in succession and a traitor for the second!

 I return the fifty pounds you sent me--you will not question why. .. . And so all ends. This is a last farewell between us. 

 Do you remember what you said to me on the Ecrehos? "If ever I deceive you, may I die a black, dishonourable death, abandoned and alone. I should deserve that if ever I deceived you, Guida. "

 Will you ever think of that, in your vain glory hereafter?

 GUIDA LANDRESSE DE LANDRESSE. 

IN JERSEY FIVE YEARS LATER

CHAPTER XXIX

On a map the Isle of Jersey has the shape and form of a tiger on theprowl. 

The fore-claws of this tiger are the lacerating pinnacles of theCorbiere and the impaling rocks of Portelet Bay and Noirmont; thehind-claws are the devastating diorite reefs of La Motte and the Bancdes Violets. The head and neck, terrible and beautiful, are stretchedout towards the west, as it were to scan the wild waste and jungle ofthe Atlantic seas. The nose is L'Etacq, the forehead Grosnez, the earPlemont, the mouth the dark cavern by L'Etacq, and the teeth are theserried ledges of the Foret de la Brequette. At a discreet distance fromthe head and the tail hover the jackals of La Manche: the Paternosters, the Dirouilles, and the Ecrehos, themselves destroying where they may, or filching the remains of the tiger's feast of shipwreck and ruin. In truth, the sleek beast, with its feet planted in fearsome rocks andtides, and its ravening head set to defy the onslaught of the main, might, but for its ensnaring beauty, seem some monstrous foot-pad of thedeep. 

To this day the tiger's head is the lonely part of Jersey; a hundredyears ago it was as distant from the Vier Marchi as is Penzance fromCovent Garden. It would almost seem as if the people of Jersey, like thehangers-on of the king of the jungle, care not to approach too near thedevourer's head. Even now there is but a dwelling here and there uponthe lofty plateau, and none at all near the dark and menacingheadland. But as if the ancient Royal Court was determined to prove itssovereignty even over the tiger's head, it stretched out its arms fromthe Vier Marchi to the bare neck of the beast, putting upon it a belt ofdefensive war; at the nape, a martello tower and barracks; underneath, two other martello towers like the teeth of a buckle. 

The rest of the island was bristling with armament. Tall platforms wereerected at almost speaking distance from each other, where sentinelskept watch for French frigates or privateers. Redoubts and towers werewithin musket-shot of each other, with watch-houses between, and atintervals every able-bodied man in the country was obliged to leave histrade to act as sentinel, or go into camp or barracks with the militiafor months at a time. British cruisers sailed the Channel: now asquadron under Barrington, again under Bridport, hovered upon the coast, hoping that a French fleet might venture near. 

But little of this was to be seen in the western limits of the parishof St. Ouen's. Plemont, Grosnez, L'Etacq, all that giant headland couldwell take care of itself--the precipitous cliffs were their own defence. A watch-house here and there sufficed. No one lived at L'Etacq, no oneat Grosnez; they were too bleak, too distant and solitary. There were nohouses, no huts. 

If you had approached Plemont from Vinchelez-le-Haut, making for thesea, you would have said that it also had no habitation. But when atlast you came to a hillock near Plemont point, looking to find nothingbut sky and sea and distant islands, suddenly at your very feet you sawa small stone dwelling. Its door faced the west, looking towards theIsles of Guernsey and Sark. Fronting the north was a window like an eye, ever watching the tireless Paternosters. To the east was another tinywindow like a deep loop-hole or embrasure set towards the Dirouilles andthe Ecrehos. 

The hut had but one room, of moderate size, with a vast chimney. Betweenthe chimney and the western wall was a veille, which was both loungeand bed. The eastern side was given over to a few well-polished kitchenutensils, a churn, and a bread-trough. The floor was of motherearth alone, but a strip of handmade carpet was laid down before thefireplace, and there was another at the opposite end. There were also atable, a spinning-wheel, and a shelf of books. 

It was not the hut of a fisherman, though upon the wall opposite thebooks there hung fishing-tackle, nets, and cords, while outside, onstaples driven in the jutting chimney, were some lobster-pots. Upon twoshelves were arranged a carpenter's and a cooper's tools, polished andin good order. And yet you would have said that neither a cooper nora carpenter kept them in use. Everywhere there were signs of man'shandicraft as well as of woman's work, but upon all was the touch ofa woman. Moreover, apart from the tools there was no sign of a man'spresence in the hut. There was no coat hanging behind the door, nosabots for the fields or oilskins for the sands, no pipe laid upon aledge, no fisherman's needle holding a calendar to the wall. Whateverwas the trade of the occupant, the tastes were above those of theordinary dweller in the land. That was to be seen in a print ofRaphael's "Madonna and Child" taking the place of the usual sampler uponthe walls of Jersey homes; in the old clock nicely bestowed between anarrow cupboard and the tool shelves; in a few pieces of rare old chinaand a gold-handled sword hanging above a huge, well-carved oak chair. The chair relieved the room of anything like commonness, and somehow wasin sympathy with the simple surroundings, making for dignity and sweetquiet. It was clear that only a woman could have arranged so perfectlythis room and all therein. It was also clear that no man lived here. 

Looking in at the doorway of this hut on a certain autumn day of theyear 1797, the first thing to strike your attention was a dog lyingasleep on the hearth. Then a suit of child's clothes on a chairbefore the fire of vraic would have caught the eye. The only thing todistinguish this particular child's dress from that of a thousand othersin the island was the fineness of the material. Every thread of it hadbeen delicately and firmly knitted, till it was like perfect soft bluecloth, relieved by a little red silk ribbon at the collar. 

The hut contained as well a child's chair, just so high that when placedby the windows commanding the Paternosters its occupant might see thewaves, like panthers, beating white paws against the ragged granitepinnacles; the currents writhing below at the foot of the cliffs, or athalf-tide rushing up to cover the sands of the Greve aux Langons, andlike animals in pain, howling through the caverns in the cliffs; thegreat nor'wester of November come battering the rocks, shrieking to thewitches who boiled their caldrons by the ruins of Grosnez Castle thatthe hunt of the seas was up. 

Just high enough was the little chair that of a certain day in theyear its owner might look out and see mystic fires burning round thePaternosters, and lighting up the sea with awful radiance. Scarce arock to be seen from the hut but had some legend like this: the burningRussian ship at the Paternosters, the fleet of boats with tall prows andlong oars drifting upon the Dirouilles and going down to the cry of theCrusaders' Dahindahin! the Roche des Femmes at the Ecrehos, where stillyou may hear the cries of women in terror of the engulfing sea. 

On this particular day, if you had entered the hut, no one wouldhave welcomed you; but had you tired of waiting, and followed theindentations of the coast for a mile or more by a deep bay under tallcliffs, you would have seen a woman and a child coming quickly up thesands. Slung upon the woman's shoulders was a small fisherman's basket. The child ran before, eager to climb the hill and take the homewardpath. 

A man above was watching them. He had ridden along the cliff, had seenthe woman in her boat making for the shore, had tethered his horse inthe quarries near by, and now awaited her. He chuckled as she came on, for he had ready a surprise for her. To make it more complete he hidhimself behind some boulders, and as she reached the top sprang out withan ugly grinning. 

The woman looked at him calmly and waited for him to speak. There wasno fear on her face, not even surprise; nothing but steady inquiry andquiet self-possession. With an air of bluster the man said:

"Aha, my lady, I'm nearer than you thought--me!" The child drew in toits mother's side and clasped her hand. There was no fear in the littlefellow's look, however; he had something of the same self-possession asthe woman, and his eyes were like hers, clear, unwavering, and with afrankness that consumed you. They were wells of sincerity; open-eyed, you would have called the child, wanting a more subtle description. 

"I'm not to be fooled-me! Come now, let's have the count, " said the man, as he whipped a greasy leather-covered book from his pocket. "Sapristi, I'm waiting. Stay yourself!" he added roughly as she moved on, and hisgreyish-yellow face had an evil joy at thought of the brutal work inhand. 

"Who are you?" she asked, but taking her time to speak. 

"Dame! you know who I am. "

"I know what you are, " she answered quietly. 

He did not quite grasp her meaning, but the tone sounded contemptuous, and that sorted little with his self-importance. 

"I'm the Seigneur's bailiff--that's who I am. Gad'rabotin, don't you puton airs with me! I'm for the tribute, so off with the bag and let's seeyour catch. "

"I have never yet paid tribute to the seigneur of the manor. "

"Well, you'll begin now. I'm the new bailiff, and if you don't pay yourtale, up you come to the court of the fief to-morrow. "

She looked him clearly in the eyes. "If I were a man, I should not paythe tribute, and I should go to the court of the fief to-morrow, butbeing a woman--"

She clasped the hand of the child tightly to her for an instant, thenwith a sigh she took the basket from her shoulders and, opening it, added:

"But being a woman, the fish I caught in the sea that belongs to God andto all men I must divide with the Seigneur whose bailiff spies on poorfisher-folk. "

The man growled an oath and made a motion as though he would catch herby the shoulder in anger, but the look in her eyes stopped him. Countingout the fish, and giving him three out of the eight she had caught, shesaid:

"It matters not so much to me, but there are others poorer than I, theysuffer. "

With a leer the fellow stooped, and, taking up the fish, put them in thepockets of his queminzolle, all slimy from the sea as they were. 

"Ba su, you haven't got much to take care of, have you? It don't takemuch to feed two mouths--not so much as it does three, Ma'm'selle. "

Before he had ended, the woman, without reply to the insult, took thechild by the hand and moved along her homeward path towards Plemont. 

"A bi'tot, good-bye!" the bailiff laughed brutally. Standing with hislegs apart and his hands fastened on the fish in the pockets of his longqueminzolle, he called after her in sneering comment: "Ma fistre, yourpride didn't fall--ba su!" Then he turned on his heel. 

"Eh ben, here's mackerel for supper, " he added as he mounted his horse. 

The woman was Guida Landresse, the child was her child, and they livedin the little house upon the cliff at Plemont. They were hasteningthither now. 

CHAPTER XXX

A visitor was awaiting Guida and the child: a man who, first knockingat the door, then looking in and seeing the room empty, save for the doglying asleep by the fire, had turned slowly away, and going to the cliffedge, looked out over the sea. His movements were deliberate, his bodymoved slowly; the whole appearance was of great strength and nervouspower. The face was preoccupied, the eyes were watchful, dark, penetrating. They seemed not only to watch but to weigh, to meditate, even to listen--as it were, to do the duty of all the senses at once. Inthem worked the whole forces of his nature; they were crucibles whereinevery thought and emotion were fused. The jaw was set and strong, yetit was not hard. The face contradicted itself. While not gloomy it hadlines like scars telling of past wounds. It was not despairing, itwas not morbid, and it was not resentful; it had the look of one bothcredulous and indomitable. Belief was stamped upon it; not expectationor ambition, but faith and fidelity. You would have said he was a manof one set idea, though the head had a breadth sorting little withnarrowness of purpose. The body was too healthy to belong to a fanatic, too powerful to be that of a dreamer alone, too firm for other than aman of action. 

Several times he turned to look towards the house and up the pathwayleading from the hillock to the doorway. Though he waited long he didnot seem impatient; patience was part of him, and not the least part. At last he sat down on a boulder between the house and the shore, andscarcely moved, as minute after minute passed, and then an hour andmore, and no one came. Presently there was a soft footstep beside him, and he turned. A dog's nose thrust itself into his hand. 

"Biribi, Biribi!" he said, patting its head with his big hand. "Watchingand waiting, eh, old Biribi?" The dog looked into his eyes as if heknew what was said, and would speak--or, indeed, was speaking in hisown language. "That's the way of life, Biribi--watching and waiting, andwatching--always watching. "

Suddenly the dog caught its head away from his hand, gave a short joyfulbark, and ran slowly up the hillock. 

"Guida and the child, " the man said aloud, moving towards thehouse--"Guida and the child!"

He saw her and the little one before they saw him. Presently the childsaid: "See, maman, " and pointed. Guida started. A swift flush passedover her face, then she smiled and made a step forward to meet hervisitor. 

"Maitre Ranulph--Ranulph!" she said, holding out her hand. "It's a longtime since we met. "

"A year, " he answered simply, "just a year. " He looked down at thechild, then stooped, caught him up in his arms and said: "He's grown. Es-tu gentiment?" he added to the child--"es-tu gentiment, m'sieu'?"

The child did not quite understand. "Please?" it said in true Jerseyfashion--at which the mother was troubled. 

"O Guilbert, is that what you should say?" she asked. The child lookedup quaintly at her, and with the same whimsical smile which Guida hadgiven to another so many years ago, he looked at Ranulph and said:"Pardon, monsieur. "

"Coum est qu'on etes, m'sieu'?" said Ranulph in another patois greeting. 

Guida shook her head reprovingly. The child glanced swiftly at hismother as though asking permission to reply as he wished, then back atRanulph, and was about to speak, when Guida said: "I have not taught himthe Jersey patois, Ranulph; only English and French. "

Her eyes met his clearly, meaningly. Her look said to him as plainly aswords, The child's destiny is not here in Jersey. But as if he knewthat in this she was blinding herself, and that no one can escape theinfluences of surroundings, he held the child back from him, and saidwith a smile: "Coum est qu'on vos portest?"

Now the child with elfish sense of the situation replied in JerseyEnglish: "Naicely, thenk you. "

"You see, " said Ranulph to Guida, "there are things in us stronger thanwe are. The wind, the sea, and people we live with, they make us singtheir song one way or another. It's in our bones. "

A look of pain passed over Guida's face, and she did not reply to hisremark, but turned almost abruptly to the doorway, saying, with just theslightest hesitation: "You will come in?"

There was no hesitation on his part. "Oui-gia!" he said, and steppedinside. 

She hastily hung up the child's cap and her own, and as she gathered inthe soft, waving hair, Ranulph noticed how the years had only burnishedit more deeply and strengthened the beauty of the head. She had made thegesture unconsciously, but catching the look in his eye a sudden thrillof anxiety ran through her. Recovering herself, however, and with an airof bright friendliness, she laid a hand upon the great arm-chair, abovewhich hung the ancient sword of her ancestor, the Comte Guilbert Maupratde Chambery, and said: "Sit here, Ranulph. "

Seating himself he gave a heavy sigh--one of those passing breaths ofcontent which come to the hardest lives now and then: as though theSpirit of Life itself, in ironical apology for human existence, givesmoments of respite from which hope is born again. Not for over four longyears had Ranulph sat thus quietly in the presence of Guida. At first, when Maitresse Aimable had told him that Guida was leaving the Place duVier Prison to live in this lonely place with her newborn child, he hadgone to entreat her to remain; but Maitresse Aimable had been presentthen, and all that he could say--all that he might speak out of hisfriendship, out of the old love, now deep pity and sorrow--was of noavail. It had been borne in upon him then that she was not morbid, butthat her mind had a sane, fixed purpose which she was intent to fulfil. It was as though she had made some strange covenant with a littlehelpless life, with a little face that was all her face; and thatcovenant she would keep. 

So he had left her, and so to do her service had been granted elsewhere. The Chevalier, with perfect wisdom and nobility, insisted on beingto Guida what he had always been, accepting what was as though it hadalways been, and speaking as naturally of her and the child as thoughthere had always been a Guida and the child. Thus it was that he countedhimself her protector, though he sat far away in the upper room ofElie Mattingley's house in the Rue d'Egypte, thinking his own thoughts, biding the time when she should come back to the world, and mystery beover, and happiness come once more; hoping only that he might live tosee it. 

Under his directions, Jean Touzel had removed the few things that Guidatook with her to Plemont; and instructed by him, Elie Mattingley soldher furniture. Thus Guida had settled at Plemont, and there over fouryears of her life were passed. 

"Your father--how is he?" she asked presently. "Feeble, " repliedRanulph; "he goes abroad but little now. "

"It was said the Royal Court was to make him a gift, in remembranceof the Battle of Jersey. " Ranulph turned his head away from her to thechild, and beckoned him over. The child came instantly. 

As Ranulph lifted him on his knee he answered Guida: "My father did nottake it. "

"Then they said you were to be constable--the grand monsieur. " Shesmiled at him in a friendly way. 

"They said wrong, " replied Ranulph. 

"Most people would be glad of it, " rejoined Guida. "My mother used tosay you would be Bailly one day. "

"Who knows--perhaps I might have been!"

She looked at him half sadly, half curiously. "You--you haven't anyambitions now, Maitre Ranulph?" It suddenly struck her that perhaps shewas responsible for the maiming of this man's life--for clearly it wasmaimed. More than once she had thought of it, but it came home to herto-day with force. Years ago Ranulph Delagarde had been spoken of asone who might do great things, even to becoming Bailly. In the eyes of aJerseyman to be Bailly was to be great, with jurats sitting in a rowon either side of him and more important than any judge in the Kingdom. Looking back now Guida realised that Ranulph had never been the samesince that day on the Ecrehos when his father had returned and Philiphad told his wild tale of love. 

A great bitterness suddenly welled up in her. Without intention, withoutblame, she had brought suffering upon others. The untoward happeningsof her life had killed her grandfather, had bowed and aged the oldChevalier, had forced her to reject the friendship of CarteretteMattingley, for the girl's own sake; had made the heart of one fat oldwoman heavy within her; and, it would seem, had taken hope and ambitionfrom the life of this man before her. Love in itself is but a bitterpleasure; when it is given to the unworthy it becomes a torture--and sofar as Ranulph and the world knew she was wholly unworthy. Of late shehad sometimes wondered if, after all, she had had the right to do asshe had done in accepting the public shame, and in not proclaimingthe truth: if to act for one's own heart, feelings, and life alone, nomatter how perfect the honesty, is not a sort of noble cruelty, or cruelnobility; an egotism which obeys but its own commandments, finding itsown straight and narrow path by first disbarring the feelings and livesof others. Had she done what was best for the child? Misgiving upon thispoint made her heart ache bitterly. Was life then but a series of tristcondonings at the best, of humiliating compromises at the worst?

She repeated her question to Ranulph now. "You haven't ambition anylonger?"

"I'm busy building ships, " he answered evasively. "I build good ships, they tell me, and I am strong and healthy. As for being connetable, I'drather help prisoners free than hale them before the Royal Court. For somehow when you get at the bottom of most crimes--the small onesleastways--you find they weren't quite meant. I expect--I expect, " headded gravely, "that half the crimes oughtn't to be punished at all; forit's queer that things which hurt most can't be punished by law. "

"Perhaps it evens up in the long end, " answered Guida, turning away fromhim to the fire, and feeling her heart beat faster as she saw how thechild nestled in Ranulph's arms--her child which had no father. "Yousee, " she added, "if some are punished who oughtn't to be, there areothers who ought to be that aren't, and the worst of it is, we care solittle for real justice that we often wouldn't punish if we could. Ihave come to feel that. Sometimes if you do exactly what's right, youhurt some one you don't wish to hurt, and if you don't do exactly what'sright, perhaps that some one else hurts you. So, often, we would ratherbe hurt than hurt. "

With the last words she turned from the fire and involuntarily facedhim. Their eyes met. In hers were only the pity of life, the sadness, the cruelty of misfortune, and friendliness for him. In his eyes waspurpose definite, strong. 

He went over and put the child in its high chair. Then coming a littlenearer to Guida, he said:

"There's only one thing in life that really hurts--playing false. "

Her heart suddenly stopped beating. What was Ranulph going to say? Afterall these years was he going to speak of Philip? But she did not replyaccording to her thought. 

"Have people played false in your life--ever?" she asked. 

"If you'll listen to me I'll tell you how, " he answered. "Wait, wait, "she said in trepidation. "It--it has nothing to do with me?"

He shook his head. "It has only to do with my father and myself. WhenI've told you, then you must say whether you will have anything to dowith it, or with me. .. . You remember, " he continued, without waiting forher to speak, "you remember that day upon the Ecrehos--five years ago?Well, that day I had made up my mind to tell you in so many words what Ihoped you had always known, Guida. I didn't--why? Not because of anotherman--no, no, I don't mean to hurt you, but I must tell you the truthnow--not because of another man, for I should have bided my chance withhim. "

"Ranulph, Ranulph, " she broke in, "you must not speak of this now! Doyou not see it hurts me? It is not like you. It is not right of you--"

A sudden emotion seized him, and his voice shook. "Not right! You shouldknow that I'd never say one word to hurt you, or do one thing to wrongyou. But I must speak to-day-I must tell you everything. I've thought ofit for four long years, and I know now that what I mean to do is right. "

She sat down in the great arm-chair. A sudden weakness came upon her:she was being brought face to face with days of which she had neverallowed herself to think, for she lived always in the future now. 

"Go on, " she said helplessly. "What have you to say, Ranulph?"

"I will tell you why I didn't speak of my love to you that day we wentto the Ecrehos. My father came back that day. "

"Yes, yes, " she said; "of course you had to think of him. "

"Yes, I had to think of him, but not in the way you mean. Be patient alittle while, " he added. 

Then in a few words he told her the whole story of his father'streachery and crime, from the night before the Battle of Jersey up totheir meeting again upon the Ecrehos. 

Guida was amazed and moved. Her heart filled with pity. "Ranulph--poorRanulph!" she said, half rising in her seat. 

"No, no--wait, " he rejoined. "Sit where you are till I tell you all. Guida, you don't know what a life it has been for me these four years. Iused to be able to look every man in the face without caring whether heliked me or hated me, for then I had never lied, I had never done a meanthing to any man; I had never deceived--nannin-gia, never! But when myfather came back, then I had to play a false game. He had lied, and tosave him I either had to hold my peace or tell his story. Speaking waslying or being silent was lying. Mind you, I'm not complaining, I'm notsaying it because I want any pity. No, I'm saying it because it's thetruth, and I want you to know the truth. You understand what it means tofeel right in your own mind--if you feel that way, the rest of life iseasy. Eh ben, what a thing it is to get up in the morning, build yourfire, make your breakfast, and sit down facing a man whose whole life'sa lie, and that man your own father! Some morning perhaps you forget, and you go out into the sun, and it all seems good; and you take yourtools and go to work, and the sea comes washing up the shingle, and youthink that the shir-r-r-r of the water on the pebbles and the singing ofthe saw and the clang of the hammer are the best music in the world. Butall at once you remember--and then you work harder, not because you lovework now for its own sake, but because it uses up your misery and makesyou tired; and being tired you can sleep, and in sleep you can forget. Yet nearly all the time you're awake it fairly kills you, for you feelsome one always at your elbow whispering, 'you'll never be happyagain, you'll never be happy again!' And when you tell the truthabout anything, that some one at your elbow laughs and says: 'Nobodybelieves--your whole life's a lie!' And if the worst man you know passesyou by, that some one at your elbow says: 'You can wear a mask, butyou're no better than he, no better, no--"'

While Ranulph spoke Guida's face showed a pity and a kindness as deepas the sorrow which had deepened her nature. She shook her head once ortwice as though to say, Surely, what suffering! and now this seemed tostrike Ranulph, to convict him of selfishness, for he suddenlystopped. His face cleared, and, smiling with a little of his old-timecheerfulness, he said:

"Yet one gets used to it and works on because one knows it will all comeright sometime. I'm of the kind that waits. "

She looked up at him with her old wide-eyed steadfastness and replied:"You are a good man, Ranulph. " He stood gazing at her a moment withoutremark, then he said:

"No, ba su, no! but it's like you to say I am. " Then he added suddenly:"I've told you the whole truth about myself and about my father. He dida bad thing, and I've stood by him. At first, I nursed my troubles andmy shame. I used to think I couldn't live it out, that I had no rightto any happiness. But I've changed my mind about that-oui-gia! As Ihammered away at my ships month in month out, year in year out, thetruth came home to me at last. What right had I to sit down and broodover my miseries? I didn't love my father, but I've done wrong for him, and I've stuck to him. Well, I did love--and I do love--some one else, and I should only be doing right to tell her, and to ask her to let mestand with her against the world. "

He was looking down at her with all his story in his face. She put outher hand quickly as if in protest and said:

"Ranulph--ah no, Ranulph--"

"But yes, Guida, " he replied with stubborn tenderness, "it is you Imean--it is you I've always meant. You have always been a hundred timesmore to me than my father, but I let you fight your fight alone. I'vewaked up now to my mistake. But I tell you true that though I love youbetter than anything in the world, if things had gone well with youI'd never have come to you. I never came, because of my father, and I'dnever have come because you are too far above me always--too fine, toonoble for me. I only come now because we're both apart from the worldand lonely beyond telling; because we need each other. I have just onething to say: that we two should stand together. There's none ever canbe so near as those that have had hard troubles, that have had bitterwrongs. And when there's love too, what can break the bond! You and Iare apart from the world, a black loneliness no one understands. Let usbe lonely no longer. Let us live our lives together. What shall we carefor the rest of the world if we know we mean to do good and no wrong? SoI've come to ask you to let me care for you and the child, to ask youto make my home your home. My father hasn't long to live, and when he isgone we could leave this island for ever. Will you come, Guida?"

She had never taken her eyes from his face, and as his story grew herface lighted with emotion, the glow of a moment's content, of a fleetingjoy. In spite of all, this man loved her, he wanted to marry her--inspite of all. Glad to know that such men lived--and with how darkmemories contrasting with this bright experience-she said to him onceagain: "You are a good man, Ranulph. "

Coming near to her, he said in a voice husky with feeling: "Will you bemy wife, Guida?"

She stood up, one hand resting on the arm of the great chair, the otherhalf held out in pitying deprecation. 

"No, Ranulph, no; I can never, never be your wife--never in this world. "

For an instant he looked at her dumfounded, then turned away to thefireplace slowly and heavily. "I suppose it was too much to hope for, "he said bitterly. He realised now how much she was above him, even inher sorrow and shame. 

"You forget, " she answered quietly, and her hand went out suddenly tothe soft curls of the child, "you forget what the world says about me. "

There was a kind of fierceness in his look as he turned to her again. 

"Me--I have always forgotten--everything, " he answered. "Have youthought that for all these years I've believed one word? Secours d'lavie, of what use is faith, what use to trust, if you thought I believed!I do not know the truth, for you have not told me; but I do know, as Iknow I have a heart in me--I do know that there never was any wrong inyou. It is you who forget, " he added quickly--"it is you who forget. Itried to tell you all this before; three years ago I tried to tell you. You stopped me, you would not listen. Perhaps you've thought I did notknow what has happened to you every week, almost every day of your life?A hundred times I have walked here and you haven't seen me--when youwere asleep, when you were fishing, when you were working like a manin the fields and the garden; you who ought to be cared for by a man, working like a slave at man's work. But, no, no, you have not thoughtwell of me, or you would have known that every day I cared, every day Iwatched, and waited, and hoped--and believed!"

She came to him slowly where he stood, his great frame trembling withhis passion and the hurt she had given him, and laying her hand upon hisarm, she said:

"Your faith was a blind one, Ro. I was either a girl who--who deservednothing of the world, or I was a wife. I had no husband, had I? Then Imust have been a girl who deserved nothing of the world, or of you. Yourfaith was blind, Ranulph, you see it was blind. "

"What I know is this, " he repeated with dogged persistence--"what I knowis this: that whatever was wrong, there was no wrong in you. My life ahundred times on that!"

She smiled at him, the brightest smile that had been on her face theseyears past, and she answered softly: "'I did not think there was sogreat faith--no, not in Israel!'" Then the happiness passed from herlips to her eyes. "Your faith has made me happy, Ro--I am selfish, yousee. Your love in itself could not make me happy, for I have no right tolisten, because--"

She paused. It seemed too hard to say: the door of her heart enclosingher secret opened so slowly, so slowly. A struggle was going on in her. Every feeling, every force of her nature was alive. Once, twice, thriceshe tried to speak and could not. At last with bursting heart and eyesswimming with tears she said solemnly:

"I can never marry you, Ranulph, and I have no right to listen to yourwords of love, because--because I am a wife. "

Then she gave a great sigh of relief; like some penitent who has fora lifetime hidden a sin or a sorrow and suddenly finds the joy of aconfessional which relieves the sick heart, takes away the hand ofloneliness that clamps it, and gives it freedom again; lifting the poorslave from the rack of secrecy, the cruelest inquisition of life andtime. She repeated the words once more, a little louder, a littleclearer. She had vindicated herself to God, now she vindicated herselfto man--though to but one. 

"I can never marry you; because I am a wife, " she said again. Therewas a slight pause, and then the final word was said: "I am the wife ofPhilip d'Avranche. "

Ranulph did not speak. He stood still and rigid, looking with eyes thatscarcely saw. 

"I had not intended telling any one until the time should come"--oncemore her hand reached out and tremblingly stroked the head of thechild--"but your faith has forced it from me. I couldn't let you gofrom me now, ignorant of the truth, you whose trust is beyond telling. Ranulph, I want you to know that I am at least no worse than you thoughtme. "

The look in his face was one of triumph, mingled with despair, hatred, and purpose--hatred of Philip d'Avranche, and purpose concerning him. Hegloried now in knowing that Guida might take her place among the honestwomen of this world, --as the world terms honesty, --but he had receivedthe death-blow to his every hope. He had lost her altogether, he who hadwatched and waited; who had served and followed, in season and out ofseason; who had been the faithful friend, keeping his eye fixed onlyupon her happiness; who had given all; who had poured out his heart likewater, and his life like wine before her. 

At first he only grasped the fact that Philip d'Avranche was the husbandof the woman he loved, and that she had been abandoned. Then suddenremembrance stunned him: Philip d'Avranche, Duc de Bercy, had anotherwife. He remembered--it had been burned into his brain the day he sawit first in the Gazette de Jersey--that he had married the ComtesseChantavoine, niece of the Marquis Grandjon-Larisse, upon the very day, and but an hour before, the old Duc de Bercy suddenly died. It flashedacross his mind now what he had felt then. He had always believed thatPhilip had wronged Guida; and long ago he would have gone in search ofhim--gone to try the strength of his arm against this cowardly marauder, as he held him--but his father's ill-health had kept him where he was, and Philip was at sea upon the nation's business. So the years had goneon until now. 

His brain soon cleared. All that he had ever thought upon the matternow crystallised itself into the very truth of the affair. Philip hadmarried Guida secretly; but his new future had opened up to him allat once, and he had married again--a crime, but a crime which in highplaces sometimes goes unpunished. How monstrous it was that such vilewickedness should be delivered against this woman before him, in whombeauty, goodness, power were commingled! She was the real PrincessPhilip d'Avranche, and this child of hers--now he understood why sheallowed Guilbert to speak no patois. 

They scarcely knew how long they stood silent, she with her handstroking the child's golden hair, he white and dazed, looking, lookingat her and the child, as the thing resolved itself to him. At last, ina voice which neither he nor she could quite recognise as his own, hesaid:

"Of course you live now only for Guilbert. "

How she thanked him in her heart for the things he had left unsaid, those things which clear-eyed and great-minded folk, high or humble, always understand. There was no selfish lamenting, no reproaches, noneof the futile banalities of the lover who fails to see that it is nocrime for a woman not to love him. The thing he had said was the thingshe most cared to hear. 

"Only for that, Ranulph, " she answered. 

"When will you claim the child's rights?"

She shook her head sadly. "I do not know, " she answered with hesitation. "I will tell you all about it. "

Then she told him of the lost register of St. Michael's, and aboutthe Reverend Lorenzo Dow, but she said nothing as to why she had keptsilence. She felt that, man though he was, he might divine something ofthe truth. In any case he knew that Philip had deserted her. 

After a moment he said: "I'll find Mr. Dow if he is alive, and theregister too. Then the boy shall have his rights. "

"No, Ranulph, " she answered firmly, "it shall be in my own time. I mustkeep the child with me. I know not when I shall speak; I am biding myday. Once I thought I never should speak, but then I did not see all, did not wholly see my duty towards Guilbert. It is so hard to find whatis wise and just. "

"When the proofs are found your child shall have his rights, " he saidwith grim insistence. 

"I would never let him go from me, " she answered, and, leaning over, sheimpulsively clasped the little Guilbert in her arms. 

"There'll be no need for Guilbert to go from you, " he rejoined, "forwhen your rights come to you, Philip d'Avranche will not be living. "

"Will not be living!" she said in amazement. She did not understand. 

"I mean to kill him, " he answered sternly. 

She started, and the light of anger leaped into her eyes. "You mean tokill Philip d'Avranche--you, Maitre Ranulph Delagarde!" she exclaimed. "Whom has he wronged? Myself and my child only--his wife and his child. Men have been killed for lesser wrongs, but the right to kill does notbelong to you. You speak of killing Philip d'Avranche, and yet you dareto say you are my friend!"

In that moment Ranulph learned more than he had ever guessed of life'ssubtle distinctions and the workings of a woman's mind; and he knew thatshe was right. Her father, her grandfather, might have killed Philipd'Avranche--any one but himself, he the man who had but now declared hislove for her. Clearly his selfishness had blinded him. Right was on hisside, but not the formal codes by which men live. He could not avengeGuida's wrongs upon her husband, for all men knew that he himself hadloved her for years. 

"Forgive me, " he said in a low tone. Then a new thought came to him. "Doyou think your not speaking all these years was best for the child?" heasked. 

Her lips trembled. "Oh, that thought, " she said, "that thought has mademe unhappy so often! It comes to me at night as I lie sleepless, and Iwonder if my child will grow up and turn against me one day. Yet I didwhat I thought was right, Ranulph, I did the only thing I could do. Iwould rather have died than--"

She stopped short. No, not even to this man who knew all could she speakher whole mind; but sometimes the thought came to her with horrifyingacuteness: was it possible that she ought to have sunk her owndisillusions, misery, and contempt of Philip d'Avranche, for the child'ssake? She shuddered even now as the reflection of that possibility cameto her--to live with Philip d'Avranche!

Of late she had felt that a crisis was near. She had had premonitionsthat her fate, good or bad, was closing in upon her; that these days inthis lonely spot with her child, with her love for it and its love forher, were numbered; that dreams must soon give way for action, and thisdevoted peace would be broken, she knew not how. 

Stooping, she kissed the little fellow upon the forehead and the eyes, and his two hands came up and clasped both her cheeks. 

"Tu m'aimes, maman?" the child asked. She had taught him the prettyquestion. 

"Comme la vie, comme la vie!" she answered with a half sob, and caughtup the little one to her bosom. Now she looked towards the window. Ranulph followed her look, and saw that the shades of night werefalling. 

"I have far to walk, " he said; "I must be going. " As he held out hishand to Guida the child leaned over and touched him on the shoulder. "What is your name, man?" he asked. 

He smiled, and, taking the warm little hand in his own, he said: "Myname is Ranulph, little gentleman. Ranulph's my name, but you shall callme Ro. "

"Good-night, Ro, man, " the child answered with a mischievous smile. 

The scene brought up another such scene in Guida's life so many yearsago. Instinctively she drew back with the child, a look of pain crossingher face. But Ranulph did not see; he was going. At the doorway heturned and said:

"You know you can trust me. Good-bye. "

CHAPTER XXXI

When Ranulph returned to his little house at St. Aubin's Bay night hadfallen. Approaching he saw there was no light in the windows. Theblinds were not drawn, and no glimmer of fire came from the chimney. He hesitated at the door, for he instinctively felt that something musthave happened to his father. He was just about to enter, however, whensome one came hurriedly round the corner of the house. 

"Whist, boy, " said a voice; "I've news for you. " Ranulph recognised thevoice as that of Dormy Jamais. Dormy plucked at his sleeve. "Come withme, boy, " said he. 

"Come inside if you want to tell me something, " answered Ranulph. 

"Ah bah, not for me! Stone walls have ears. I'll tell only you and thewind that hears and runs away. "

"I must speak to my father first, " answered Ranulph. 

"Come with me, I've got him safe, " Dormy chuckled to himself. 

Ranulph's heavy hand dropped on his shoulder. "What's that you'resaying--my father with you! What's the matter?"

As though oblivious of Ranulph's hand Dormy went on chuckling. 

"Whoever burns me for a fool 'll lose their ashes. Des monz a fous--Ihave a head! Come with me. " Ranulph saw that he must humour the shrewdnatural, so he said:

"Et ben, put your four shirts in five bundles and come along. " He wasa true Jerseyman at heart, and speaking to such as Dormy Jamais he usedthe homely patois phrases. He knew there was no use hurrying the littleman, he would take his own time. 

"There's been the devil to pay, " said Dormy as he ran towards the shore, his sabots going clac--clac, clac--clac. "There's been the devil to payin St. Heliers, boy. " He spoke scarcely above a whisper. 

"Tcheche--what's that?" said Ranulph. But Dormy was not to uncover hispot of roses till his own time. "That connetable's got no more wit thana square bladed knife, " he rattled on. "But gache-a-penn, I'm hungry!"And as he ran he began munching a lump of bread he took from his pocket. 

For the next five minutes they went on in silence. It was quite dark, and as they passed up Market Hill--called Ghost Lane because of the GoodLittle People who made it their highway--Dormy caught hold of Ranulph'scoat and trotted along beside him. As they went, tokens of the lifewithin came out to them through doorway and window. Now it was the voiceof a laughing young mother:

 "Si tu as faim Manges ta main Et gardes l'autre pour demain; Et ta tete Pour le jour de fete; Et ton gros ortee Pour le Jour Saint Norbe"

And again:

 "Let us pluck the bill of the lark, The lark from head to tail--"

He knew the voice. It was that of a young wife of the parish of St. Saviour: married happily, living simply, given a frugal board, after themanner of her kind, and a comradeship for life. For the moment he feltlittle but sorrow for himself. The world seemed to be conspiring againsthim: the chorus of Fate was singing behind the scenes, singing of thehappiness of others in sardonic comment on his own final unhappiness. Yet despite the pain of finality there was on him something of theapathy of despair. 

From another doorway came fragments of a song sung at a veille. Thedoor was open, and he could see within the happy gathering of lads andlassies in the light of the crasset. There was the spacious kitchen, itsbeams and rafters dark with age, adorned with flitches of bacon, hugeloaves resting in the racllyi beneath the centre beam, the broad openhearth, the flaming fire of logs, and the great brass pan shining likefresh-coined gold, on its iron tripod over the logs. Lassies intheir short woollen petticoats, and bedgones of blue and lilac, withboisterous lads, were stirring the contents of the vast bashin--manycabots of apples, together with sugar, lemon-peel, and cider; the oldladies in mob-caps tied under the chin, measuring out the nutmeg andcinnamon to complete the making of the black butter: a jocund recreationfor all, and at all times. 

In one corner was a fiddler, and on the veille, flourished for theoccasion with satinettes and fern, sat two centeniers and the prevot, singing an old song in the patois of three parishes. 

Ranulph looked at the scene lingeringly. Here he was, with mystery andperil to hasten his steps, loitering at the spot where the light of homestreamed out upon the roadway. But though he lingered, somehow he seemedwithdrawn from all these things; they were to him now as pictures of adistant past. 

Dormy plucked at his coat. "Come, come, lift your feet, lift your feet, "said he; "it's no time to walk in slippers. The old man will be gettingscared, oui-gia!" Ranulph roused himself. Yes, yes, he must hurry on. He had not forgotten his father, but something held him here; as thoughFate were whispering in his ear. What does it matter now? While yet youmay, feed on the sight of happiness. So the prisoner going toexecution seizes one of the few moments left to him for prayer, to looklingeringly upon what he leaves, as though to carry into the dark aclear remembrance of it all. 

Moving on quietly in a kind of dream, Ranulph was roused again byDormy's voice: "On Sunday I saw three magpies, and there was a weddingthat day. Tuesday I saw two--that's for joy--and fifty Jersey prisonersof the French comes back on Jersey that day. This morning one I saw. One magpie is for trouble, and trouble's here. One doesn't have eyes fornaught--no, bidemme!"

Ranulph's patience was exhausted. 

"Bachouar, " he exclaimed roughly, "you make elephants out of fleas!You've got no more news than a conch-shell has music. A minute andyou'll have a back-hander that'll put you to sleep, Maitre Dormy. "

If he had been asked his news politely Dormy would have been still morecunningly reticent. To abuse him in his own argot was to make him loosehis bag of mice in a flash. 

"Bachouar yourself, Maitre Ranulph! You'll find out soon. No news--notrouble--eh! Par made, Mattingley's gone to the Vier Prison--he! Thebaker's come back, and the Connetable's after Olivier Delagarde. Notrouble, pardingue, if no trouble, Dormy Jamais's a batd'lagoule andno need for father of you to hide in a place that only Dormy knows--mygood!"

So at last the blow had fallen; after all these years of silence, sacrifice, and misery. The futility of all that he had done and sufferedfor his father's sake came home to Ranulph. Yet his brain was instantlyalive. He questioned Dormy rapidly and adroitly, and got the story fromhim in patches. 

The baker Carcaud, who, with Olivier Delagarde, betrayed the countryinto the hands of Rullecour years ago, had, with a French confederate ofMattingley's, been captured in attempting to steal Jean Touzel's boat, the Hardi Biaou. At the capture the confederate had been shot. Beforedying he implicated Mattingley in several robberies, and a notoriouscase of piracy of three months before, committed within gunshot of themen-of-war lying in the tide-way. Carcaud, seriously wounded, to savehis life turned King's evidence, and disclosed to the Royal Court inprivate his own guilt and Olivier Delagarde's treason. 

Hidden behind the great chair of the Bailly himself, Dormy Jamais hadheard the whole business. This had brought him hot-foot to St. Aubin'sBay, whence he had hurried Olivier Delagarde to a hiding-place in thehills above the bay of St. Brelade. The fool had travelled more swiftlythan Jersey justice, whose feet are heavy. Elie Mattingley was now inthe Vier Prison. There was the whole story. 

The mask had fallen, the game was up. Well, at least there would be nomore lying, no more brutalising inward shame. All at once it appeared toRanulph madness that he had not taken his father away from Jersey longago. Yet too he knew that as things had been with Guida he could neverhave stayed away. 

Nothing was left but action. He must get his father clear of the islandand that soon. But how? and where should they go? He had a boat in St. Aubin's Bay: getting there under cover of darkness he might embark withhis father and set sail--whither? To Sark--there was no safety there. ToGuernsey--that was no better. To France--yes, that was it, to the war ofthe Vendee, to join Detricand. No need to find the scrap of paper oncegiven him in the Vier Marchi. Wherever Detricand might be, his famewas the highway to him. All France knew of the companion of de laRochejaquelein, the fearless Comte de Tournay. Ranulph made hisdecision. Shamed and dishonoured in Jersey, in that holy war of theVendee he would find something to kill memory, to take him out of lifewithout disgrace. His father must go with him to France, and bide hisfate there also. 

By the time his mind was thus made up, they had reached the lonelyheadland dividing Portelet Bay from St. Brelade's. Dark things were saidof this spot, and the country folk of the island were wont to avoid it. Beneath the cliffs in the sea was a rocky islet called Janvrin's Tomb. One Janvrin, ill of a fell disease, and with his fellows forbiddenby the Royal Court to land, had taken refuge here, and died whollyneglected and without burial. Afterwards his body lay exposed till theravens and vultures devoured it, and at last a great storm swept hisbones off into the sea. Strange lights were to be seen about this rock, and though wise men guessed them mortal glimmerings, easily explained, they sufficed to give the headland immunity from invasion. 

To a cave at this point Dormy Jamais had brought the trembling OlivierDelagarde, unrepenting and peevish, but with a craven fear of the RoyalCourt and a furious populace quickening his footsteps. This hiding-placewas entered at low tide by a passage from a larger cave. It was like alittle vaulted chapel floored with sand and shingle. A crevice throughrock and earth to the world above let in the light and out the smoke. 

Here Olivier Delagarde sat crouched over a tiny fire, with some breadand a jar of water at his hand, gesticulating and talking to himself. The long white hair and beard, with the benevolent forehead, gavehim the look of some latter-day St. Helier, grieving for the sins andpraying for the sorrows of mankind; but from the hateful mouth cameprofanity fit only for the dreadful communion of a Witches' Sabbath. 

Hearing the footsteps of Ranulph and Dormy, he crouched and shivered interror, but Ranulph, who knew too well his revolting cowardice, calledto him reassuringly. On their approach he stretched out his talon-likefingers in a gesture of entreaty. 

"You'll not let them hang me, Ranulph--you'll save me, " he whimpered. 

"Don't be afraid, they shall not hang you, " Ranulph replied quietly, andbegan warming his hands at the fire. "You'll swear it, Ranulph--on theBible?"

"I've told you they shall not hang you. You ought to know by now whetherI mean what I say, " his son answered more sharply. 

Assuredly Ranulph meant that his father should not be hanged. Whateverthe law was, whatever wrong the old man had done, it had been atonedfor; the price had been paid by both. He himself had drunk the cup ofshame to the dregs, but now he would not swallow the dregs. An irondetermination entered into him. He had endured all that he would endurefrom man. He had set out to defend Olivier Delagarde from the worst thatmight happen, and he was ready to do so to the bitter end. His schemeof justice might not be that of the Royal Court, but he would defend itwith his life. He had suddenly grown hard--and dangerous. 

CHAPTER XXXII

The Royal Court was sitting late. Candles had been brought to lightthe long desk or dais where sat the Bailly in his great chair, and thetwelve scarlet-robed jurats. The Attorney-General stood at his desk, mechanically scanning the indictment read against prisoners charged withcapital crimes. His work was over, and according to his lights he haddone it well. Not even the Undertaker's Apprentice could have been lesssensitive to the struggles of humanity under the heel of fate and death. A plaintive complacency, a little righteous austerity, and an agreeableexpression of hunger made the Attorney-General a figure in godlycontrast to the prisoner awaiting his doom in the iron cage opposite. 

There was a singular stillness in this sombre Royal Court, where onlya tallow candle or two and a dim lanthorn near the door filled theroom with flickering shadows-great heads upon the wall drawing closetogether, and vast lips murmuring awful secrets. Low whisperings camethrough the dusk like mournful nightwinds carrying tales of awe througha heavy forest. Once in the long silence a figure rose up silently, andstealing across the room to a door near the jury box, tapped upon itwith a pencil. A moment's pause, the door opened slightly, and anothershadowy figure appeared, whispered, and vanished. Then the first figureclosed the door again silently, and came and spoke softly up to theBailly, who yawned in his hand, sat back in his chair, and drummedhis fingers upon the arm. Thereupon the other--the greffier of thecourt--settled down at his desk beneath the jurats, and peered into anopen book before him, his eyes close to the page, reading silently bythe meagre light of a candle from the great desk behind him. 

Now a fat and ponderous avocat rose up and was about to speak, but theBailly, with a peevish gesture, waved him down, and he settled heavilyinto place again. 

At last the door at which the greffier had tapped opened, and a gauntfigure in a red robe came out. Standing in the middle of the room hemotioned towards the great pew opposite the Attorney-General. Slowly thetwenty-four men of the grand jury following him filed into place and satthemselves down in the shadows. Then the gaunt figure--the Vicomte orhigh sheriff--bowing to the Bailly and the jurats, went over and tookhis seat beside the Attorney-General. Whereupon the Bailly leanedforward and droned a question to the Grand Enquete in the shadow. Onerose up from among the twenty-four, and out of the dusk there came inreply to the Judge a squeaking voice:

"We find the Prisoner at the Bar more Guilty than Innocent. "

A shudder ran through the court. But some one not in the room shudderedstill more violently. From the gable window of a house in the Rue desTres Pigeons, a girl had sat the livelong day, looking, looking into thecourt-room. She had watched the day decline, the evening come, and thelighting of the crassets and the candles, and had waited to hear thewords that meant more to her than her own life. At last the great momentcame, and she could hear the foreman's voice whining the fateful words, "More Guilty than Innocent. "

It was Carterette Mattingley, and the prisoner at the bar was herfather. 

CHAPTER XXXIII

Mattingley's dungeon was infested with rats and other vermin, he hadonly straw for his bed, and his food and drink were bread and water. Thewalls were damp with moisture from the Fauxbie running beneath, and amere glimmer of light came through a small barred window. Superstitionhad surrounded the Vier Prison with horrors. As carts passed under thegreat archway, its depth multiplied the sounds so powerfully, the echoeswere so fantastic, that folk believed them the roarings of fiendishspirits. If a mounted guard hurried through, the reverberation ofthe drum-beats and the clatter of hoofs were so uncouth that childrenstopped their ears and fled in terror. To the ignorant populace the VierPrison was the home of noisome serpents and the rendezvous of the deviland his witches of Rocbert. 

When therefore the seafaring merchant of the Vier Marchi, whose massive, brass-studded bahue had been as a gay bazaar where the gentry of Jerseyrefreshed their wardrobes, with one eye closed--when he was transferredto the Vier Prison, little wonder he should become a dreadful beinground whom played the lightnings of dark fancy. Elie Mattingley thepopular sinner, with insolent gold rings in his ears, unchallenged as tohow he came by his merchandise, was one person; Elie Mattingley, a torchfor the burning, and housed amid the terrors of the Vier Prison, wasanother. 

Few people in Jersey slept the night before his execution. Here andthere kind-hearted women or unimportant men lay awake through pity, anda few through a vague sense of loss; for, henceforth, the Vier Marchiwould lack a familiar interest; but mostly the people of Mattingley'sworld were wakeful through curiosity. Morbid expectation of the hanginghad for them a gruesome diversion. The thing itself would break thedaily monotony of life and provide hushed gossip for vraic gatheringsand veilles for a long time to come. Thus Elie Mattingley would not diein vain!

Here was one sensation, but there was still another. Olivier Delagardehad been unmasked, and the whole island had gone tracking him down. Noaged toothless tiger was ever sported through the jungle by an armyof shikarris with hungrier malice than was this broken traitor by thepeople he had betrayed. Ensued, therefore, a commingling of patriotismwith lust of man-hunting and eager expectation of to-morrow's sacrifice. 

Nothing of this excitement disturbed Mattingley. He did not sleep, butthat was because he was still watching for a means of escape. He felthis chances diminish, however, when about midnight an extra guard wasput round the prison. Something had gone amiss in the matter of hisrescue. 

Three things had been planned. 

Firstly, he was to try escape by the small window of the dungeon. 

Secondly, Carterette was to bring Sebastian Alixandre to the prisondisguised as a sorrowing aunt of the condemned. Alixandre was suddenlyto overpower the jailer, Mattingley was to make a rush for freedom, anda few bold spirits without would second his efforts and smuggle himto the sea. The directing mind and hand in the business were RanulphDelagarde's. He was to have his boat waiting to respond to a signal fromthe shore, and to make sail for France, where he and his father were tobe landed. There he was to give Mattingley, Alixandre, and Carterettehis craft to fare across the seas to the great fishing-ground of Gaspein Canada. 

Lastly, if these plans failed, the executioner was to be drugged withliquor, his besetting weakness, on the eve of the hanging. 

The first plan had been found impossible, the window being too small foreven Mattingley's head to get through. The second had failed becausethe righteous Royal Court forbade Carterette the prison, intent that sheshould no longer be contaminated by so vile a wretch as her father. Foryears this same Christian solicitude had looked down from the windowsof the Cohue Royale upon this same criminal in the Vier Marchi, with oneblind eye for himself the sinner and an open one for his merchandise. 

Mattingley could hear the hollow sound of the sentinels' steps under thearchway of the Vier Prison. He was quite stoical. If he had to die, thenhe had to die. Death could only be a little minute of agony; and forwhat came after--well, he had not thought fearfully of that, and he hadno wish to think of it at all. The visiting chaplain had talked, and hehad not listened. He had his own ideas about life, and death, and thebeyond, and they were not ungenerous. The chaplain had found him patientbut impossible, kindly but unresponsive, sometimes even curious, butwithout remorse. 

"You should repent with sorrow and a contrite heart, " said theclergyman. "You have done many evil things in your life, Mattingley. "

Mattingley had replied: "Ma fuifre, I can't remember them! I know Inever done them, for I never done anything but good all my life--so muchfor so much. " He had argued it out with himself and he believed he was agood man. He had been open-handed, had stood by his friends, and, up toa few days ago, was counted a good citizen; for many had come to profitthrough him. His trade--a little smuggling, a little piracy? Was not theformer hallowed by distinguished patronage, and had it not existed fromimmemorial time? It was fair fight for gain, an eye for an eye and atooth for a tooth. If he hadn't robbed others on the high seas, theywould probably have robbed him--and sometimes they did. His spirit wasthat of the Elizabethan admirals; he belonged to a century not his own. As for the crime for which he was to suffer, it had been the work ofanother hand, and very bad work it was, to try and steal Jean Touzel'sHardi Biaou, and then bungle it. He had had nothing to do with it, forhe and Jean Touzel were the best of friends, as was proved by the factthat while he lay in his dungeon, Jean wandered the shore sorrowing forhis fate. 

Thinking now of the whole business and of his past life, Mattingleysuddenly had a pang. Yes, remorse smote him at last. There was one thingon his conscience--only one. He had respect for the feelings of others, and where the Church was concerned this was mingled with a droll sort ofpity, as of the greater for the lesser, the wise for the helpless. Forclergymen he had a half-affectionate contempt. He remembered now thatwhen, five years ago, his confederate who had turned out so badly--hehad trusted him, too! had robbed the church of St. Michael's, carryingoff the great chest of communion plate, offertories, and rents, hehad piously left behind in Mattingley's house the vestry-books andparish-register; a nice definition in rogues' ethics. Awaiting his endnow, it smote Mattingley's soul that these stolen records had not beenreturned to St. Michael's. Next morning he must send word to Carteretteto restore the books. Then his conscience would be clear once more. Withthis resolve quieting his mind, he turned over on his straw and wentpeacefully to sleep. 

Hours afterwards he waked with a yawn. There was no start, no terror, but the appearance of the jailer with the chaplain roused in him disgustfor the coming function at the Mont es Pendus. Disgust was his chieffeeling. This was no way for a man to die! With a choice of evils heshould have preferred walking the plank, or even dying quietly in hisbed, to being stifled by a rope. To dangle from a cross-tree like ahalf-filled bag offended all instincts of picturesqueness, and first andlast he had been picturesque. 

He asked at once for pencil and paper. His wishes were obeyed withdeference. On the whole he realised by the attentions paid him--thebrandy and the food offered by the jailer, the fluttering kindness ofthe chaplain--that in the life of a criminal there is one moment whenhe commands the situation. He refused the brandy, for he was stronglyagainst spirits in the early morning, but asked for coffee. Eatingseemed superfluous--and a man might die more gaily on an empty stomach. He assured the chaplain that he had come to terms with his conscienceand was now about to perform the last act of a well-intentioned life. 

There and then he wrote to Carterette, telling her about thevestry-books of St. Michael's, and begging that she should restore themsecretly. There were no affecting messages; they understood each other. He knew that when it was possible she would never fail to come to themark where he was concerned, and she had equal faith in him. So theletter was sealed, addressed with flourishes, he was proud of hishandwriting, and handed to the chaplain for Carterette. 

He had scarcely drunk his coffee when there was a roll of drums outside. Mattingley knew that his hour was come, and yet to his own surprise hehad no violent sensations. He had a shock presently, however, for on thejailer announcing the executioner, who should be there before him butthe Undertaker's Apprentice! In politeness to the chaplain Mattingleyforbore profanity. This was the one Jerseyman for whom he had a profoundhatred, this youth with the slow, cold, watery blue eye, a face thatnever wrinkled either with mirth or misery, the square-set teeth alwaysshowing a little--an involuntary grimace of cruelty. Here was insult. 

"Devil below us, so you're going to do it--you!" broke out Mattingley. 

"The other man was drunk, " said the Undertaker's Apprentice. "He's beenfull as a jug three days. He got drunk too soon. " The grimace seemed towiden. "O my good!" said Mattingley, and he would say no more. To himwords were like nails--of no use unless they were to be driven home byacts. 

To Mattingley the procession of death was stupidly slow. As it issuedfrom the archway of the Vier Prison between mounted guards, and passedthrough a long lane of moving spectators, he looked round coolly. One ortwo bold spirits cried out: "Head up to the wind, Maitre Elie!"

"Oui-gia, " he replied; "devil a top-sail in!" and turned a look ofcontempt on those who hooted him. He realised now that there was nochance of rescue. The militia and the town guard were in ominous force, and although his respect for the island military was not devout, abullet from the musket of a fool might be as effective as one fromBonapend's--as Napoleon Bonaparte was disdainfully called in Jersey. Yethe could not but wonder why all the plans of Alixandre, Carterette, andRanulph had gone for nothing; even the hangman had been got drunk toosoon! He had a high opinion of Ranulph, and that he should fail him wasa blow to his judgment of humanity. 

He was thoroughly disgusted. Also they had compelled him to put on awhite shirt, he who had never worn linen in his life. He was ill at easein it. It made him conspicuous; it looked as though he were aping thegentleman at the last. He tried to resign himself, but resignation washard to learn so late in life. Somehow he could not feel that this wasreally the day of his death. Yet how could it be otherwise? Therewas the Vicomte in his red robe, there was the sinister Undertaker'sApprentice, ready to do his hangman's duty. There, as they crossed themielles, while the sea droned its sing-song on his left, was the parsondroning his sing-song on the right "In the midst of life we are indeath, " etc. There were the grumbling drums, and the crowd morbidlyenjoying their Roman holiday; and there, looming up before him, were thefour stone pillars on the Mont es Pendus from which he was to swing. Hisdisgust deepened. He was not dying like a seafarer who had fairly earnedhis reputation. 

His feelings found vent even as he came to the foot of the platformwhere he was to make his last stand, and the guards formed a squareabout the great pillars, glooming like Druidic altars. He burst forth inone phrase expressive of his feelings. 

"Sacre matin--so damned paltry!" he said, in equal tribute to two races. 

The Undertaker's Apprentice, thinking this a reflection upon hisarrangements, said, with a wave of the hand to the rope:

"Nannin, ch'est tres ship-shape, Maitre!"

The Undertaker's Apprentice was wrong. He had made everythingship-shape, as he thought, but a gin had been set for him. The rope tobe used at the hanging had been measured and approved by the Vicomte, and the Undertaker's Apprentice had carried it to his room at the topof the Cohue Royale. In the dead of night, however, Dormy Jamais drew itfrom under the mattress whereon the deathman slept, and substituted onea foot longer. This had been Ranulph's idea as a last resort, for he hada grim wish to foil the law even at the twelfth hour. 

The great moment had come. The shouts and hootings ceased. Out of thesilence there arose only the champing of a horse's bit or the hystericalgiggle of a woman. The high painful drone of the chaplain's voice washeard. 

Then came the fatal "Maintenant!" from the Vicomte, the platform fell, and Elie Mattingley dropped the length of the rope. 

What was the consternation of the Vicomte and the hangman, and thehorror of the crowd, to see that Mattingley's toes just touched theground! The body shook and twisted. The man was being slowly strangled, not hanged. 

The Undertaker's Apprentice was the only person who kept a cool head. The solution of the problem of the rope for afterwards, but he had beensent there to hang a man, and a man he would hang somehow. Without moreado he jumped upon Mattingley's shoulders and began to drag him down. 

That instant Ranulph Delagarde burst through the mounted guard and themilitia. Rushing to the Vicomte, he exclaimed:

"Shame! The man was to be hung, not strangled. This is murder. Stop it, or I'll cut the rope. " He looked round on the crowd. "Cowards--cowards, "he cried, "will you see him murdered?"

He started forward to drag away the deathmann, but the Vicomte, thoroughly terrified at Ranulph's onset, himself seized the Undertaker'sApprentice, who, drawing off with unruffled malice, watched whatfollowed with steely eyes. 

Dragged down by the weight of the Apprentice, Mattingley's feet were nowfirmly on the ground. While the excited crowd tried to break through thecordon of mounted guards, Mattingley, by a twist and a jerk, freed hiscorded hands. Loosing the rope at his neck he opened his eyes and lookedaround him, dazed and dumb. 

The Apprentice came forward. "I'll shorten the rope oui-gia! Then youshall see him swing, " he grumbled viciously to the Vicomte. 

The gaunt Vicomte was trembling with excitement. He looked helplesslyaround him. 

The Apprentice caught hold of the rope to tie knots in it and so shortenit, but Ranulph again appealed to the Vicomte. 

"You've hung the man, " said he; "you've strangled him and you didn'tkill him. You've got no right to put that rope round his neck again. "

Two jurats who had waited on the outskirts of the crowd, furtivelywatching the effect of their sentence, burst in, as distracted as theVicomte. 

"Hang the man again and the whole world will laugh at you, " Ranulphsaid. "If you're not worse than fools or Turks you'll let him go. He hashad death already. Take him back to the prison then, if you're afraid tofree him. " He turned on the crowd fiercely. "Have you nothing to say tothis butchery?" he cried. "For the love of God, haven't you anything tosay?"

Half the crowd shouted "Let him go free!" and the other half, disappointed in the working out of the gruesome melodrama, groaned andhooted. 

Meanwhile Mattingley stood as still as ever he had stood by his bahue inthe Vier Marchi, watching--waiting. 

The Vicomte conferred nervously with the jurats for a moment, and thenturned to the guard. 

"Take the prisoner to the Vier Prison, " he said. Mattingley had beenslowly solving the problem of his salvation. His eye, like a gimlet, had screwed its way through Ranulph's words into what lay behind, andat last he understood the whole beautiful scheme. It pleased him:Carterette had been worthy of herself, and of him. Ranulph had playedhis game well too. He only failed to do justice to the poor beganne, Dormy Jamais. But then the virtue of fools is its own reward. As theprocession started back with the Undertaker's Apprentice now followingafter Mattingley, not going before, Mattingley turned to him, and with asmile of malice said:

"Ch'est tres ship-shape, Maitre-eh!" and he jerked his head back towardsthe inadequate rope. 

He was not greatly troubled about the rest of this grisly farce. He wasnow ready for breakfast, and his appetite grew as he heard how the crowdhooted and snarled yah! at the Undertaker's Apprentice. He was quiteeasy about the future. What had been so well done thus far could notfail in the end. 

CHAPTER XXXIV

Events proved Mattingley right. Three days after, it was announced thathe had broken prison. It is probable that the fury of the Royal Court atthe news was not quite sincere, for it was notable that the night ofhis evasion, suave and uncrestfallen, they dined in state at the TresPigeons. The escape gave them happy issue from a quandary. 

The Vicomte officially explained that Mattingley had got out by thedungeon window. People came to see the window, and there, ba su, thebars were gone! But that did not prove the case, and the mystery wasdeepened by the fact that Jean Touzel, whose head was too small forElie's hat, could not get that same head through the dungeon window. Having proved so much, Jean left the mystery there, and returned to hisHardi Biaou. 

This happened on the morning after the dark night when Mattingley, Carterette, and Alixandre hurried from the Vier Prison, through the Ruedes Sablons to the sea, and there boarded Ranulph's boat, wherein wasOlivier Delagarde the traitor. 

Accompanying Carterette to the shore was a little figure that movedalong beside them like a shadow, a little grey figure that carrieda gold-headed cane. At the shore this same little grey figure badeMattingley good-bye with a quavering voice. Whereupon Carterette, herface all wet with tears, kissed him upon both cheeks, and sobbed so thatshe could scarcely speak. For now when it was all done--all thehorrible ordeal over--the woman in her broke down before the little oldgentleman, who had been like a benediction in the house where the tencommandments were imperfectly upheld. But she choked down her sobs, andthinking of another more than of herself, she said:

"Dear Chevalier, do not forget the book--that register--I gave youto-night. Read it--read the last writing in it, and then you willknow--ah, bidemme--but you will know that her we love--ah, but you mustread it and tell nobody till--till the right time comes! She hasn't heldher tongue for naught, and it's only fair to do as she's done all along, and hold ours. Pardingue, but my heart hurts me!" she added suddenly, and catching the hand that held the little gold cane she kissed it withimpulsive ardour. "You have been so good to me--oui-gia!" she said witha gulp, and then she dropped the hand and turned and fled to the boatrocking in the surf. 

The little Chevalier watched the boat glide out into the gloom of night, and waited till he knew that they must all be aboard Ranulph's schoonerand making for the sea. Then he turned and went back to the empty housein the Rue d'Egypte. 

Opening the book Carterette had placed in his hands before they left thehouse, he turned up and scanned closely the last written page. A momentafter, he started violently, his eyes dilating, first with wonder, thenwith a bewildered joy; and then, Protestant though he was, with theinstinct of long-gone forefathers, he made the sacred gesture, and said:

"Now I have not lived and loved in vain, thanks be to God!"

Even as joy opened wide the eyes of the Chevalier, who had been sorelysmitten through the friends of his heart, out at sea Night and Deathwere closing the eyes of another wan old man who had been a traitor tohis country. 

For the boat of the fugitives had scarcely cleared reefs and rocks, andreached the open Channel, when Olivier Delagarde, uttering the same cryas when Ranulph and the soldiers had found him wounded in the Grouvilleroad sixteen years before, suddenly started up from where he had lainmumbling, and whispering incoherently, "Ranulph--they've killed me!"fell back dead. 

True to the instinct which had kept him faithful to one idea for sixteenyears, and in spite of the protests of Mattingley and Carterette--of thedespairing Carterette who felt the last thread of her hopes snap withhis going--Ranulph made ready to leave them. Bidding them good-bye, heplaced his father's body in the rowboat, and pulling back to the shoreof St. Aubin's Bay with his pale freight, carried it on his shoulders upto the little house where he had lived so many years. There he kept thedeath-watch alone. 

CHAPTER XXXV

Guida knew nothing of the arrest and trial of Mattingley until he hadbeen condemned to death. Nor until then did she know anything of whathad happened to Olivier Delagarde; for soon after her interview withRanulph she had gone a-marketing to the Island of Sark, with the resultsof half a year's knitting. Her return had been delayed by ugly galesfrom the south east. Several times a year she made this journey, landingat the Eperquerie Rocks as she had done one day long ago, and sellingher beautiful wool caps and jackets to the farmers and fisher-folk, getting in kind for what she gave. 

When she made these excursions to Sark, Dormy Jamais had always remainedat the little house, milking her cow, feeding her fowls, and keeping allin order--as perfect a sentinel as old Biribi, and as faithful. For thefirst time in his life, however, Dormy Jamais was unfaithful. On the daythat Carcaud the baker and Mattingley were arrested, he deserted the hutat Plemont to exploit, with Ranulph, the adventure which was at lastto save Olivier Delagarde and Mattingley from death. But he had beenunfaithful only in the letter of his bond. He had gone to the house ofJean Touzel, through whose Hardi Biaou the disaster had come, and hadtold Mattresse Aimable that she must go to Plemont in his stead--for afool must keep his faith whate'er the worldly wise may do. So the fatFemme de Ballast, puffing with every step, trudged across the island toPlemont, and installed herself as keeper of the house. 

One day Mattresse Aimable's quiet was invaded by two signalmen who keptwatch, not far from Guida's home, for all sail, friend or foe, bearingin sight. They were now awaiting the new Admiral of the Jersey stationand his fleet. With churlish insolence they entered Guida's hutbefore Maitresse Aimable could prevent it. Looking round, they laughedmeaningly, and then told her that the commander coming presently to liewith his fleet in Grouville Bay was none other than the sometimeJersey midshipman, now Admiral Prince Philip d'Avranche, Duc de Bercy. Understanding then the meaning of their laughter, and the implied insultto Guida, Maitresse Aimable's voice came ravaging out of the silencewhere it lay hid so often and so long, and the signalmen went their waysshamefacedly. 

She could not make head or tail of her thoughts now, nor see an inchbefore her nose; all she could feel was an aching heart for Guida. She had heard strange tales of how Philip had become Prince Philipd'Avranche, and husband of the Comtesse Chantavoine, and afterwards Ducde Bercy. Also she had heard how Philip, just before he became the Ducde Bercy, had fought his ship against a French vessel off Ushant, and, though she had heavier armament than his own, had destroyed her. Forthis he had been made an admiral. Only the other day her Jean hadbrought the Gazette de Jersey in which all these things were related, and had spelled them out for her. And now this same Philip d'Avranchewith his new name and fame was on his way to defend the Isle of Jersey. 

Mattresse Aimable's muddled mind could not get hold of this new Philip. For years she had thought him a monster, and here he was, a great andvaliant gentleman to the world. He had done a thing that Jean wouldrather have cut off his hand--both hands--than do, and yet here he was, an admiral, a prince, and a sovereign duke, and men like Jean were asdust beneath his feet. The real Philip she knew: he was the man who hadspoiled the life of a woman; this other Philip--she could read abouthim, she could think about him, just as she could think about Williamand his horse' in Boulay Bay, or the Little Bad Folk of Rocbert; but shecould not realise him as a thing of flesh and blood and actual being. The more she tried to realise him the more mixed she became. 

As in her mental maze she sat panting her way to enlightenment, shesaw Guida's boat entering the little harbour. Now the truth must betold--but how?

After her first exclamation of welcome to mother and child, MaitresseAimable struggled painfully for her voice. She tried to find words inwhich to tell Guida the truth, but, stopping in despair, she suddenlybegan rocking the child back and forth, saying only: "Prince Admiralhe--and now to come! O my good--O my good!" Guida's sharp intuitionfound the truth. 

"Philip d'Avranche!" she said to herself. Then aloud, in a shakingvoice--"Philip d'Avranche!"

She could not think clearly for a moment. It was as if her brain hadreceived a blow, and in her head was a singing numbness, obscuringeyesight, hearing, speech. 

When she had recovered a little she took the child from MaitresseAimable, and pressing him to her bosom placed him in the Sieur deMauprat's great arm-chair. This action, ordinary as it seemed, wassignificant of what was in her mind. The child himself realisedsomething unusual, and he sat perfectly still, two small hands spreadout on the big arms. 

"You always believed in me, 'tresse Aimable, " Guida said at last in alow voice. 

"Oui-gia, what else?" was the instant reply. The quick responsivenessof her own voice seemed to confound the Femme de Ballast, and her facesuffused. 

Guida stooped quickly and kissed her on the cheek. "You'll never regretthat. And you will have to go on believing still, but you'll not besorry in the end, 'tresse Aimable, " she said, and turned away to thefireplace. An hour afterwards Mattresse Aimable was upon her way to St. Heliers, but now she carried her weight more easily and panted less. Twice within the last month Jean had given her ear a friendly pinch, andnow Guida had kissed her--surely she had reason to carry her weight morelightly. 

That afternoon and evening Guida struggled with herself: the woman inher shrinking from the ordeal at hand. But the mother in her pleaded, commanded, ruled confused emotions to quiet. Finality of purpose oncedetermined, a kind of peace came over her sick spirit, for with finalitythere is quiescence if not peace. 

When she looked at the little Guilbert, refined and strong, curiouslyobservant, and sensitive in temperament like herself, her couragesuddenly leaped to a higher point than it had ever known. This innocenthad suffered enough. What belonged to him he had not had. He had beenwronged in much by his father, and maybe--and this was the cruel partof it--had been unwittingly wronged, alas! how unwilling, by her! Ifshe gave her own life many times, it still could be no more than was thechild's due. 

A sudden impulse seized her, and with a quick explosion of feeling shedropped on her knees, and looking into his eyes, as though hungering forthe words she so often yearned to hear, she said:

"You love your mother, Guilbert? You love her, little son?"

With a pretty smile and eyes brimming with affectionate fun, but withouta word, the child put out a tiny hand and drew the fingers softly downhis mother's face. 

"Speak, little son, tell your mother that you love her. " The tiny handpressed itself over her eyes, and a gay little laugh came from thesensitive lips, then both arms ran round her neck. The child drew herhead to him impulsively, and kissing her, a little upon the hair and alittle upon the forehead, so indefinite was the embrace, he said:

"Si, maman, I loves you best of all, " then added: "Maman, can't I havethe sword now?"

"You shall have the sword too some day, " she answered, her eyesflashing. 

"But, maman, can't I touch it now?"

Without a word she took down the sheathed goldhandled sword and laid itacross the chair-arms. 

"I can't take the sword out, can I, maman?" he asked. 

She could not help smiling. "Not yet, my son, not yet. "

"I has to be growed up so the blade doesn't hurt me, hasn't I, maman?"

She nodded and smiled again, and went about her work. 

He nodded sagely. "Maman--" he said. She turned to him; the littlefigure was erect with a sweet importance. "Maman, what am I now--withthe sword?" he asked, with wide-open, amazed eyes. 

A strange look passed across her face. Stooping, she kissed his curlyhair. 

"You are my prince, " she said. 

A little later the two were standing on that point of land calledGrosnez--the brow of the Jersey tiger. Not far from them was asignal-staff which telegraphed to another signal-staff inland. Upon thestaff now was hoisted a red flag. Guida knew the signals well. The redflag meant warships in sight. Then bags were hoisted that told of thenumber of vessels: one, two, three, four, five, six, then one next theupright, meaning seven. Last of all came the signal that a flag-ship wasamong them. 

This was a fleet in command of an admiral. There, not far out, betweenGuernsey and Jersey, was the squadron itself. Guida watched it fora long while, her heart hardening; but seeing that the men by thesignal-staff were watching her, she took the child and went to a spotwhere they were shielded from any eyes. Here she watched the fleet drawnearer and nearer. 

The vessels passed almost within a stone's throw of her. She could seethe St. George's Cross flying at the fore of the largest ship. Thatwas the admiral's flag--that was the flag of Admiral Prince Philipd'Avranche, Duc de Bercy. 

She felt her heart stand still suddenly, and with a tremor, as of fear, she gathered her child close to her. "What is all those ships, maman?"asked the child. "They are ships to defend Jersey, " she said, watchingthe Imperturbable and its flotilla range on. 

"Will they affend us, maman?"

"Perhaps-at the last, " she said. 

CHAPTER XXXVI

Off Grouville Bay lay the squadron of the Jersey station. The St. George's Cross was flying at the fore of the Imperturbable, and on everyship of the fleet the white ensign flapped in the morning wind. Thewooden-walled three-decked flag-ship, with her 32-pounders, and sixhundred men, was not less picturesque and was more important than theCastle of Mont Orgueil near by, standing over two hundred feet above thelevel of the sea: the home of Philip d'Avranche, Duc de Bercy, and theComtesse Chantavoine, now known to the world as the Duchesse de Bercy. 

The Comtesse had arrived in the island almost simultaneously withPhilip, although he had urged her to remain at the ducal palace ofBercy. But the duchy of Bercy was in hard case. When the imbecile DukeLeopold John died and Philip succeeded, the neutrality of Bercy had beenproclaimed, but this neutrality had since been violated, and there wasdanger at once from the incursions of the Austrians and the ravages ofthe French troops. In Philip's absence the valiant governor-generalof the duchy, aided by the influence and courage of the ComtesseChantavoine, had thus far saved it from dismemberment, in spite ofattempted betrayals by Damour the Intendant, who still remained Philip'senemy. 

But when the Marquis Grandjon-Larisse, the uncle of the Comtesse, died, her cousin, General Grandjon-Larisse of the Republican army--whose wordwith Dalbarade had secured Philip's release years before for her ownsafety, first urged and then commanded her temporary absence fromthe duchy. So far he had been able to protect it from the fury of theRepublicans and the secret treachery of the Jacobins. But a time ofgreat peril was now at hand. Under these anxieties and the lack of otherinspiration than duty, her health had failed, and at last she obeyed hercousin, joining Philip at the Castle of Mont Orgueil. 

More than a year had passed since she had seen him, but there was noemotion, no ardour in their present greeting. From the first there hadbeen nothing to link them together. She had married, hoping that shemight love thereafter; he in choler and bitterness, and in the stress ofa desperate ambition. He had avoided the marriage so long as he might, in hope of preventing it until the Duke should die, but with the ironyof fate the expected death had come two hours after the ceremony. Then, shortly afterwards, came the death of the imbecile Leopold John; andPhilip found himself the Duc de Bercy, and within a year, by reason of asplendid victory for the Imperturbable, an admiral. 

Truth to tell, in this battle he had fought for victory for his ship anda fall for himself: for the fruit he had plucked was turning to dust andashes. He was haunted by the memory of a wronged woman, as she herselfhad foretold. Death, with the burial of private dishonour under theroses of public victory--that had come to be his desire. But he hadfound that Death is wilful and chooseth her own time; that she may belured, but she will not come with shouting. So he had stoically acceptedhis fate, and could even smile with a bitter cynicism when ordered toproceed to the coast of Jersey, where collision with a French squadronwas deemed certain. 

Now, he was again brought face to face with his past; with the imminentmemory of Guida Landresse de Landresse. Where was Guida now? What hadhappened to her? He dared not ask, and none told him. Whichever way heturned--night or day--her face haunted him. Looking out from the windowsof Mont Orgueil Castle, or from the deck of the Imperturbable, he couldsee--and he could scarce choose but see--the lonely Ecrehos. There, witha wild eloquence, he had made a girl believe he loved her, and had takenthe first step in the path which should have led to true happiness andhonour. From this good path he had violently swerved--and now?

From all that could be seen, however, the world went very well with him. He was the centre of authority. Almost any morning one might have seen aboat shoot out from below the Castle wall, carrying a flag with the blueball of a Vice-Admiral of the White in the canton, and as the Admiralhimself stepped upon the deck of the Imperturbable between salutingguards, across the water came a gay march played in his honour. 

Jersey herself was elate, eager to welcome one of her own sons risento such high estate. When, the very day after his arrival, he passedthrough the Vier Marchi on his way to visit the Lieutenant-Governor, theredrobed jurats impulsively turned out to greet him. They were readyto prove that memory is a matter of will and cultivation. There is nocurtain so opaque as that which drops between the mind of man and thething it is advantageous to forget. But how closely does the ear ofself-service listen for the footfall of a most distant memory, when todo so is to share even a reflected glory!

A week had gone since Philip had landed on the island. Memories pursuedhim. If he came by the shore of St. Clement's Bay, he saw the spot wherehe had stood with her the evening he married her, and she said to him:"Philip, I wonder what we will think of this day a year from now!. .. To-day is everything to you, but to-morrow is very much to me. " Heremembered Shoreham sitting upon the cromlech above singing the legendof the gui-l'annee--and Shoreham was lying now a hundred fathoms deep. 

As he walked through the Vier Marchi with his officers, there flashedbefore his eyes the scene of sixteen years ago, when, through the grimeand havoc of battle, he had run to save Guida from the scimitar of thegarish Turk. Walking through the Place du Vier Prison, he recalled themorning when he had rescued Ranulph from the hands of the mob. Where wasRanulph now?

If he had but known it, that very morning as he passed Mattingley'shouse Ranulph had looked down at him with infinite scorn andloathing--but with triumph too, for the Chevalier had just shown him acertain page in a certain parish-register long lost, left with him byCarterette Mattingley. Philip knew naught of Ranulph save the storybabbled by the islanders. He cared to hear of no one but Guida, and whowas now to mention her name to him? It was long--so long since he hadseen her face. How many years ago was it? Only five, and yet it seemedtwenty. 

He was a boy then; now his hair was streaked with grey. He waslight-hearted then, and he was still buoyant with his fellows, stillalert and vigorous, quick of speech and keen of humour--but only beforethe world. In his own home he was fitful of mood, impatient of thegrave, meditative look of his wife, of her resolute tenacity of thoughtand purpose, of her unvarying evenness of mood, through which no warmthplayed. It seemed to him that if she had defied him--given him petulancefor petulance, impatience for impatience, it would have been easierto bear. If--if he could only read behind those passionless eyes, thatclear, unwrinkled forehead! But he knew her no better now than he didthe day he married her. Unwittingly she chilled him, and he felt he hadno right to complain, for he had done her the greatest wrong which canbe done a woman. Whatever chanced, Guida was still his wife; and therewas in him yet the strain of Calvinistic morality of the island racethat bred him. He had shrunk from coming here, but it had been far worsethan he had looked for. 

One day, in a nervous, bitter moment, after an impatient hour with theComtesse, he had said: "Can you--can you not speak? Can you not tell mewhat you think?" She had answered quietly:

"It would do no good. You would not understand. I know you in some waysbetter than you know yourself. I cannot tell what it is, but there issomething wrong in your nature, something that poisons your life. Andnot myself only has felt that. I never told you--but you remember theday the old Duke died, the day we were married? You had gone from theroom a moment. The Duke beckoned me to him, and whispered 'Don't beafraid--don't be afraid--' and then he died. That meant that he wasafraid, that death had cleared his sight as to you in some way. He wasafraid--of what? And I have been afraid--of what? I do not know. Thingshave not gone well somehow. You are strong, you are brave, and I come ofa family that have been strong and brave. We ought to be near: yet, yet we are lonely and far apart, and we shall never be nearer or lesslonely. That I know. "

To this he had made no reply and this anger vanished. Something in herwords had ruled him to her own calmness, and at that moment he had thefirst flash of understanding of her nature and its true relation to hisown. 

Passing through the Rue d'Egypte this day he met Dormy Jamais. Forgetfulof everything save that this quaint foolish figure had interested himwhen a boy, he called him by name; but Dormy Jamais swerved away, eyeinghim askance. 

At that instant he saw Jean Touzel standing in the doorway of his house. A wave of remorseful feeling rushed over him. He could wait no longer:he would ask Jean Touzel and his wife about Guida. He instantlybethought him of an excuse for the visit. His squadron needed anotherpilot; he would approach Jean in the matter. 

Bidding his flag-lieutenant go on to Elizabeth Castle whither they werebound, and await him there, he crossed over to Jean. By the time hereached the doorway, however, Jean had retreated to the veille by thechimney behind Maitresse Aimable, who sat in a great stave-chair mendinga net. 

Philip knocked and stepped inside. When Mattresse Aimable saw who it wasshe was so startled that she dropped her work, and made vague clutchesto recover it. Stooping, however, was a great effort for her. Philipinstantly stepped forward and picked up the net. Politely handing it toher, he said:

"Ah, Maitresse Aimable, it is as if you had never stirred all theseyears!" Then turning to her husband "I have come looking for a goodpilot, Jean. " Mattresse Aimable had at first flushed to a purple, hadafterwards gone pale, then recovered herself, and now returned Philip'slook with a downright steadiness. Like Jean, she knew well enough he hadnot come for a pilot--that was not the business of a Prince Admiral. 

She did not even rise. Philip might be whatever the world chose to callhim, but her house was her own, and he had come uninvited, and he wasunwelcome. 

She kept her seat, but her fat head inclined once in greeting, and shewaited for him to speak again. She knew why he had come; and somehow thesteady look in these slow, brown eyes, and the blinking glance behindJean's brass-rimmed spectacles, disconcerted Philip. Here were peoplewho knew the truth about him, knew the sort of man he really was. Thesepoor folk who had had nothing of the world but what they earned, theywould never hang on any prince's favours. 

He read the situation rightly. The penalties of his life were teachinghim a discernment which could never have come to him through goodfortune alone. Having at last discovered his real self a little, he wasin the way of knowing others. 

"May I shut the door?" he asked quietly. Jean nodded. Closing it heturned to them again. "Since my return I have heard naught concerningMademoiselle Landresse, " he said. "I want to ask you about her now. Doesshe still live in the Place du Vier Prison?"

Both Jean and Aimable shook their heads. They had spoken no word sincehis entrance. 

"She--she is not dead?" he asked. They shook their heads again. 

"Her grandfather"--he paused--"is he living?" Once more they shook theirheads in negation. "Where is mademoiselle?" he asked, sick at heart. 

Jean looked at his wife; neither moved nor answered. "Where does shelive?" urged Philip. Still there was no motion, no reply. "You mightas well tell me. " His tone was half pleading, half angry--little like asovereign duke, very like a man in trouble. "You must know I shall findout from some one else, then, " he continued. "But it is better for youto tell me. I mean her no harm, and I would rather know about her fromher friends. "

He took off his hat now. Something in the dignity of these two honestfolk rebuked the pride of place and spirit in him. As plainly asthough heralds had proclaimed it, he understood that these two knew theabatements on the shield of his honour-argent, a plain point tenne, dueto him "that tells lyes to his Prince or General, " and argent, a goresinister tenne, due for flying from his colours. 

Maitresse Aimable turned and looked towards Jean, but Jean turned awayhis head. Then she did not hesitate. The voice so oft eluding her willresponded readily now. Anger--plain primitive rage-possessed her. Shehad had no child, but as the years had passed all the love that mighthave been given to her own was bestowed upon Guida, and in that mind shespoke. 

"O my grief, to think you have come here-you!" she burst forth. "Yousteal the best heart in the world--there is none like her, nannin-gia. You promise her, you break her life, you spoil her, and then you flyaway--ah coward you! Man pethe benin, was there ever such a man likeyou! If my Jean there had done a thing as that I would sink him in thesea--he would sink himself, je me crais! But you come back here, O myMother of God, you come back here with your sword, with your crown-ugh, it is like a black cat in heaven--you!"

She got to her feet more nimbly than she had ever done in her life, andthe floor seemed to heave as she came towards Philip. "You speak to mewith soft words, " she said harshly--"but you shall have the good hardtruth from me. You want to know now where she is--I ask where you havebeen these five years? Your voice it tremble when you speak of her now. Oh ho! it has been nice and quiet these five years. The grand pethe ofher drop dead in his chair when he know. The world turn against her, make light of her, when they know. All alone--she is all alone, but forone fat old fool like me. She bear all the shame, all the pain, forthe crime of you. All alone she take her child and go on to the rock ofPlemont to live these five years. But you, you go and get a crown and beAmiral and marry a grande comtesse--marry, oh, je crais ben! This is noworld for such men like you. You come to my house, to the house of JeanTouzel, to ask this and that--well, you have the truth of God, ba su!No good will come to you in the end, nannin-gia! When you go to die, youwill think and think and think of that beautiful Guida Landresse; youwill think and think of the heart you kill, and you will call, and shewill not come. You will call till your throat rattle, but she will notcome, and the child of sorrow you give her will not come--no, bidemme!E'fin, the door you shut you can open now, and you can go from the houseof Jean Touzel. It belong to the wife of an honest man--maint'nant!"

In the moment's silence that ensued, Jean took a step forward. "Mafemme, ma bonne femme!" he said with a shaking voice. Then he pointedto the door. Humiliated, overwhelmed by the words of the woman, Philipturned mechanically towards the door without a word, and his fingersfumbled for the latch, for a mist was before his eyes. With a greateffort he recovered himself, and passed slowly out into the Rued'Egypte. 

"A child--a child!" he said brokenly. "Guida's child--my God! AndI--have never--known. Plemont--Plemont, she is at Plemont!" Heshuddered. "Guida's child--and mine, " he kept saying to himself, as in apainful dream he passed on to the shore. 

In the little fisherman's cottage he had left, a fat old woman satsobbing in the great chair made of barrel-staves, and a man, stooping, kissed her twice on the cheek--the first time in fifteen years. And thenshe both laughed and cried. 

CHAPTER XXXVII

Guida sat by the fire sewing, Biribi the dog at her feet. A littledistance away, to the right of the chimney, lay Guilbert asleep. Twiceshe lowered the work to her lap to look at the child, the reflectedlight of the fire playing on his face. Stretching out her hand, shetouched him, and then she smiled. Hers was an all-devouring love; thechild was her whole life; her own present or future was as nothing; shewas but fuel for the fire of his existence. 

A storm was raging outside. The sea roared in upon Plemont and Grosnez, battering the rocks in futile agony. A hoarse nor'-easter ranged acrossthe tiger's head in helpless fury: a night of awe to inland folk, and ofdanger to seafarers. To Guida, who was both of the sea and of the land, fearless as to either, it was neither terrible nor desolate to be alonewith the storm. Storm was but power unshackled, and power she loved andunderstood. She had lived so long in close commerce with storm and seathat something of their keen force had entered into her, and she was kinwith them. Each wind to her was intimate as a friend, each rock and cavefamiliar as her hearthstone; and the ungoverned ocean spoke in termsintelligible. So heavy was the surf that now and then the spray of somefoiled wave broke on the roof, but she only nodded at that, as thoughthe sea were calling her to come forth, tapping on her rooftree injoyous greeting. 

But suddenly she started and bent her head. It seemed as if her wholebody were hearkening. Now she rose quickly to her feet, dropped her workupon the table near by, and rested herself against it, still listening. She was sure she heard a horse's hoofs. Turning swiftly, she drew thecurtain of the bed before her sleeping child, and then stood quietwaiting--waiting. Her hand went to her heart once as though its fiercethrobbing hurt her. Plainly as though she could look through these stonewalls into clear sunlight, she saw some one dismount, and she heard avoice. 

The door of the but was unlocked and unbarred. If she feared, it waseasy to shoot the bolt and lock the door, to drop the bar across thelittle window, and be safe and secure. But no bodily fear possessedher--only that terror of the spirit when its great trial comes suddenlyand it shrinks back, though the mind be of faultless courage. 

She waited. There came a knocking at the door. She did not move fromwhere she stood. 

"Come in, " she said. She was composed and resolute now. 

The latch clicked, the door opened, and a cloaked figure entered, theshriek of the storm behind. The door closed again. The intruder took astep forward, his hat came off, the cloak was loosed and dropped uponthe floor. Guida's premonition had been right: It was Philip. 

She did not speak. A stone could have been no colder as she stood inthe light of the fire, her face still and strong, the eyes darkling, luminous. There was on her the dignity of the fearless, the pure inheart. 

"Guida!" Philip said, and took a step nearer, and paused. 

He was haggard, he had the look of one who had come upon a desperateerrand. When she did not answer he said pleadingly:

"Guida, won't you speak to me?"

"The Duc de Bercy chooses a strange hour for his visit, " she saidquietly. 

"But see, " he answered hurriedly; "what I have to say to you--" hepaused, as though to choose the thing he should say first. 

"You can say nothing I need hear, " she answered, looking him steadily inthe eyes. 

"Ah, Guida, " he cried, disconcerted by her cold composure, "for God'ssake listen to me! To-night we have to face our fate. To-night you haveto say--"

"Fate was faced long ago. I have nothing to say. "

"Guida, I have repented of all. I have come now only to speak honestlyof the wrong I did you. I have come to--"

Scorn sharpened her words, though she spoke calmly: "You have forcedyourself upon a woman's presence--and at this hour!"

"I chose the only hour possible, " he answered quickly. "Guida, the pastcannot be changed, but we have the present and the future still. I havenot come to justify myself, but to find a way to atone. "

"No atonement is possible. "

"You cannot deny me the right to confess to you that--"

"To you denial should not seem hard usage, " she answered slowly, "andconfession should have witnesses--"

She paused suggestively. The imputation that he of all men had the leastright to resent denial; that, dishonest still, he was willing to justifyher privately though not publicly; that repentance should have been opento the world--it all stung him. 

He threw out his hands in a gesture of protest. "As many witnesses asyou will, but not now, not this hour, after all these years. Will younot at least listen to me, and then judge and act? Will you not hear me, Guida?"

She had not yet even stirred. Now that it had come, this scene was allso different from what she might have imagined. But she spoke out of amerciless understanding, an unchangeable honesty. Her words came clearand pitiless:

"If you will speak to the point and without a useless emotion, I willtry to listen. Common kindness should have prevented this intrusion--byyou!"

Every word she said was like a whip-lash across his face. A devilishlight leapt into his eye, but it faded as quickly as it came. 

"After to-night, to the public what you will, " he repeated with doggedpersistence, "but it was right we should speak alone to each other atleast this once before the open end. I did you wrong, yet I did not meanto ruin your life, and you should know that. I ought not to have marriedyou secretly; I acknowledge that. But I loved you--"

She shook her head, and with a smile of pitying disdain--he could solittle see the real truth, his real misdemeanour--she said: "Oh no, never--never! You were not capable of love; you never knew what itmeans. From the first you were too untrue ever to love a woman. Therewas a great fire of emotion, you saw shadows on the wall, and you fellin love with them. That was all. "

"I tell you that I loved you, " he answered with passionate energy. "Butas you will. Let it be that it was not real love: at least it was allthere was in me to give. I never meant to desert you. I never meant todisavow our marriage. I denied you, you will say. I did. In the light ofwhat came after, it was dishonourable--I grant that; but I did it at acrisis and for the fulfilment of a great ambition--and as much for youas for me. "

"That was the least of your evil work. But how little you know what truepeople think or feel!" she answered with a kind of pain in her voice, for she felt that such a nature could never even realise its ownenormities. Well, since it had gone so far she would speak openly, though it hurt her sense of self-respect. 

"For that matter, do you think that I or any good woman would have hadplace or power, been princess or duchess, at the price? What sort ofmind have you?" She looked him straight in the eyes. "Put it in theclear light of right and wrong, it was knavery. You--you talk of notmeaning to do me harm. You were never capable of doing me good. It wasnot in you. From first to last you are untrue. Were it otherwise, wereyou not from first to last unworthy, would you have--but no, your worstcrime need not be judged here. Yet had you one spark of worthinesswould you have made a mock marriage--it is no more--with the ComtesseChantavoine? No matter what I said or what I did in anger, or contemptof you, had you been an honest man you would not have so ruined anotherlife. Marriage, alas! You have wronged the Comtesse worse than you havewronged me. One day I shall be righted, but what can you say or do toright her wrongs?"

Her voice had now a piercing indignation and force. "Yes, Philipd'Avranche, it is as I say, justice will come to me. The world turnedagainst me because of you; I have been shamed and disgraced. For yearsI have suffered in silence. But I have waited without fear for the end. God is with me. He is stronger than fortune or fate. He has brought youto Jersey once more, to right my wrongs, mine and my child's. "

She saw his eyes flash to the little curtained bed. They both stoodsilent and still. He could hear the child breathing. His bloodquickened. An impulse seized him. He took a step towards the bed, asthough to draw the curtain, but she quickly moved between. 

"Never, " she said in a low stern tone; "no touch of yours for myGuilbert--for my son! Every minute of his life has been mine. He ismine--all mine--and so he shall remain. You who gambled with the name, the fame, the very soul of your wife, you shall not have one breath ofher child's life. "

It was as if the outward action of life was suspended in them for amoment, and then came the battle of two strong spirits: the struggleof fretful and indulged egotism, the impulse of a vigorous temperament, against a deep moral force, a high purity of mind and conscience, andthe invincible love of the mother for the child. Time, bitterness, andpower had hardened Philip's mind, and his long-restrained emotions, breaking loose now, made him a passionate and wilful figure. His forcelay in the very unruliness of his spirit, hers in the perfect command ofher moods and emotions. Well equipped by the thoughts and sufferings offive long years, her spirit was trained to meet this onset with fierywisdom. They were like two armies watching each other across a narrowstream, between one conflict and another. 

For a minute they stood at gaze. The only sounds in the room were thewhirring of the fire in the chimney and the child's breathing. At lastPhilip's intemperate self-will gave way. There was no withstanding thatcold, still face, that unwavering eye. Only brutality could go further. The nobility of her nature, her inflexible straight-forwardness cameupon him with overwhelming force. Dressed in molleton, with no adornmentsave the glow of a perfect health, she seemed at this moment, as on theEcrehos, the one being on earth worth living and caring for. What had hegot for all the wrong he had done her? Nothing. Come what might, therewas one thing that he could yet do, and even as the thought possessedhim he spoke. 

"Guida, " he said with rushing emotion, "it is not too late. Forgive thepast-the wrong of it, the shame of it. You are my wife; nothing can undothat. The other woman--she is nothing to me. If we part and never meetagain she will suffer no more than she suffers to go on with me. Shehas never loved me, nor I her. Ambition did it all, and of ambition Godknows I have had enough! Let me proclaim our marriage, let me come backto you. Then, happen what will, for the rest of our lives I will try toatone for the wrong I did you. I want you, I want our child. I want towin your love again. I can't wipe out what I have done, but I can putyou right before the world, I can prove to you that I set you aboveplace and ambition. If you shrink from doing it for me, do it"--heglanced towards the bed--"do it for our child. To-morrow--to-morrowit shall be, if you will forgive. To-morrow let us startagain--Guida--Guida!"

She did not answer at once; but at last she said "Giving up placeand ambition would prove nothing now. It is easy to repent when ourpleasures have palled. I told you in a letter four years ago that yourprotests came too late. They are always too late. With a nature likeyours nothing is sure or lasting. Everything changes with the mood. Itis different with me: I speak only what I truly mean. Believe me, forI tell you the truth, you are a man that a woman could forget but couldnever forgive. As a prince you are much better than as a plain man, forprinces may do what other men may not. It is their way to take all andgive nothing. You should have been born a prince, then all your actionswould have seemed natural. Yet now you must remain a prince, for whatyou got at such a price to others you must pay for. You say you wouldcome down from your high place, you would give up your worldly honours, for me. What madness! You are not the kind of man with whom a womancould trust herself in the troubles and changes of life. Laying all elseaside, if I would have had naught of your honours and your duchy longago, do you think I would now share a disgrace from which you couldnever rise? For in my heart I feel that this remorse is but caprice. Itis to-day; it may not--will not--be tomorrow. "

"You are wrong, you are wrong. I am honest with you now, " he broke in. 

"No, " she answered coldly, "it is not in you to be honest. Your wordshave no ring of truth in my ears, for the note is the same as I heardonce upon the Ecrehos. I was a young girl then and I believed; I am awoman now, and I should still disbelieve though all the world were onyour side to declare me wrong. I tell you"--her voice rose again, it seemed to catch the note of freedom and strength of the stormwithout--"I tell you, I will still live as my heart and conscienceprompt me. The course I have set for myself I will follow; the life Ientered upon when my child was born I will not leave. No word you havesaid has made my heart beat faster. You and I can never have anythingto say to each other in this life, beyond"--her voice changed, shepaused--"beyond one thing--"

Going to the bed where the child lay, she drew the curtain softly, andpointing, she said:

"There is my child. I have set my life to the one task, to keep him tomyself, and yet to win for him the heritage of the dukedom of Bercy. Youshall yet pay to him the price of your wrong-doing. "

She drew back slightly so that he could see the child lying with itsrosy face half buried in its pillow, the little hand lying like a flowerupon the coverlet. 

Once more with a passionate exclamation he moved nearer to the child. 

"No farther!" she said, stepping before him. 

When she saw the wild impulse in his face to thrust her aside, sheadded: "It is only the shameless coward that strikes the dead. You hada wife--Guida d'Avranche, but Guida d'Avranche is dead. There only livesthe mother of this child, Guida Landresse de Landresse. "

She looked at him with scorn, almost with hatred. Had he touchedher--but she would rather pity than loathe!

Her words roused all the devilry in him. The face of the child had senthim mad. 

"By Heaven, I will have the child--I will have the child!" he broke outharshly. "You shall not treat me like a dog. You know well I would havekept you as my wife, but your narrow pride, your unjust anger threw meover. You have wronged me. I tell you you have wronged me, for you heldthe secret of the child from me all these years. "

"The whole world knew!" she exclaimed indignantly. "I will break yourpride, " he said, incensed and unable to command himself. "Mark you, Iwill break your pride. And I will have my child too!"

"Establish to the world your right to him, " she answered keenly. "Youhave the right to acknowledge him, but the possession shall be mine. "

He was the picture of impotent anger and despair. It was the irony ofpenalty that the one person in the world who could really sting him wasthis unacknowledged, almost unknown woman. She was the only human beingthat had power to shatter his egotism and resolve him into the commonelements of a base manhood. Of little avail his eloquence now! He hadcajoled a sovereign dukedom out of an aged and fatuous prince; he hadcajoled a wife, who yet was no wife, from among the highest of a royalcourt; he had cajoled success from Fate by a valour informed with vanityand ambition; years ago, with eloquent arts he had cajoled a young girlinto a secret marriage--but he could no longer cajole the woman who washis one true wife. She knew him through and through. 

He was so wild with rage he could almost have killed her as she stoodthere, one hand stretched out to protect the child, the other pointingto the door. 

He seized his hat and cloak and laid his hand upon the latch, thensuddenly turned to her. A dark project came to him. He himself could notprevail with her; but he would reach her yet, through the child. If thechild were in his hands, she would come to him. 

"Remember, I will have the child, " he said, his face black with evilpurpose. 

She did not deign reply, but stood fearless and still, as, throwing openthe door, he rushed out into the night. She listened until she heard hishorse's hoofs upon the rocky upland. Then she went to the door, lockedit, and barred it. Turning, she ran with a cry as of hungry love to thelittle bed. Crushing the child to her bosom, she buried her face in hisbrown curls. 

"My son, my own, own son!" she said. 

CHAPTER XXXVIII

If at times it would seem that Nature's disposition of the events of alife or a series of lives is illogical, at others she would seem toplay them with an irresistible logic--loosing them, as it were, ina trackless forest of experience, and in some dramatic hour, by aninevitable attraction, drawing them back again to a destiny fulfilled. In this latter way did she seem to lay her hand upon the lives of Philipd'Avranche and Guida Landresse. 

At the time that Elie Mattingley, in Jersey, was awaiting hanging onthe Mont es Pendus, and writing his letter to Carterette concerningthe stolen book of church records, in a town of Brittany the ReverendLorenzo Dow lay dying. The army of the Vendee, under Detricand Comte deTournay, had made a last dash at a small town held by a section of theRepublican army, and captured it. On the prisons being opened, Detricandhad discovered in a vile dungeon the sometime curate of St. Michael'sChurch in Jersey. When they entered on him, wasted and ragged he layasleep on his bed of rotten straw, his fingers between the leaves of abook of meditations. Captured five years before and forgotten alikeby the English and French Governments, he had apathetically pined andstarved to these last days of his life. 

Recognising him, Detricand carried him in his strong arms to his owntent. For many hours the helpless man lay insensible, but at last theflickering spirit struggled back to light for a little space. When firstconscious of his surroundings, the poor captive felt tremblingly in thepocket of his tattered vest. Not finding what he searched for, he halfstarted up. Detricand hastened forward with a black leather-covered bookin his hand. Mr. Dow's thin trembling fingers clutched eagerly--it washis only passion--at this journal of his life. As his grasp closed onit, he recognised Detricand, and at the same time he saw the cross andheart of the Vendee on his coat. 

A victorious little laugh struggled in his throat. "The Lord hathtriumphed gloriously--I could drink some wine, monsieur, " he added inthe same quaint clerical monotone. 

Having drunk the wine he lay back murmuring thanks and satisfaction, hiseyes closed. Presently they opened. He nodded at Detricand. 

"I have not tasted wine these five years, " he said; then added, "You--you took too much wine in Jersey, did you not, monsieur? I used tosay an office for you every Litany day, which was of a Friday. "

His eyes again caught the cross and heart on Detricand's coat, and theylighted up a little. "The Lord hath triumphed gloriously, " he repeated, and added irrelevantly, "I suppose you are almost a captain now?"

"A general--almost, " said Detricand with gentle humour. 

At that moment an orderly appeared at the tent-door, bearing a letterfor Detricand. 

"From General Grandjon-Larisse of the Republican army, your highness, "said the orderly, handing the letter. "The messenger awaits an answer. "

As Detricand hastily read, a look of astonishment crossed over his face, and his brows gathered in perplexity. After a minute's silence he saidto the orderly:

"I will send a reply to-morrow. "

"Yes, your highness. " The orderly saluted and retired. 

Mr. Dow half raised himself on his couch, and the fevered eyes swallowedDetricand. 

"You--you are a prince, monsieur?" he said. Detricand glanced up fromthe letter he was reading again, a grave and troubled look on his face. 

"Prince of Vaufontaine they call me, but, as you know, I am only avagabond turned soldier, " he said. The dying man smiled to himself, --asmile of the sweetest vanity this side of death, --for it seemed tohim that the Lord had granted him this brand from the burning, and insupreme satisfaction, he whispered: "I used to say an office for youevery Litany--which was a Friday, and twice, I remember, on two Saints'days. "

Suddenly another thought came to him, and his lips moved--he wasmurmuring to himself. He would leave a goodly legacy to the captive ofhis prayers. 

Taking the leather-covered journal of his life in both hands, he held itout. 

"Highness, highness--" said he. Death was breaking the voice in histhroat. 

Detricand stooped and ran an arm round his shoulder, but raising himselfup Mr. Dow gently pushed him back. The strength of his supreme hour wason him. 

"Highness, " said he, "I give you the book of five years of my life--notof its every day, but of its moments, its great days. Read it, " headded, "read it wisely. Your own name is in it--with the first time Isaid an office for you. " His breath failed him, he fell back, and layquiet for several minutes. 

"You used to take too much wine, " he said half wildly, starting upagain. "Permit me your hand, highness. "

Detricand dropped on his knee and took the wasted hand. Mr. Dow'seyes were glazing fast. With a last effort he spoke--his voice like asqueaking wind in a pipe:

"The Lord hath triumphed gloriously--" and he leaned forward to kissDetricand's hand. 

But Death intervened, and his lips fell instead upon the red cross onDetricand's breast, as he sank forward lifeless. 

That night, after Lorenzo Dow was laid in his grave, Detricand read thelittle black leather-covered journal bequeathed to him. Of the years ofhis captivity the records were few; the book was chiefly concerned withhis career in Jersey. Detricand read page after page, more often witha smile than not; yet it was the smile of one who knew life and wouldscarce misunderstand the eccentric and honest soul of the ReverendLorenzo Dow. 

Suddenly, however, he started, for he came upon these lines:

 I have, in great privacy and with halting of spirit, married, this twenty-third of January, Mr. Philip d'Avranche of His Majesty's ship "Narcissus, " and Mistress Guida Landresse de Landresse, both of this Island of Jersey; by special license of the Bishop of Winchester. 

To this was added in comment:

 Unchurchmanlike, and most irregular. But the young gentleman's tongue is gifted, and he pressed his cause heartily. Also Mr. Shoreham of the Narcissus--"Mad Shoreham of Galway" his father was called--I knew him--added his voice to the request also. Troubled in conscience thereby, yet I did marry the twain gladly, for I think a worthier maid never lived than this same Mistress Guida Landresse de Landresse, of the ancient family of the de Mauprats. Yet I like not secrecy, though it be but for a month or two months--on my vow, I like it not for one hour. 

 Note: At leisure read of the family history of the de Mauprats and the d'Avranches. 

 N. : No more secret marriages nor special licenses--most uncanonical privileges!

 N. : For ease of conscience write to His Grace at Lambeth upon the point. 

Detricand sprang to his feet. So this was the truth about Philipd'Avranche, about Guida, alas!

He paced the tent, his brain in a whirl. Stopping at last, he tookfrom his pocket the letter received that afternoon from GeneralGrandjon-Larisse, and read it through again hurriedly. It proposed atruce, and a meeting with himself at a village near, for conference uponthe surrender of Detricand's small army. 

"A bitter end to all our fighting, " said Detricand aloud at last. "Buthe is right. It is now a mere waste of life. I know my course. .. . Evento-night, " he added, "it shall be to-night. "

Two hours later Detricand, Prince of Vaufontaine, was closeted withGeneral Grandjon-Larisse at a village half-way between the Republicanarmy and the broken bands of the Vendee. 

As lads Detricand and Grandjon-Larisse had known each other well. Butsince the war began Grandjon-Larisse had gone one way, and he had gonethe other, bitter enemies in principle but friendly enough at heart. 

They had not seen each other since the year before Rullecour's invasionof Jersey. 

"I had hoped to see you by sunset, monseigneur, " said Grandjon-Larisseafter they had exchanged greetings. 

"It is through a melancholy chance you see me at all, " replied Detricandheavily. 

"To what piteous accident am I indebted?" Grandjon-Larisse replied inan acid tone, for war had given his temper an edge. "Were not my reasonsfor surrender sound? I eschewed eloquence--I gave you facts. "

Detricand shook his head, but did not reply at once. His brow wasclouded. 

"Let me speak fully and bluntly now, " Grandjon-Larisse went on. "Youwill not shrink from plain truths, I know. We were friends ere you wentadventuring with Rullecour. We are soldiers too; and you will understandI meant no bragging in my letter. "

He raised his brows inquiringly, and Detricand inclined his head inassent. 

Without more ado, Grandjon-Larisse laid a map on the table. "This willhelp us, " he said briefly, then added: "Look you, Prince, when war beganthe game was all with you. At Thouars here"--his words followedhis finger--"at Fontenay, at Saumur, at Torfou, at Coron, atChateau-Gonthier, at Pontorson, at Dol, at Antrain, you had us by theheels. Victory was ours once to your thrice. Your blood was up. You hadgreat men--great men, " he repeated politely. 

Detricand bowed. "But see how all is changed, " continued theother. "See: by this forest of Vesins de la Rochejaquelein fell. AtChollet"--his finger touched another point--"Bonchamp died, and hered'Elbee and Lescure were mortally wounded. At Angers Stofflet was sentto his account, and Charette paid the price at Nantes. " He held up hisfingers. "One--two--three--four--five--six great men gone!"

He paused, took a step away from the table, and came back again. 

Once more he dropped his finger on the map. "Tinteniac is gone, and atQuiberon Peninsula your friend Sombreuil was slain. And look you here, "he added in a lower voice, "at Laval my old friend the Prince of Talmontwas executed at his own chateau, where I had spent many an hour withhim. "

Detricand's eyes flashed fire. "Why then permit the murder, monsieur legeneral?"

Grandjon-Larisse started, his voice became hard at once. "It is nota question of Talmont, or of you, or of me, monseigneur. It is not aquestion of friendship, not even of father, or brother, or son--but ofFrance. "

"And of God and the King, " said Detricand quickly. 

Grandjon-Larisse shrugged his shoulders. "We see with different eyes. Wethink with different minds, " and he stooped over the map again. 

"We feel with different hearts, " said Detricand. "There is thedifference between us--between your cause and mine. You are all forlogic and perfection in government, and to get it you go mad, and Franceis made a shambles--"

"War is cruelty, and none can make it gentle, " interruptedGrandjon-Larisse. He turned to the map once more. "And see, monseigneur, here at La Vie your uncle the Prince of Vaufontaine died, leaving youhis name and a burden of hopeless war. Now count them all over--de laRochejaquelein, Bonchamp, d'Elbee, Lescure, Stofflet, Charette, Talmont, Tinteniac, Sombreuil, Vaufontaine--they are all gone, your great men. And who of chieftains and armies are left? Detricand of Vaufontaineand a few brave men--no more. Believe me, monseigneur, your game ishopeless--by your grace, one moment still, " he added, as Detricand madean impatient gesture. "Hoche destroyed your army and subdued the countrytwo years ago. You broke out again, and Hoche and I have beaten youagain. Fight on, with your doomed followers--brave men I admit--andHoche will have no mercy. I can save your peasants if you will yieldnow. 

"We have had enough of blood. Let us have peace. To proceed is certaindeath to all, and your cause worse lost. On my honour, monseigneur, I dothis at some risk, in memory of old days. I have lost too many friends, "he added in a lower voice. 

Detricand was moved. "I thank you for this honest courtesy. I had almostmisread your letter, " he answered. "Now I will speak freely. I had hopedto leave my bones in Brittany. It was my will to fight to the last, withmy doomed followers as you call them--comrades and lovers of France Isay. And it was their wish to die with me. Till this afternoon I had noother purpose. Willing deaths ours, for I am persuaded, for every oneof us that dies, a hundred men will rise up again and take revenge uponthis red debauch of government!"

"Have a care, " said Grandjon-Larisse with sudden anger, his handdropping upon the handle of his sword. 

"I ask leave for plain beliefs as you asked leave for plain words. I must speak my mind, and I will say now that it has changed in thismatter of fighting and surrender. I will tell you what has changed it, "and Detricand drew from his pocket Lorenzo Dow's journal. "It concernsboth you and me. "

Grandjon-Larisse flashed a look of inquiry at him. "It concerns yourcousin the Comtesse Chantavoine and Philip d'Avranche, who calls himselfher husband and Duc de Bercy. "

He opened the journal, and handed it to Grandjon-Larisse. "Read, " hesaid. 

As Grandjon-Larisse read, an oath broke from him. "Is this authentic, monseigneur?" he said in blank astonishment "and the woman still lives?"

Detricand told him all he knew, and added:

"A plain duty awaits us both, monsieur le general. You are concerned forthe Comtesse Chantavoine; I am concerned for the Duchy of Bercy and forthis poor lady--this poor lady in Jersey, " he added. 

Grandjon-Larisse was white with rage. "The upstart! The Englishbrigand!" he said between his teeth. 

"You see now, " said Detricand, "that though it was my will to diefighting your army in the last trench--"

"Alone, I fear, " interjected Grandjon-Larisse with curt admiration. 

"My duty and my purpose go elsewhere, " continued Detricand. "They takeme to Jersey. And yours, monsieur?"

Grandjon-Larisse beat his foot impatiently on the floor. "For themoment I cannot stir in this, though I would give my life to do so, " heanswered bitterly. "I am but now recalled to Paris by the Directory. "

He stopped short in his restless pacing and held out his hand. 

"We are at one, " he said--"friends in this at least. Command me whenand how you will. Whatever I can I will do, even at risk and peril. TheEnglish brigand!" he added bitterly. "But for this insult to my blood, to the noble Chantavoine, he shall pay the price to me--yes, by the heelof God!"

"I hope to be in Jersey three days hence, " said Detricand. 

CHAPTER XXXIX

The bell on the top of the Cohue Royale clattered like the tongue of ascolding fishwife. For it was the fourth of October, and the opening ofthe Assise d'Heritage. 

This particular session of the Court was to proceed with unusual spiritand importance, for after the reading of the King's Proclamation, theRoyal Court and the States were to present the formal welcome of theisland to Admiral Prince Philip d'Avranche, Duc de Bercy; likewise tooffer a bounty to all Jerseymen enlisting under him. 

The island was en fete. There had not been such a year of sensationssince the Battle of Jersey. Long before chicane--chicane ceased clangingover the Vier Marchi the body of the Court was filled. The Governor, theBailly, the jurats, the seigneurs and the dames des fiefs, the avocatswith their knowledge of the ancient custom of Normandy and the deviousinroads made upon it by the customs of Jersey, the military, all were intheir places; the officers of the navy had arrived, all save one andhe was to be the chief figure of this function. With each arrival thepeople cheered and the trumpets blared. The islanders in the Vier Marchiturned to the booths for refreshments, or to the printing-machine setup near La Pyramide, and bought halfpenny chapsheets telling of recentdefeats of the French; though mostly they told in ebullient words ofthe sea-fight which had made Philip d'Avranche an admiral, and of hiselevation to a sovereign dukedom. The crowds restlessly awaited hiscoming now. 

Inside the Court there was more restlessness still. It was now manyminutes beyond the hour fixed. The Bailly whispered to the Governor, theGovernor to his aide, and the aide sought the naval officers present;but these could give no explanation of the delay. The ComtesseChantavoine was in her place of honour beside the Attorney-General--butPrince Philip and his flag-lieutenant came not. 

The Comtesse Chantavoine was the one person outwardly unmoved. Whatshe thought, who could tell? Hundreds of eyes scanned her face, yetshe seemed unconscious of them, indifferent to them. What would not theBailly have given for her calmness! What would not the Greffier havegiven for her importance! She drew every eye by virtue of somethingwhich was more than the name of Duchesse de Bercy. The face, thebearing, had an unconscious dignity, a living command and composure: theheritage, perhaps, of a race ever more fighters than courtiers, ratherdesiring good sleep after good warfare than luxurious peace. 

The silence, the tension grew painful. A whole half hour had the Courtwaited beyond its time. At last, however, cheers arose outside, and allknew that the Prince was coming. Presently the doors were thrown open, two halberdiers stepped inside, and an officer of the Court announcedAdmiral his Serene Highness Prince Philip d'Avranche, Duc de Bercy. 

"Oui-gia, think of that!" said a voice from somewhere in the hall. 

Philip heard it, and he frowned, for he recognised Dormy Jamais's voice. Where it came from he knew not, nor did any one; for the daft one wassnugly bestowed above a middle doorway in what was half balcony, halfcornice. 

When Philip had taken his place beside the Comtesse Chantavoine, camethe formal opening of the Cour d'Heritage. 

The Comtesse's eyes fixed themselves upon Philip. There was that inhis manner which puzzled and evaded her clear intuition. Some strangecircumstance must have delayed him, for she saw that his flag-lieutenantwas disturbed, and this she felt sure was not due to delay alone. Shewas barely conscious that the Bailly had been addressing Philip, untilhe had stopped and Philip had risen to reply. 

He had scarcely begun speaking when the doors were suddenly thrown openagain, and a woman came forward quickly. The instant she entered Philipsaw her, and stopped speaking. Every one turned. 

It was Guida. In the silence, looking neither to right nor left, sheadvanced almost to where the Greffier sat, and dropping on her knee andlooking up to the Bailly and the jurats, stretched out her hands andcried:

"Haro, haro! A l'aide, mon Prince, on me fait tort!"

If one rose from the dead suddenly to command them to an awed obedience, Jerseymen could not be more at the mercy of the apparition than at thecall of one who cries in their midst, "Haro! Haro!"--that ancient relicof the custom of Normandy and Rollo the Dane. To this hour the Jerseymanmaketh his cry unto Rollo, and the Royal Court--whose right to respondto this cry was confirmed by King John and afterwards by Charles--mustlisten, and every one must heed. That cry of Haro makes the workmandrop his tools, the woman her knitting, the militiaman his musket, thefisherman his net, the schoolmaster his birch, and the ecrivain hisbabble, to await the judgment of the Royal Court. 

Every jurat fixed his eye upon Guida as though she had come to claim hislife. The Bailly's lips opened twice as though to speak, but no wordscame. The Governor sat with hands clinched upon his chairarm. The crowdbreathed in gasps of excitement. The Comtesse Chantavoine looked atPhilip, looked at Guida, and knew that here was the opening of thescroll she had not been able to unfold. Now she should understand thatsomething which had made the old Duc de Bercy with his last breath say, Don't be afraid!

Philip stood moveless, his eyes steady, his face bitter, determined. Yetthere was in his look, fixed upon Guida, some strange mingling of pityand purpose. It was as though two spirits were fighting in his face formastery. The Countess touched him upon the arm, but he took no notice. Drawing back in her seat she looked at him and at Guida, as one mightwatch the balances of justice weighing life and death. She could notread this story, but one glance at the faces of the crowd round her madeher aware that here was a tale of the past which all knew in little orin much. 

"Haro! haro! A l'aide, mon Prince, on me fait tort!" What did shemean, this woman with the exquisite face, alive with power and feeling, indignation and appeal? To what prince did she cry?--for what aid? whotrespassed upon her?

The Bailly now stood up, a frown upon his face. He knew what scandal hadsaid concerning Guida and Philip. He had never liked Guida, for in thefirst days of his importance she had, for a rudeness upon his part meantas a compliment, thrown his hat--the Lieutenant-Bailly's hat--into theFauxbie by the Vier Prison. He thought her intrusive thus to stay theseaugust proceedings of the Royal Court, by an appeal for he knew notwhat. 

"What is the trespass, and who the trespasser?" asked the Baillysternly. 

Guida rose to her feet. 

"Philip d'Avranche has trespassed, " she said. "What Philip d'Avranche, mademoiselle?" asked the Bailly in a rough, ungenerous tone. 

"Admiral Philip d'Avranche, known as his Serene Highness the Duc deBercy, has trespassed on me, " she answered. 

She did not look at Philip, her eyes were fixed upon the Bailly and thejurats. 

The Bailly whispered to one or two jurats. "Wherein is the trespass?"asked the Bailly sharply. "Tell your story. "

After an instant's painful pause, Guida told her tale. 

"Last night at Plemont, " she said in a voice trembling a little at firstbut growing stronger as she went on, "I left my child, my Guilbert, inhis bed, with Dormy Jamais to watch beside him, while I went to my boatwhich lies far from my hut. I left Dormy Jamais with the child becauseI was afraid--because I had been afraid, these three days past, thatPhilip d'Avranche would steal him from me. I was gone but half an hour;it was dark when I returned. I found the door open, I found Dormy Jamaislying unconscious on the floor, and my child's bed empty. My child wasgone. He was stolen from me by Philip d'Avranche, Duc de Bercy. "

"What proof have you that it was the Duc de Bercy?" asked the Bailly. 

"I have told your honour that Dormy Jamais was there. He struck DormyJamais to the ground, and rode off with my child. "

The Bailly sniffed. 

"Dormy Jamais is a simpleton--an idiot. "

"Then let the Prince speak, " she answered quickly. She turned and lookedPhilip in the eyes. He did not answer a word. He had not moved since sheentered the court-room. He kept his eyes fixed on her, save for one ortwo swift glances towards the jurats. The crisis of his life had come. He was ready to meet it now: anything would be better than all he hadgone through during the past ten days. In mad impulse he had stolen thechild, with the wild belief that through it he could reach Guida, couldbring her to him. For now this woman who despised him, hated him, hedesired more than all else in the world. Ambition has her own means ofpunishing. For her gifts of place or fortune she puts some impossiblehunger in the soul of the victim which leads him at last to his owndestruction. With all the world conquered there is still some mysticisland of which she whispers, and to gain this her votary risks all--andloses all. 

The Bailly saw by Philip's face that Guida had spoken truth. But hewhispered with the jurats eagerly, and presently he said with brusquedecision:

"Our law of Haro may only apply to trespass upon property. Its intent ismerely civil. "

Which having said he opened and shut his mouth with gusto, and sat backas though expecting Guida to retire. 

"Your law of Haro, monsieur le Bailly!" Guida answered with flashingeyes, her voice ringing out fearlessly. "Your law of Haro! The law ofHaro comes from the custom of Normandy, which is the law of Jersey. Youmake its intent this, you make it that, but nothing can alter the law, and what has been done in its name for generations. Is it so, that ifPhilip d'Avranche trespass on my land, or my hearth, I may cry Haro, haro! and you will take heed? But when it is blood of my blood, bone ofmy bone, flesh of my flesh that he has wickedly seized; when it is thehead I have pillowed on my breast for four years--the child that hasknown no father, his mother's only companion in her unearned shame, theshame of an outcast--then is it so that your law of Haro may not apply?Messieurs, it is the justice of Haro that I ask, not your lax usage ofit. From this Prince Philip I appeal to the spirit of Prince Rollo whomade this law. I appeal to the law of Jersey which is the Custom ofNormandy. There are precedents enough, as you well know, messieurs. Idemand--I demand--my child. "

The Bailly and the jurats were in a hopeless quandary. They glancedfurtively at Philip. They were half afraid that she was right, and yetwere timorous of deciding against the Prince. 

She saw their hesitation. "I call on you to fulfil the law. I have criedHaro, haro! and what I have cried men will hear outside this Court, outside this Isle of Jersey; for I appeal against a sovereign duke ofEurope. "

The Bailly and the jurats were overwhelmed by the situation. Guida'sbrain was a hundred times clearer than theirs. Danger, peril to herchild, had aroused in her every force of intelligence; she had thedaring, the desperation of the lioness fighting for her own. 

Philip himself solved the problem. Turning to the bench of jurats, hesaid quietly:

"She is quite right; the law of Haro is with her. It must apply. "

The Court was in a greater maze than ever. Was he then about to restoreto Guida her child? After an instant's pause Philip continued:

"But in this case there was no trespass, for the child--is my own. "

Every eye in the Cohue Royale fixed itself upon him, then upon Guida, then upon her who was known as the Duchesse de Bercy. The face of theComtesse Chantavoine was like snow, white and cold. As the words werespoken a sigh broke from her, and there came to Philip's mind thatdistant day in the council chamber at Bercy when for one moment he wasupon his trial; but he did not turn and look at her now. It was allpitiable, horrible; but this open avowal, insult as it was to theComtesse Chantavoine, could be no worse than the rumours which wouldsurely have reached her one day. So let the game fare on. He had throwndown the glove now, and he could not see the end; he was playing for onething only--for the woman he had lost, for his own child. If everythingwent by the board, why, it must go by the board. It all flashedthrough his brain: to-morrow he must send in his resignation to theAdmiralty--so much at once. Then Bercy--come what might, there was workfor him to do at Bercy. He was a sovereign duke of Europe, as Guida hadsaid. He would fight for the duchy for his son's sake. Standing there hecould feel again the warm cheek of the child upon his own, as last nighthe felt it riding across the island from Plemont to the village nearMont Orgueil. That very morning he had hurried down to a little cottagein the village and seen it lying asleep, well cared for by a peasantwoman. He knew that to-morrow the scandal of the thing would belong tothe world, but he was not dismayed. He had tossed his fame as an admiralinto the gutter, but Bercy still was left. All the native force, thestubborn vigour, the obdurate spirit of the soil of Jersey of which hewas, its arrogant self-will, drove him straight into this last issue. What he had got at so much cost he would keep against all the world. Hewould--

But he stopped short in his thoughts, for there now at the court-roomdoor stood Detricand, the Chouan chieftain. 

He drew his hand quickly across his eyes. It seemed so wild, sofantastic, that of all men, Detricand should be there. His gaze was sofixed that every one turned to see--every one save Guida. 

Guida was not conscious of this new figure in the scene. In her heartwas fierce tumult. Her hour had come at last, the hour in which she mustdeclare that she was the wife of this man. She had no proofs. No doubthe would deny it now, for he knew how she loathed him. But she must tellher tale. 

She was about to address the Bailly, but, as though a pang of pityshot, through her heart, she turned instead and looked at the ComtesseChantavoine. She could find it in her to pause in compassion for thispoor lady, more wronged than herself had been. Their eyes met. Oneinstant's flash of intelligence between the souls of two women, andGuida knew that the look of the Comtesse Chantavoine had said: "Speakfor your child. "

Thereupon she spoke. 

"Messieurs, Prince Philip d'Avranche is my husband. "

Every one in the court-room stirred with excitement. Some weak-nervedwoman with a child at her breast began to cry, and the little one joinedits feeble wail to hers. 

"Five years ago, " Guida continued, "I was married to Philip d'Avrancheby the Reverend Lorenzo Dow in the church of St. Michael's--"

The Bailly interrupted with a grunt. "H'm--Lorenzo Dow is well out ofthe way-have done. "

"May I not then be heard in my own defence?" Guida cried in indignation. "For years I have suffered silently slander and shame. Now I speakfor myself at last, and you will not hear me! I come to this court ofjustice, and my word is doubted ere I can prove the truth. Is it forjudges to assail one so? Five years ago I was married secretly, in St. Michael's Church--secretly, because Philip d'Avranche urged it, pleadedfor it. An open marriage, he said, would hinder his promotion. We werewedded, and he left me. War broke out. I remained silent according to mypromise to him. Then came the time when in the States of Bercy he deniedthat he had a wife. From the hour I knew he had done so I denied him. Mychild was born in shame and sorrow, I myself was outcast in this island. But my conscience was clear before Heaven. I took myself and my childout from among you and went to Plemont. I waited, believing thatGod's justice was surer than man's. At last Philip d'Avranche--myhusband--returned here. He invaded my home, and begged me to comewith my child to him as his wife--he who had so evilly wronged me, andwronged another more than me. I refused. Then he stole my child from me. You ask for proofs of my marriage. Messieurs, I have no proofs. 

"I know not where Lorenzo Dow may be found. The register of St. Michael's Church, as you all know, was stolen. Mr. Shoreham, whowitnessed the marriage, is dead. But you must believe me. There is onewitness left, if he will but speak--even the man who married me, the manthat for one day called me his wife. I ask him now to tell the truth. "

She turned towards Philip, her clear eyes piercing him through andthrough. 

What was going on in his mind neither she nor any in that Court mightever know, for in the pause, the Comtesse Chantavoine rose up, andpassing steadily by Philip, came to Guida. Looking her in the eyes withan incredible sorrow, she took her hand, and turned towards Philip withinfinite scorn. 

A strange, thrilling silence fell upon all the Court. The jurats shiftedin their seats with excitement. The Bailly, in a hoarse, dry voice, said:

"We must have proof. There must be record as well as witness. "

From near the great doorway came a voice saying: "The record is here, "and Detricand stepped forward, in his uniform of the army of the Vendee. 

A hushed murmur ran round the room. The jurats whispered to each other. 

"Who are you, monsieur?" said the Bailly. 

"I am Detricand, Prince of Vaufontaine, " he replied, "for whom theComtesse Chantavoine will vouch, " he added in a pained voice, and bowedlow to her and to Guida. "I am but this hour landed. I came to Jersey onthis very matter. "

He did not wait for the Bailly to reply, but began to tell of the deathof Lorenzo Dow, and, taking from his pocket the little black journal, opened it and read aloud the record written therein by the deadclergyman. Having read it, he passed it on to the Greffier, who handedit up to the Bailly. Another moment's pause ensued. To the most ignorantand casual of the onlookers the strain was great; to those chieflyconcerned it was supreme. The Bailly and the jurats whispered together. Now at last a spirit of justice was roused in them. But the law'stechnicalities were still to rule. 

The Bailly closed the book, and handed it back to the Greffier with thewords: "This is not proof though it is evidence. "

Guida felt her heart sink within her. The Comtesse Chantavoine, whostill held her hand, pressed it, though herself cold as ice withsickness of spirit. 

At that instant, and from Heaven knows where--as a bird comes from abush--a little grey man came quickly among them all, carrying spreadopen before him a book almost as big as himself. Handing it up to theBailly, he said:

"Here is the proof, Monsieur le Bailly--here is the whole proof. "

The Bailly leaned over and drew up the book. The jurats crowded near anda dozen heads gathered about the open volume. 

At last the Bailly looked up and addressed the Court solemnly. 

"It is the lost register of St. Michael's, " he said. "It containsthe record of the marriage of Lieutenant Philip d'Avranche and GuidaLandresse de Landresse, both of the Isle of Jersey, by special licenseof the Bishop of Winchester. "

"Precisely so, precisely so, " said the little grey figure--the ChevalierOrvillier du Champsavoys de Beaumanoir. Tears ran down his cheeks as heturned towards Guida, but he was smiling too. 

Guida's eyes were upon the Bailly. "And the child?" she cried with abroken voice--"the child?"

"The child goes with its mother, " answered the Bailly firmly. 

DURING ONE YEAR LATER

CHAPTER XL

The day that saw Guida's restitution in the Cohue Royale brought butfurther trouble to Ranulph Delagarde. The Chevalier had shown him thelost register of St. Michael's, and with a heart less heavy, he leftthe island once more. Intending to join Detricand in the Vendee, hehad scarcely landed at St. Malo when he was seized by a press-gang andcarried aboard a French frigate commissioned to ravage the coasts ofBritish America. He had stubbornly resisted the press, but had beenknocked on the head, and there was an end on it. 

In vain he protested that he was an Englishman. They laughed at him. HisFrench was perfect, his accent Norman, his was a Norman face--evidenceenough. If he was not a citizen of France he should be, and he mustbe. Ranulph decided that it was needless to throw away his life. Itwas better to make a show of submission. So long as he had not to fightBritish ships, he could afford to wait. Time enough then for him to takeaction. When the chance came he would escape this bondage; meanwhileremembering his four years' service with the artillery at ElizabethCastle, he asked to be made a gunner, and his request was granted. 

The Victoire sailed the seas battle-hungry, and presently appeased herappetite among Dutch and Danish privateers. Such excellent work didRanulph against the Dutchmen, that Richambeau, the captain, gave hima gun for himself, and after they had fought the Danes made him amaster-gunner. Of the largest gun on the Victoire Ranulph grew so fondthat at last he called her ma couzaine. 

Days and weeks passed, until one morning came the cry of "Land!Land!" and once again Ranulph saw British soil--the tall cliffs of thepeninsula of Gaspe. Gaspe--that was the ultima Thule to which Mattingleyand Carterette had gone. 

Presently, as the Victoire came nearer to the coast, he could see a bayand a great rock in the distance, and, as they bore in now, the rockseemed to stretch out like a vast wall into the gulf. As he stoodwatching and leaning on ma couzaine, a sailor near him said that the bayand the rock were called Perce. 

Perce Bay--that was the exact point for which Elie Mattingley andCarterette had sailed with Sebastian Alixandre. How strange it was! Hehad bidden Carterette good-bye for ever, yet fate had now brought him tothe very spot whither she had gone. 

The Rock of Perce was a wall, three hundred feet high, and the wallwas an island that had once been a long promontory like a battlement, jutting out hundreds of yards into the gulf. At one point it was piercedby an archway. It was almost sheer; its top was flat and level. Uponthe sides there was no verdure; upon the top centuries had made a greenfield. The wild geese as they flew northward, myriad flocks of gulls, gannets, cormorants, and all manner of fowl of the sea, had builded uponthe summit until it was rich with grass and shrubs. The nations of theair sent their legions here to bivouac, and the discord of a hundredlanguages might be heard far out to sea, far in upon the land. Millionsof the races of the air swarmed there; at times the air above wasdarkened by clouds of them. No fog-bell on a rock-bound coast mightwarn mariners more ominously than these battalions of adventurers on thePerce Rock. 

No human being had ever mounted to this eyrie. Generations of fishermenhad looked upon the yellowish-red limestone of the Perce Rock with avalorous eye, but it would seem that not even the tiny clinging hoof ofa chamois or wild goat might find a foothold upon the straight sides ofit. 

Ranulph was roused out of the spell Perce cast over him by seeing theBritish flag upon a building by the shore of the bay they were nowentering. His heart gave a great bound. Yes, it was the English flagdefiantly flying. And more--there were two old 12 pounders being trainedon the French squadron. For the first time in years a low laugh burstfrom his lips. 

"O mai grand doux, " he said in the Jersey patois, "only one man in theworld would do that. Only Elie Mattingley!"

At that moment, Mattingley now issued from a wooden fishing-shed withSebastian Alixandre and three others armed with muskets, and passedto the little fort on which flew the British and Jersey flags. Ranulphheard a guffaw behind. Richambeau, the captain, confronted him. 

"That's a big splutter in a little pot, gunner, " said he. He put histelescope to his eye. "The Lord protect us, " he cried, "they're going tofight my ship!" He laughed again till the tears came. "Son of Peter, but it is droll that--a farce au diable! They have humour, thesefisher-folk, eh, gunner?"

"Mattingley will fight you just the same, " answered Ranulph coolly. 

"Oh ho, you know these people, my gunner?" asked Richambeau. 

"All my life, " answered Ranulph, "and, by your leave, I will tell youhow. "

Not waiting for permission, after the manner of his country, he toldRichambeau of his Jersey birth and bringing up, and how he was thevictim of the pressgang. 

"Very good, " said Richambeau. "You Jersey folk were once Frenchmen, andnow that you're French again, you shall do something for the flag. Yousee that 12-pounder yonder to the right? Very well, dismount it. Thenwe'll send in a flag of truce, and parley with this Mattingley, forhis jests are worth attention and politeness. There's a fellow at thegun--no, he has gone. Dismount the right-hand gun at one shot. Readynow. Get a good range. "

The whole matter went through Ranulph's mind as the captain spoke. If herefused to fire, he would be strung up to the yardarm; if he fired andmissed, perhaps other gunners would fire, and once started they mightraze the fishing-post. If he dismounted the gun, the matter wouldprobably remain only a jest, for such as yet Richambeau regarded it. 

Ranulph ordered the tackle and breechings cast away, had off the apron, pricked a cartridge, primed, bruised the priming, and covered the vent. Then he took his range steadily, quietly. There was a brisk windblowing from the south--he must allow for that; but the wind was stoppedsomewhat in its course by the Perch Rock--he must allow for that. 

All was ready. Suddenly a girl came running round the corner of thebuilding. 

It was Carterette. She was making for the right-hand gun. Ranulphstarted, the hand that held the match trembled. 

"Fire, you fool, or you'll kill the girl!" cried Richambeau. 

Ranulph laid a hand on himself as it were. Every nerve in his bodytingled, his legs trembled, but his eye was steady. He took the sightonce more coolly, then blew on the match. Now the girl was within thirtyfeet of the gun. 

He quickly blew on the match again, and fired. When the smoke clearedaway he saw that the gun was dismounted, and not ten feet from it stoodCarterette looking at it dazedly. 

He heard a laugh behind him. There was Richambeau walking away, telescope under arm, even as the other 12-pounder on shore repliedimpudently to the gun he had fired. 

"A good aim, " he heard Richambeau say, jerking a finger backward towardshim. 

Was it then? said Ranulph to himself; was it indeed? Ba su, it was thelast shot he would ever fire against aught English, here or elsewhere. 

Presently he saw a boat drawing away with the flag of truce in the handsof a sous-lieutenant. His mind was made up; he would escape to-night. His place was there beside his fellow-countrymen. He motioned away themen of the gun. He would load ma couzaine himself for the last time. 

As he sponged the gun he made his plans. Swish-swash the sponge-staffran in and out--he would try to steal away at dog-watch. He struck thesponge smartly on ma couzaine's muzzle, cleansing it--he would have toslide into the water like a rat and swim very softly to the shore. Hereached for a fresh cartridge, and thrust it into the throat of the gun, and as the seam was laid downwards he said to himself that he could swimunder water, if discovered as he left the Victoire. As he unstopped thetouch-hole and tried with the priming-wire whether the cartridge washome, he was stunned by a fresh thought. 

Richambeau would send a squad of men to search for him, and if hewas not found they would probably raze the Post, or take its peopleprisoners. As he put the apron carefully on ma couzaine, he determinedthat he could not take refuge with the Mattingleys. Neither would itdo to make for the woods of the interior, for still Richambeau mightrevenge himself on the fishing-post. What was to be done? He turned hiseyes helplessly on Perce Rock. 

As he looked, a new idea came to him. If only he could get to the top ofthat massive wall, not a hundred fleets could dislodge him. One musketcould defeat the forlorn hope of any army. Besides, if he took refugeon the rock, there could be no grudge against Perce village or theMattingleys, and Richambeau would not injure them. 

He eyed the wall closely. The blazing sunshine showed it up in a hardlight, and he studied every square yard of it with a telescope. Atone point the wall was not quite perpendicular. There were also narrowledges, lumps of stone, natural steps and little pinnacles which thefingers could grip and where man might rest. Yes, he would try it. 

It was the last quarter of the moon, and the neaptide was running lowwhen he let himself softly down into the water from the Victoire. Theblanket tied on his head held food kept from his rations, with stoneand flint and other things. He was not seen, and he dropped away quietlyastern, getting clear of the Victoire while the moon was partiallyobscured. 

Now it was a question when his desertion would be discovered. All heasked was two clear hours. By that time the deed would be done, if hecould climb Perce Rock at all. 

He touched bottom. He was on Perce sands. The blanket on his head wasscarcely wetted. He wrung the water out of his clothes, and ran softlyup the shore. Suddenly he was met by a cry of Qui va la! and he stoppedshort at the point of Elie Mattingley's bayonet. "Hush!" said Ranulph, and gave his name. 

Mattingley nearly dropped his musket in surprise. He soon knew the taleof Ranulph's misfortunes, but he had not yet been told of his presentplans when there came a quick footstep, and Carterette was at herfather's side. Unlike Mattingley, she did drop her musket at the sightof Ranulph. Her lips opened, but at first she could not speak--this wasmore than she had ever dared hope for, since those dark days in Jersey. Ranulph here! She pressed her hands to her heart to stop its throbbing. 

Presently she was trembling with excitement at the story of how Ranulphhad been pressed at St. Malo, and, all that came after until this veryday. 

"Go along with Carterette, " said Mattingley. "Alixandre is at the house;he'll help you away into the woods. "

As Ranulph hurried away with Carterette, he told her his design. Suddenly she stopped short, "Ranulph Delagarde, " she said vehemently, "you can't climb Perch Rock. No one has ever done it, and you must nottry. Oh, I know you are a great man, but you mustn't think you can dothis. You will be safe where we shall hide you. You shall not climb therock-ah no, ba su!"

He pointed towards the Post. "They wouldn't leave a stick standing thereif you hid me. No, I'm going to the top of the rock. "

"Man doux terrible!" she said in sheer bewilderment, and then wassuddenly inspired. At last her time had come. 

"Pardingue, " she said, clutching his arm, "if you go to the top of PerchRock, so will I!"

In spite of his anxiety he almost laughed. 

"But see--but see, " he said, and his voice dropped; "you couldn't stayup there with me all alone, garcon Carterette. And Richambeau would befiring on you too!"

She was very angry, but she made no reply, and he continued quickly:

"I'll go straight to the rock now. When they miss me there'll be a potboiling, you may believe. If I get up, " he added, "I'll let a stringdown for a rope you must get for me. Once on top they can't hurt me. .. . Eh ben, A bi'tot, gargon Carterette!"

"O my good! O my good!" said the girl with a sudden change of mood. "Tothink you have come like this, and perhaps--" But she dashed the tearsfrom her eyes, and bade him go on. 

The tide was well out, the moon shining brightly. Ranulph reached thepoint where, if the rock was to be scaled at all, the ascent must bemade. For a distance there was shelving where foothold might be had by afearless man with a steady head and sure balance. After that came abouta hundred feet where he would have to draw himself up by juttings andcrevices hand over hand, where was no natural pathway. Woe be to him ifhead grew dizzy, foot slipped, or strength gave out; he would be brokento pieces on the hard sand below. That second stage once passed, theascent thence to the top would be easier; for though nearly as steep, it had more ledges, and offered fair vantage to a man with a foot like amountain goat. Ranulph had been aloft all weathers in his time, and histoes were as strong as another man's foot, and surer. 

He started. The toes caught in crevices, held on to ledges, gluedthemselves on to smooth surfaces; the knees clung like a rough-rider'sto a saddle; the big hands, when once they got a purchase, fastened likean air-cup. 

Slowly, slowly up, foot by foot, yard by yard, until one-third of thedistance was climbed. The suspense and strain were immeasurable. But hestruggled on and on, and at last reached a sort of flying pinnacle ofrock, like a hook for the shields of the gods. 

Here he ventured to look below, expecting to see Carterette, but therewas only the white sand, and no sound save the long wash of the gulf. Hedrew a horn of arrack from his pocket and drank. He had two hundred feetmore to climb, and the next hundred would be the great ordeal. 

He started again. This was travail indeed. His rough fingers, his toes, hard as horn almost, began bleeding. Once or twice he swung quite clearof the wall, hanging by his fingers to catch a surer foothold to rightor left, and just getting it sometimes by an inch or less. The tensionwas terrible. His head seemed to swell and fill with blood: on the topit throbbed till it was ready to burst. His neck was aching horriblywith constant looking up, the skin of his knees was gone, his anklesbruised. But he must keep on till he got to the top, or until he fell. 

He was fighting on now in a kind of dream, quite apart from all usualfeelings of this world. The earth itself seemed far away, and he wastoiling among vastnesses, himself a giant with colossal frame and huge, sprawling limbs. It was like a gruesome vision of the night, whenthe body is an elusive, stupendous mass that falls into space after aconfused struggle with immensities. It was all mechanical, vague, almostnumb, this effort to overcome a mountain. Yet it was precise and hugelyexpert too; for though there was a strange mist on the brain, the bodyfelt its way with a singular certainty, as might some molluscan dwellerof the sea, sensitive like a plant, intuitive like an animal. Yet attimes it seemed that this vast body overcoming the mountain must let goits hold and slide away into the darkness of the depths. 

Now there was a strange convulsive shiver in every nerve--God havemercy, the time was come!. .. No, not yet. At the very instant when itseemed the panting flesh and blood would be shaken off by the graniteforce repelling it, the fingers, like long antennae, touched horns ofrock jutting out from ledges on the third escarpment of the wall. Herewas the last point of the worst stage of the journey. Slowly, heavily, the body drew up to the shelf of limestone, and crouched in an inertbundle. There it lay for a long time. 

While the long minutes went by, a voice kept calling up from below;calling, calling, at first eagerly, then anxiously, then with terror. By and by the bundle of life stirred, took shape, raised itself, andwas changed into a man again, a thinking, conscious being, who nowunderstood the meaning of this sound coming up from the earth below--orwas it the sea? A human voice had at last pierced the awful exhaustionof the deadly labour, the peril and strife, which had numbed the brainwhile the body, in its instinct for existence, still clung to the rockyledges. It had called the man back to earth--he was no longer a greatanimal, and the rock a monster with skin and scales of stone. 

"Ranulph! Maitre Ranulph! Ah, Ranulph!" called the voice. 

Now he knew, and he answered down: "All right, all right, garcheCarterette!"

"Are you at the top?"

"No, but the rest is easy. "

"Hurry, hurry, Ranulph. If they should come before you reach the top!"

"I'll soon be there. "

"Are you hurt, Ranulph?"

"No, but my fingers are in rags. I am going now. A bi'tot, Carterette!"

"Ranulph!"

"'Sh, 'sh, do not speak. I am starting. "

There was silence for what seemed hours to the girl below. Foot by footthe man climbed on, no less cautious because the ascent was easier, forhe was now weaker. But he was on the monster's neck now, and soon heshould set his heel on it: he was not to be shaken off. 

At last the victorious moment came. Over a jutting ledge he drew himselfup by sheer strength and the rubber-like grip of his lacerated fingers, and now he lay flat and breathless upon the ground. 

How soft and cool it was! This was long sweet grass touching his face, making a couch like down for the battered, wearied body. Surely suchtravail had been more than mortal. And what was this vast flutteringover his head, this million-voiced discord round him, like thebuffetings and cries of spirits welcoming another to their torment?He raised his head and laughed in triumph. These were the cormorants, gulls, and gannets on the Perch Rock. 

Legions of birds circled over him with cries so shrill that at firsthe did not hear Carterette's voice calling up to him. At last, however, remembering, he leaned over the cliff and saw her standing in themoonlight far below. 

Her voice came up to him indistinctly because of the clatter of thebirds. "Maitre Ranulph! Ranulph!" She could not see him, for this partof the rock was in shadow. 

"Ah bah, all right!" he said, and taking hold of one end of the twinehe had brought, he let the roll fall. It dropped almost at Carterette'sfeet. She tied to the end of it three loose ropes she had brought fromthe Post. He drew them up quickly, tied them together firmly, and letthe great coil down. Ranulph's bundle, a tent and many things Carterettehad brought were drawn up. 

"Ranulph! Ranulph!" came Carterette's voice again. 

"Garcon Carterette!"

"You must help Sebastian Alixandre up, " she said. 

"Sebastian Alixandre--is he there? Why does he want to come?"

"That is no matter, " she called softly. "He is coming. He has the roperound his waist. Pull away!" It was better, Ranulph thought to himself, that he should be on Perch Rock alone, but the terrible strain hadbewildered him, and he could make no protest now. 

"Don't start yet, " he called down; "I'll pull when all's ready. "

He fell back from the edge to a place in the grass where, tying the roperound his body, and seating himself, he could brace his feet againsta ledge of rock. Then he pulled on the rope. It was round Carterette'swaist!

Carterette had told her falsehood without shame, for she was of thoseto whom the end is more than the means. She began climbing, and Ranulphpulled steadily. Twice he felt the rope suddenly jerk when she lost herfooting, but it came in evenly still, and he used a nose of rock as asort of winch. 

The climber was nearly two-thirds of the way up when a cannon-shotboomed out over the water, frightening again the vast covey of birdswhich shrieked and honked till the air was a maelstrom of cries. Thencame another cannon-shot. 

Ranulph's desertion was discovered. The fight was begun between a singleJersey shipwright and a French war-ship. 

His strength, however, could not last much longer. Every muscle of hisbody had been strained and tortured, and even this lighter task triedhim beyond endurance. His legs stiffened against the ledge of rock, thetension numbed his arms. He wondered how near Alixandre was to the top. Suddenly there was a pause, then a heavy jerk. Love of God--the ropewas shooting through his fingers, his legs were giving way! He gatheredhimself together, and then with teeth, hands, and body rigid withenormous effort, he pulled and pulled. Now he could not see. A mist swambefore his eyes. Everything grew black, but he pulled on and on. 

He never knew how the climber reached the top. But when the mist clearedaway from his eyes, Carterette was bending over him, putting rum to hislips. 

"Carterette-garcon Carterette!" he murmured, amazed. Then as the truthburst upon him he shook his head in a troubled sort of way. 

"What a cat I was!" said Carterette. "What a wild cat I was to make youhaul me up! It was bad for me with the rope round me, it must have beenawful for you, my poor esmanus--poor scarecrow Ranulph. "

Scarecrow indeed he looked. His clothes were nearly gone, his hair wastossed and matted, his eyes bloodshot, his big hands like pieces of rawmeat, his feet covered with blood. 

"My poor scarecrow!" she repeated, and she tenderly wiped the blood fromhis face where his hands had touched it. Meanwhile bugle-calls and criesof command came up to them, and in the first light of morning they couldsee French officers and sailors, Mattingley, Alixandre, and others, hurrying to and fro. 

When day came clear and bright, it was known that Carterette as wellas Ranulph had vanished. Mattingley shook his head stoically, but Richambeau on the Victoire was as keen to hunt down oneJersey-Englishman as he had ever been to attack an English fleet. Moreso, perhaps. 

Meanwhile the birds kept up a wild turmoil and shrieking. Never beforehad any one heard them so clamorous. More than once Mattingley hadlooked at Perch Rock curiously, but whenever the thought of it as arefuge came to him, he put it away. No, it was impossible. 

Yet, what was that? Mattingley's heart thumped. There were two people onthe lofty island wall--a man and a woman. He caught' the arm of a Frenchofficer near him. "Look, look!" he said. The officer raised his glass. 

"It's the gunner, " he cried and handed the glass to the old man. 

"It's Carterette, " said Mattingley in a hoarse voice. "But it's notpossible. It's not possible, " he added helplessly. "Nobody was everthere. My God, look at it--look at it!"

It was a picture indeed. A man and a woman were outlined against theclear air, putting up a tent as calmly as though on a lawn, thousands ofbirds wheeling over their heads, with querulous cries. 

A few moments later, Elie Mattingley was being rowed swiftly to theVictoire, where Richambeau was swearing viciously as he looked throughhis telescope. He also had recognised the gunner. 

He was prepared to wipe out the fishing-post if Mattingley did notproduce Ranulph--well, "here was Ranulph duly produced and insultinglysetting up a tent on this sheer rock, with some snippet of the devil, "said Richambeau, and defying a great French war-ship. He would set hisgunners to work. If he only had as good a marksman as Ranulph himself, the deserter should drop at the first shot "death and the devil take hisimpudent face!"

He was just about to give the order when Mattingley was brought to him. The old man's story amazed him beyond measure. 

"It is no man, then!" said Richambeau, when Mattingley had done. "Hemust be a damned fly to do it. And the girl--sacre moi! he drew her upafter him. I'll have him down out of that though, or throw up my flag, "he added, and turning fiercely, gave his orders. 

For hours the Victoire bombarded the lonely rock from the north. Thewhite tent was carried away, but the cannon-balls flew over or merelybattered the solid rock, the shells were thrown beyond, and no harm wasdone. But now and again the figure of Ranulph appeared, and a half-dozentimes he took aim with his musket at the French soldiers on the shore. Twice his shots took effect; one man was wounded, and one killed. Then whole companies of marines returned a musketry fire at him, to nopurpose. At his ease he hid himself in the long grass at the edge of thecliff, and picked off two more men. 

Here was a ridiculous thing: one man and a slip of a girl fighting anddefying a battle-ship. The smoke of battle covered miles of the greatgulf. Even the seabirds shrieked in ridicule. 

This went on for three days at intervals. With a fine chagrin Richambeauand his men saw a bright camp-fire lighted on the rock, and knew thatRanulph and the girl were cooking their meals in peace. A flag-stafftoo was set up, and a red cloth waved defiantly in the breeze. At lastRichambeau, who had watched the whole business from the deck of theVictoire, burst out laughing, and sent for Elie Mattingley. "Come, I'vehad enough, " said Richambeau. 

"There never was a wilder jest, and I'll not spoil the joke. He has uson his toasting-fork. He shall have the honour of a flag of truce. "

And so it was that the French battle-ship sent a flag of truce to thefoot of Perch Rock, and a French officer, calling up, gave his captain'sword of honour that Ranulph should suffer nothing at the hands of acourt-martial, and that he should be treated as an English prisoner ofwar, not as a French deserter. 

There was no court-martial. After Ranulph, at Richambeau's command, hadtold the tale of the ascent, the Frenchman said:

"No one but an Englishman could be fool enough to try such a thing, andnone but a fool could have had the luck to succeed. But even a fool canget a woman to follow him, and so this flyaway followed you, and--"

Carterette made for Richambeau as though to scratch his eyes out, butRanulph held her back. "--And you are condemned, gunner, " continuedRichambeau dryly, "to marry the said maid before sundown, or be carriedout to sea a prisoner of war. " So saying, he laughed, and bade thembegone to the wedding. 

Ranulph left Richambeau's ship bewildered and perturbed. For hours hepaced the shore, and at last his thoughts began to clear. The new lifehe had led during the last few months had brought many revelations. Hehad come to realise that there are several sorts of happiness, butthat all may be divided into two kinds: the happiness of doing good toourselves, and that of doing good to others. It opened out clearly tohim now as he thought of Carterette in the light of Richambeau's coarsejest. 

For years he had known in a sort of way that Carterette preferred him toany other man. He knew now that she had remained single because of him. For him her impatience had been patience, her fiery heart had spilleditself in tenderness for his misfortunes. She who had lightly tossedlovers aside, her coquetry appeased, had to himself shown sinceritywithout coquetry, loyalty without selfishness. He knew well that she hadbeen his champion in dark days, that he had received far more from herthan he had ever given--even of friendship. In his own absorbing lovefor Guida Landresse, during long years he had been unconsciously blindto a devotion which had lived on without hope, without repining, withuntiring cheerfulness. 

In those three days spent on the top of the Perch Rock how blithe garconCarterette had been! Danger had seemed nothing to her. She had thetemper of a man in her real enjoyment of the desperate chances of life. He had never seen her so buoyant; her animal spirits had never leaptso high. And yet, despite the boldness which had sent her to the topof Perch Rock with him, there had been in her whole demeanour a frankmodesty free from self-consciousness. She could think for herself, shewas sure of herself, and she would go to the ends of the earth for him. Surely he had not earned such friendship, such affection. 

He recalled how, the night before, as he sat by their little camp-fire, she had come and touched him on the shoulder, and, looking down at him, said:

"I feel as if I was beginning my life all over again, don't you, MaitreRanulph?"

Her black eyes had been fixed on his, and the fire in them was as brightand full of health and truth as the fire at his feet. 

And he had answered her: "I think I feel that too, garcon Carterette. "

To which she had replied: "It isn't hard to forget here--not so veryhard, is it?"

She did not mean Guida, nor what he had felt for Guida, but rather themisery of the past. He had nodded his head in reply, but had not spoken;and she, with a quick: "A bi'tot, " had taken her blanket and gone tothat portion of the rock set apart for her own. Then he had sat by thefire thinking through the long hours of night until the sun rose. Thatday Richambeau had sent his flag of truce, and the end of their stay onPerch Rock was come. 

Yes, he would marry Carterette. Yet he was not disloyal, even in memory. What had belonged to Guida belonged to her for ever, belonged to a pastlife with which henceforth he should have naught to do. What had sprungup in his heart for Carterette belonged to the new life. In thisnew land there was work to do--what might he not accomplish here? Herealised that within one life a man may still live several lives, each loyal and honest after its kind. A fate stronger than himself hadbrought him here; and here he would stay with fate. It had brought himto Carterette, and who could tell what good and contentment might notyet come to him, and how much to her!

That evening he went to Carterette and asked her to be his wife. Sheturned pale, and, looking up into his eyes with a kind of fear, she saidbrokenly:

"It's not because you feel you must? It's not because you know I loveyou, Ranulph--is it? It's not for that alone?"

"It is because I want you, garcon Carterette, " he answered tenderly, "because life will be nothing without you. "

"I am so happy--par made, I am so happy!" she answered, and she hid herface on his breast. 

CHAPTER XLI

Detricand, Prince of Vaufontaine, was no longer in the Vendee. The wholeof Brittany was in the hands of the victorious Hoche, the peasants weredisbanded, and his work for a time at least was done. 

On the same day of that momentous scene in the Cohue Royale whenGuida was vindicated, Detricand had carried to Granville the ComtesseChantavoine, who presently was passed over to the loving care of herkinsman General Grandjon-Larisse. This done, he proceeded to England. 

From London he communicated with Grandjon-Larisse, who applied himselfto secure from the Directory leave for the Chouan chieftain to returnto France, with amnesty for his past "rebellion. " This was got at lastthrough the influence of young Bonaparte himself. Detricand was free nowto proceed against Philip. 

He straightway devoted himself to a thing conceived on the day thatGuida was restored to her rightful status as a wife. His purpose nowwas to wrest from Philip the duchy of Bercy. Philip was heir by adoptiononly, and the inheritance had been secured at the last by help of alie--surely his was a righteous cause!

His motives had not their origin in hatred of Philip alone, nor indesire for honours and estates for himself, nor in racial antagonism, for had he not been allied with England in this war against theGovernment? He hated Philip the man, but he hated still more Philip theusurper who had brought shame to the escutcheon of Bercy. There was alsoat work another and deeper design to be shown in good time. Philip hadretired from the English navy, and gone back to his duchy of Bercy. Here he threw himself into the struggle with the Austrians against theFrench. Received with enthusiasm by the people, who as yet knew littleor nothing of the doings in the Cohue Royale, he now took over commandof the army and proved himself almost as able in the field as he hadbeen at sea. Of these things Detricand knew, and knew also that thelines were closing in round the duchy; that one day soon Bonaparte wouldsend a force which should strangle the little army and its Austrianallies. The game then would be another step nearer the end. Free to moveat will, he visited the Courts of Prussia, Russia, Spain, Italy, and Austria, and laid before them his claims to the duchy, urging aninsistence on its neutrality, and a trial of his cause against Philip. Ceaselessly, adroitly, with persistence and power, he toiled towards hisend, the way made easier by tales told of his prowess in the Vendee. Hehad offers without number to take service in foreign armies, but he wasnot to be tempted. Gossip of the Courts said that there was some strangeromance behind this tireless pursuit of an inheritance, but he paid noheed. If at last there crept over Europe wonderful tales of Detricand'spast life in Jersey, of the real Duchesse de Bercy, and of the newPrince of Vaufontaine, Detricand did not, or feigned not to, hear them;and the Comtesse Chantavoine had disappeared from public knowledge. Thefew who guessed his romance were puzzled to understand his cause: forif he dispossessed Philip, Guida must also be dispossessed. This, certainly, was not lover-like or friendly. 

But Detricand was not at all puzzled; his mind and purpose were clear. Guida should come to no injury through him--Guida who, as they leftthe Cohue Royale that day of days, had turned on him a look of heavenlytrust and gratitude; who, in the midst of her own great happenings, found time to tell him by a word how well she knew he had kept hispromise to her, even beyond belief. Justice for her was now the supremeand immediate object of his life. There were others ready also to carefor France, to fight for her, to die for her, to struggle towards thehour when the King should come to his own; but there was only one manin the world who could achieve Guida's full justification, and that washimself, Detricand of Vaufontaine. 

He was glad to turn to the Chevalier's letters from Jersey. It was fromthe Chevalier's lips he had learned the whole course of Guida's lifeduring the four years of his absence from the island. It was theChevalier who drew for him pictures of Guida in her new home, noneother than the house of Elie Mattingley, which the Royal Court havingconfiscated now handed over to her as an act of homage. The little worldof Jersey no longer pointed the finger of scorn at Guida Landresse deLandresse, but bent the knee to Princess Guida d'Avranche. 

Detricand wrote many letters to the Chevalier, and they with theircheerful and humorous allusions were read aloud to Guida--all save oneconcerning Philip. Writing of himself to the Chevalier on one occasion, he laid bare with a merciless honesty his nature and his career. Concerning neither had he any illusions. 

 I do not mistake myself, Chevalier [he wrote], nor these late doings of mine. What credit shall I take to myself for coming to place and some little fame? Everything has been with me: the chance of inheritance, the glory of a cause as hopeless as splendid, and more splendid because hopeless; and the luck of him who loads the dice-- for all my old comrades, the better men, are dead, and I, the least of them all, remain, having even outlived the cause. What praise shall I take for this? None--from all decent fellows of the earth, none at all. It is merely laughable that I should be left, the monument of a sacred loyalty greater than the world has ever known. 

 I have no claims--But let me draw the picture, dear Chevalier. Here was a discredited, dissolute fellow whose life was worth a pin to nobody. Tired of the husks and the swine, and all his follies grown stale by over-use, he takes the advice of a good gentleman, and joins the standard of work and sacrifice. What greater luxury shall man ask? If this be not running the full scale of life's enjoyment, pray you what is? The world loves contrasts. The deep-dyed sinner raising the standard of piety is picturesque. If, charmed by his own new virtues, he is constant in his enthusiasm, behold a St. Augustine! Everything is with the returned prodigal--the more so if he be of the notorious Vaufontaines, who were ever saints turned sinners, or sinners turned saints. 

 Tell me, my good friend, where is room for pride in me? I am getting far more out of life than I deserve; it is not well that you and others should think better of me than I do of myself. I do not pretend that I dislike it, it is as balm to me. But it would seem that the world is monstrously unjust. One day when I'm grown old--I cannot imagine what else Fate has spared me for--I shall write the Diary of a Sinner, the whole truth. I shall tell how when my peasant fighters were kneeling round me praying for success, even thanking God for me, I was smiling in my glove--in scorn of myself, not of them, Chevalier, no, --no, not of them! The peasant's is the true greatness. Everything is with the aristocrat; he has to kick the great chances from his path; but the peasant must go hunting them in peril. Hardly snatching sustenance from Fate, the peasant fights into greatness; the aristocrat may only win to it by rejecting Fate's luxuries. The peasant never escapes the austere teaching of hard experience, the aristocrat the languor of good fortune. There is the peasant and there am I. Voila! enough of Detricand of Vaufontaine. .. . The Princess Guida and the child, are they--

So the letter ran, and the Chevalier read it aloud to Guida up to thepoint where her name was writ. Afterwards Guida would sit and think ofwhat Detricand had said, and of the honesty of nature that never allowedhim to deceive himself. It pleased her also to think she had in somesmall way helped a man to the rehabilitation of his life. He hadsaid that she had helped him, and she believed him; he had proved thesoundness of his aims and ambitions; his career was in the world'smouth. 

The one letter the Chevalier did not read to Guida referred to Philip. In it Detricand begged the Chevalier to hold himself in readiness toproceed at a day's notice to Paris. 

So it was that when, after months of waiting, the Chevalier suddenlyleft St. Heliers to join Detricand, Guida did not know the object of hisjourney. All she knew was that he had leave from the Directory to visitParis. Imagining this to mean some good fortune for him, with a lightheart she sent him off in charge of Jean Touzel, who took him to St. Malo in the Hardi Biaou, and saw him safely into the hands of an escortfrom Detricand. 

CHAPTER XLII

Three days later there was opened in one of the chambers of theEmperor's palace at Vienna a Congress of four nations--Prussia, Russia, Austria, and Sardinia. Detricand's labours had achieved this result atlast. Grandjon-Larisse, his old enemy in battle, now his personalfriend and colleague in this business, had influenced Napoleon, and theDirectory through him, to respect the neutrality of the duchy of Bercy, for which the four nations of this Congress declared. Philip himselflittle knew whose hand had secured the neutrality until summoned toappear at the Congress, to defend his rights to the title and the duchyagainst those of Detricand Prince of Vaufontaine. Had he known thatDetricand was behind it all he would have fought on to the last gasp ofpower and died on the battle-field. He realised now that such a fatewas not for him--that he must fight, not on the field of battle like aprince, but in a Court of Nations like a doubtful claimant of sovereignhonours. 

His whole story had become known in the duchy, and though it begot nofeeling against him in war-time, now that Bercy was in a neutral zoneof peace there was much talk of the wrongs of Guida and the CountessChantavoine. He became moody and saturnine, and saw few of his subjectssave the old Governor-General and his whilom enemy, now his friend, Count Carignan Damour. That at last he should choose to accompany him toVienna the man who had been his foe during the lifetime of the old Duke, seemed incomprehensible. Yet, to all appearance, Damour was now Philip'szealous adherent. He came frankly repenting his old enmity, and thoughPhilip did not quite believe him, some perverse temper, some obliquityof vision which overtakes the ablest minds at times, made him almosteagerly accept his new partisan. One thing Philip knew: Damour had nolove for Detricand, who indeed had lately sent him word that for hiswork in sending Fouche's men to attempt his capture in Bercy, he wouldhave him shot, if the Court of Nations upheld his rights to the duchy. Damour was able, even if Damour was not honest. Damour, the able, theimplacable and malignant, should accompany him to Vienna. 

The opening ceremony of the Congress was simple, but it was made notableby the presence of the Emperor of Austria, who addressed a few wordsof welcome to the envoys, to Philip, and, very pointedly, to therepresentative of the French Nation, the aged Duc de Mauban, who, whiletaking no active part in the Congress, was present by request of theDirectory. The Duke's long residence in Vienna and freedom from share inthe civil war in France had been factors in the choice of him when thename was submitted to the Directory by General Grandjon-Larisse, uponwhom in turn it had been urged by Detricand. 

The Duc de Mauban was the most marked figure of the Court, the Emperornot excepted. Clean shaven, with snowy linen and lace, his own naturalhair, silver white, tied in a queue behind, he had large eloquentwondering eyes that seemed always looking, looking beyond the thinghe saw. At first sight of him at his court, the Emperor had said: "Thestars have frightened him. " No fanciful supposition, for the Ducde Mauban was as well known an astronomer as student of history andphilanthropist. 

When the Emperor mentioned de Mauban's name Philip wondered where he hadheard it before. Something in the sound of it was associated withhis past, he knew not how. He had a curious feeling too that thosedeliberate, searching dark eyes saw the end of this fight, this battleof the strong. The face fascinated him, though it awed him. He admiredit, even as he detested the ardent strength of Detricand's face, wherethe wrinkles of dissipation had given way to the bronzed carven look ofthe war-beaten soldier. 

It was fair battle between these two, and there was enough hatred in theheart of each to make the fight deadly. He knew--and he had known sincethat day, years ago, in the Place du Vier Prison--that Detricand lovedthe girl whom he himself had married and dishonoured. He felt also thatDetricand was making this claim to the duchy more out of vengeance thanfrom desire to secure the title for himself. He read the whole deepscheme: how Detricand had laid his mine at every Court in Europe tobring him to this pass. 

For hours Philip's witnesses were examined, among them the officers ofhis duchy and Count Carignan Damour. The physician of the old Duke ofBercy was examined, and the evidence was with Philip. The testimony ofDalbarade, the French ex-Minister of Marine, was read and considered. Philip's story up to the point of the formal signature by the old Dukewas straightforward and clear. So far the Court was in his favour. 

Detricand, as natural heir of the duchy, combated each step in theproceedings from the stand-point of legality, of the Duke's fatuityconcerning Philip, and his personal hatred of the House of Vaufontaine. On the third day, when the Congress would give its decision, Detricandbrought the Chevalier to the palace. At the opening of the sittinghe requested that Damour be examined again. The Count was askedwhat question had been put to Philip immediately before the deeds ofinheritance were signed. It was useless for Damour to evade the point, for there were other officers of the duchy present who could have toldthe truth. Yet this truth, of itself, need not ruin Philip. It was nophenomenon for a prince to have one wife unknown, and, coming to thethrone, to take to himself another more exalted. 

Detricand was hoping that the nice legal sense of mine and thine shouldbe suddenly weighted in his favour by a prepared tour de force. Thesympathies of the Congress were largely with himself, for he was ofthe order of the nobility, and Philip's descent must be traced throughcenturies of yeoman blood; yet there was the deliberate adoption by theDuke to face, with the formal assent of the States of Bercy, but littlelessened in value by the fact that the French Government had sent itsemissaries to Bercy to protest against it. The Court had come to a pointwhere decision upon the exact legal merits of the case was difficult. 

After Damour had testified to the question the Duke asked Philip whensigning the deeds at Bercy, Detricand begged leave to introduce anotherwitness, and brought in the Chevalier. Now he made his great appeal. Simply, powerfully, he told the story of Philip's secret marriage withGuida, and of all that came after, up to the scene in the Cohue Royalewhen the marriage was proved and the child given back to Guida; whenthe Countess Chantavoine, turning from Philip, acknowledged to Guidathe justice of her claim. He drove home the truth with bare unvarnishedpower--the wrong to Guida, the wrong to the Countess, the wrong to theDukedom of Bercy, to that honour which should belong to those in highestate. Then at the last he told them who Guida was: no peasant girl, but the granddaughter of the Sieur Larchant de Mauprat of de Mauprats ofChambery: the granddaughter of an exile indeed, but of the noblest bloodof France. 

The old Duc de Mauban fixed his look on him intently, and as the storyproceeded his hand grasped the table before him in strong emotion. Whenat last Detricand turned to the Chevalier and asked him to bear witnessto the truth of what he had said, the Duke, in agitation, whispered tothe President. 

All that Detricand had said moved the Court powerfully, but when thewithered little flower of a man, the Chevalier, told in quaint briefsentences the story of the Sieur de Mauprat, his sufferings, his exile, and the nobility of his family, which had indeed, far back, come ofroyal stock, and then at last of Guida and the child, more than onemember of the Court turned his head away with misty eyes. 

It remained for the Duc de Mauban to speak the word which hastened andcompelled the end. Rising in his place, he addressed to the Court a fewwords of apology, inasmuch as he was without real power there, and thenhe turned to the Chevalier. 

"Monsieur le chevalier, " said he, "I had the honour to know you insomewhat better days for both of us. You will allow me to greet you herewith my profound respect. The Sieur Larchant de Mauprat"--he turned tothe President, his voice became louder--"the Sieur de Mauprat was myfriend. He was with me upon the day I married the Duchess Guidabaldine. Trouble, exile came to him. Years passed, and at last in Jersey I sawhim again. It was the very day his grandchild was born. The name givento her was Guidabaldine--the name of the Duchese de Mauban. She wasGuidabaldine Landresse de Landresse, she is my godchild. There is nobetter blood in France than that of the de Mauprats of Chambery, and thegrandchild of my friend, her father being also of good Norman blood, wasworthy to be the wife of any prince in Europe. I speak in the name ofour order, I speak for Frenchmen, I speak for France. If Detricand, Prince of Vaufontaine, be not secured in his right of succession to thedukedom of Bercy, France will not cease to protest till protest hathdone its work. From France the duchy of Bercy came. It was the gift ofa French king to a Frenchman, and she hath some claims upon the courtesyof the nations. "

For a moment after he took his seat there was absolute silence. Thenthe President wrote upon a paper before him, and it was passed to eachmember of the Court sitting with him. For a moment longer there wasnothing heard save the scratching of a quill. Philip recalled that dayat Bercy when the Duke stooped and signed his name upon the deed ofadoption and succession three times-three fateful times. 

At last the President, rising in his place, read the pronouncementof the Court: that Detricand, Prince of Vaufontaine, be declared trueinheritor of the duchy of Bercy, the nations represented here confirminghim in his title. 

The President having spoken, Philip rose, and, bowing to the Congresswith dignity and composure, left the chamber with Count Carignan Damour. 

As he passed from the portico into the grounds of the palace, a figurecame suddenly from behind a pillar and touched him on the arm. He turnedquickly, and received upon the face a blow from a glove. 

The owner of the glove was General Grandjon-Larisse. 

CHAPTER XLIII

"You understand, monsieur?" said Grandjon-Larisse. 

"Perfectly--and without the glove, monsieur le general, " answered Philipquietly. "Where shall my seconds wait upon you?" As he spoke he turnedwith a slight gesture towards Damour. 

"In Paris, monsieur, if it please you. "

"I should have preferred it here, monsieur le general--but Paris, if itis your choice. "

"At 22, Rue de Mazarin, monsieur. " Then he made an elaborate bow toPhilip. "I bid you good-day, monsieur. "

"Monseigneur, not monsieur, " Philip corrected. "They may deprive me ofmy duchy, but I am still Prince Philip d'Avranche. I may not be robbedof my adoption. "

There was something so steady, so infrangible in Philip's composure now, that Grandjon-Larisse, who had come to challenge a great adventurer, amarauder of honour, found his furious contempt checked by some integralpower resisting disdain. He intended to kill Philip--he was one of themost expert swordsmen in France--yet he was constrained to respect acomposure not sangfroid and a firmness in misfortune not bravado. Philipwas still the man who had valiantly commanded men; who had held of thehigh places of the earth. In whatever adventurous blood his purposeshad been conceived, or his doubtful plans accomplished, he was still, stripped of power, a man to be reckoned with: resolute in his courseonce set upon, and impulsive towards good as towards evil. He was neverso much worth respect as when, a dispossessed sovereign with an emptytitle, discountenanced by his order, disbarred his profession, he heldhimself ready to take whatever penalty now came. 

In the presence of General Grandjon-Larisse, with whom was the might ofrighteous vengeance, he was the more distinguished figure. To Philipnow there came the cold quiet of the sinner, great enough to rise abovephysical fear, proud enough to say to the world: "Come, I pay the debt Iowe. We are quits. You have no favours to give, and I none to take. Youhave no pardon to grant, and I none to ask. "

At parting Grandjon-Larisse bowed to Philip with great politeness, andsaid: "In Paris then, monsieur le prince. "

Philip bowed his head in assent. 

When they met again, it was at the entrance to the Bois de Boulogne nearthe Maillot gate. 

It was a damp grey morning immediately before sunrise, and at firstthere was scarce light enough for the combatants to see each otherperfectly, but both were eager and would not delay. 

As they came on guard the sun rose. Philip, where he stood, was full inits light. He took no heed, and they engaged at once. After a few passesGrandjon-Larisse said: "You are in the light, monseigneur; the sunshines full upon you, " and he pointed to the shade of a wall near by. "It is darker there. "

"One of us must certainly be in the dark-soon, " answered Philip grimly, but he removed to the wall. From the first Philip took the offensive. He was more active, and he was quicker and lighter of fence than hisantagonist. But Grandjon-Larisse had the surer eye, and was invinciblycertain of hand and strong of wrist. At length Philip wounded hisopponent slightly in the left breast, and the seconds came forward todeclare that honour was satisfied. But neither would listen or heed;their purpose was fixed to fight to the death. They engaged again, andalmost at once the Frenchman was slightly wounded in the wrist. Suddenlytaking the offensive and lunging freely, Grandjon-Larisse drove Philip, now heated and less wary, backwards upon the wall. At last, by adexterous feint, he beat aside Philip's guard and drove the swordthrough his right breast at one fierce lunge. 

With a moan Philip swayed and fell forward into the arms of Damour, still grasping his weapon. Grandjon-Larisse stooped to the injured man. Unloosing his fingers from the sword, Philip stretched up a hand to hisenemy. 

"I am hurt to death, " he said. "Permit my compliments to the bestswordsman I have ever known. " Then with a touch of sorry humour headded: "You cannot doubt their sincerity. "

Grandjon-Larisse was turning away when Philip called him back. "Willyou carry my profound regret to the Countess Chantavoine?" he whispered. "Say that it lies with her whether Heaven pardon me. "

Grandjon-Larisse hesitated an instant, then answered:

"Those who are in heaven, monseigneur, know best what Heaven may do. "

Philip's pale face took on a look of agony. "She is dead--she is dead!"he gasped. 

Grandjon-Larisse inclined his head, then after a moment, gravely said:

"What did you think was left for a woman--for a Chantavoine? It is notthe broken heart that kills, but broken pride, monseigneur. "

So saying, he bowed again to Philip and turned upon his heel. 

CHAPTER XLIV

Philip lay on a bed in the unostentatious lodging in the Rue deVaugirard where Damour had brought him. The surgeon had pronounced thewound mortal, giving him but a few hours to live. For long after hewas gone Philip was silent, but at length he said "You heard whatGrandjon-Larisse said--It is broken pride that kills, Damour. " Then heasked for pen, ink, and paper. They were brought to him. He tried thepen upon the paper, but faintness suddenly seized him, and he fell backunconscious. 

When he came to himself he was alone in the room. It was cold andcheerless--no fire on the hearth, no light save that flaring from a lampin the street outside his window. He rang the bell at his hand. No oneanswered. He called aloud: "Damour! Damour!"

Damour was far beyond earshot. He had bethought him that now his placewas in Bercy, where he might gather up what fragments of good fortuneremained, what of Philip's valuables might be secured. Ere he had fallenback insensible, Philip, in trying the pen, had written his own name ona piece of paper. Above this Damour wrote for himself an order upon thechamberlain of Bercy to enter upon Philip's private apartments in thecastle; and thither he was fleeing as Philip lay dying in the dark roomof the house in the Rue de Vaugirard. 

The woman of the house, to whose care Philip was passed over by Damour, had tired of watching, and had gone to spend one of his gold pieces forsupper with her friends. 

Meanwhile in the dark comfortless room, the light from withoutflickering upon his blanched face, Philip was alone with himself, with memory, and with death. As he lay gasping, a voice seemed to ringthrough the silent room, repeating the same words again and again--andthe voice was his own voice. It was himself--some other outside self ofhim--saying, in tireless repetition: "May I die a black, dishonourabledeath, abandoned and alone, if ever I deceive you. I should deserve thatif I deceived you, Guida!. .. " "A black, dishonourable death, abandonedand alone": it was like some horrible dirge chanting in his ear. 

Pictures flashed before his eyes, strange imaginings. Now he was passingthrough dark corridors, and the stone floor beneath was cold--so cold!He was going to some gruesome death, and monks with voices like his ownvoice were intoning: "Abandoned and alone. Alone--alone--abandoned andalone. ". .. And now he was fighting, fighting on board the Araminta. There was the roar of the great guns, the screaming of the carronadeslides, the rattle of musketry, the groans of the dying, the shouts ofhis victorious sailors, the crash of the main-mast as it fell uponthe bulwarks. Then the swift sissing ripple of water, the thud of theAraminta as she struck, and the cold chill of the seas as she went down. How cold was the sea--ah, how it chilled every nerve and tissue of hisbody!

He roused to consciousness again. Here was still the blank cheerlessroom, the empty house, the lamplight flaring through the window upon hisstricken face, upon the dark walls, upon the white paper lying on thetable beside him. 

Paper--that was it--he must write, he must write while he had strength. With the last courageous effort of life, his strenuous will forcing thedeclining powers into obedience for a final combat, he drew the papernear, and began to write. The light flickered, wavered, he could justsee the letters that he formed--no more. 

 Guida [he began], on the Ecrehos I said to you: "If I deceive you may I die a black, dishonourable death, abandoned and alone!" It has all come true. You were right, always right, and I was always wrong. I never started fair with myself or with the world. I was always in too great a hurry; I was too ambitious, Guida. Ambition has killed me, and it has killed her--the Comtesse. She is gone. What was it he said--if I could but remember what Grandjon-Larisse said--ah yes, yes!--after he had given me my death-wound, he said: "It is not the broken heart that kills, but broken pride. " There is the truth. She is in her grave, and I am going out into the dark. 

He lay back exhausted for a moment, in desperate estate. The body wasfighting hard that the spirit might confess itself before the vitalspark died down for ever. Seizing a glass of cordial near, he drank ofit. The broken figure in its mortal defeat roused itself again, leanedover the paper, and a shaking hand traced on the brief piteous record ofa life. 

 I climbed too fast. Things dazzled me. I thought too much of myself--myself, myself was everything always; and myself has killed me. In wanton haste I came to be admiral and sovereign duke, and it has all come to nothing--nothing. I wronged you, I denied you, there was the cause of all. There is no one to watch with me now to the one moment of life that counts. In this hour the clock of time fills all the space between earth and heaven. It will strike soon-- the awful clock. It will soon strike twelve: and then it will be twelve of the clock for me always--always. 

 I know you never wanted revenge on me, Guida, but still you have it here. My life is no more now than vraic upon a rock. I cling, I cling, but that is all, and the waves break over me. I am no longer an admiral, I am no more a duke--I am nothing. It is all done. Of no account with men I am going to my judgment with God. But you remain, and you are Princess Philip d'Avranche, and your son--your son--will be Prince Guilbert d'Avranche. But I can leave him naught, neither estates nor power. There is little honour in the title now. So it may be you will not use it. But you will have a new life: with my death happiness may begin again for you. That thought makes death easier. I was never worthy of you, never. I understand myself now, and I know that you have read me all these years, read me through and through. The letter you wrote me, never a day or night has passed but, one way or another, it has come home to me. 

There was a footfall outside his window. A roysterer went by in thelight of the flaring lamp. He was singing a ribald song. A dog ranbarking at his heels. The reveller turned, drew his sword, and ran thedog through, then staggered on with his song. Philip shuddered, and witha supreme effort bent to the table again, and wrote on. 

 You were right: you were my star, and I was so blind with selfishness and vanity I could not see. I am speaking the truth to you now, Guida. I believe I might have been a great man if I had thought less of myself and more of others, more of you. Greatness, I was mad for that, and my madness has brought me to this desolate end--alone. Go tell Maitresse Aimable that she too was a good prophet. Tell her that, as she foresaw, I called your name in death, and you did not come. One thing before all: teach your boy never to try to be great, but always to live well and to be just. Teach him too that the world means better by him than he thinks, and that he must never treat it as his foe; he must not try to force its benefits and rewards. He must not approach it like the highwayman. Tell him never to flatter. That is the worst fault in a gentleman, for flattery makes false friends and the flatterer himself false. Tell him that good address is for ease and courtesy of life, but it must not be used to one's secret advantage as I have used mine to mortal undoing. If ever Guilbert be in great temptation, tell him his father's story, and read him these words to you, written, as you see, with the cramped fingers of death. 

He could scarcely hold the pen now, and his eyes were growing dim. 

 . .. I am come to the end of my strength. I thought I loved you, Guida, but I know now that it was not love--not real love. Yet it was all a twisted manhood had to give. There are some things of mine that you will keep for your son, if you forgive me dead whom you despised living. Detricand Duke of Bercy will deal honourably by you. All that is mine at the Castle of Bercy he will secure to you. Tell him I have written it so; though he will do it of himself, I know. He is a great man. As I have gone downwards he has come upwards. There has been a star in his sky too. I know it, I know it, Guida, and he--he is not blind. The light is going, I cannot see. I can only--

He struggled fiercely for breath, but suddenly collapsed upon the table, and his head fell forward upon the paper; one cheek lying in the wetink of his last written words, the other, cold and stark, turned tothe window. The light from the lamp without flickered on it in gruesomesportiveness. The eyes stared and stared from the little dark room outinto the world. But they did not see. 

The night wore on. At last came a knocking, knocking at the door-tap!tap! tap! But he did not hear. A moment of silence, and again came aknocking--knocking--knocking. .. !

CHAPTER XLV

The white and red flag of Jersey was flying half-mast from the CohueRoyale, and the bell of the parish church was tolling. It was Saturday, but little business was being done in the Vier Marchi. Chattering peoplewere gathered at familiar points, and at the foot of La Pyramide a largegroup surrounded two sailor-men just come from Gaspe, bringing news ofadventuring Jersiais--Elie Mattingley, Carterette and Ranulph Delagarde. This audience quickly grew, for word was being passed on from onelittle group to another. So keen was interest in the story told by thehome-coming sailors, that the great event which had brought them to theVier Marchi was, for the moment, almost neglected. 

Presently, however, a cannon-shot, then another, and another, rousedthe people to remembrance. The funeral cortege of Admiral Prince Philipd'Avranche was about to leave the Cohue Royale, and every eye was turnedto the marines and sailors lining the road from the court-house to thechurch. 

The Isle of Jersey, ever stubbornly loyal to its own--even those whomthe outside world contemned or cast aside--jealous of its dignityeven with the dead, had come to bury Philip d'Avranche with all goodceremony. There had been abatements to his honour, but he had been astrong man and he had done strong things, and he was a Jerseyman born, aNorman of the Normans. The Royal Court had judged between him and Guida, doing tardy justice to her, but of him they had ever been proud; andwhere conscience condemned here, vanity commended there. In any eventthey reserved the right, independent of all non-Jersiais, to do whatthey chose with their dead. 

For what Philip had been as an admiral they would do his body reverencenow; for what he had done as a man, that belonged to another tribunal. It had been proposed by the Admiral of the station to bury him from hisold ship, the Imperturbable, but the Royal Court made its claim, and sohis body had lain in state in the Cohue Royale. The Admiral joined handswith the island authorities. In both cases it was a dogged loyalty. The sailors of England knew Philip d'Avranche as a fighter, even as theRoyal Court knew him as a famous and dominant Jerseyman. A battle-shipis a world of its own, and Jersey is a world of its own. They neitherknew nor cared for the comment of the world without; or, knowing, refused to consider it. 

When the body of Philip was carried from the Cohue Royale signals weremade to the Imperturbable in the tide-way. From all her ships in companyforty guns were fired funeral-wise and the flags were struck halfmast. 

Slowly the cortege uncoiled itself to one long unbroken line from thesteps of the Cohue Royale to the porch of the church. The Jurats intheir red robes, the officers, sailors, and marines, added colour to thepageant. The coffin was covered by the flag of Jersey with the arms ofWilliam the Conqueror in the canton. Of the crowd some were curious, some stoical; some wept, some essayed philosophy. 

"Et ben, " said one, "he was a brave admiral!"

"Bravery was his trade, " answered another: "act like a sheep and you'llbe eaten by the wolf. "

"It was a bad business about her that was Guida Landresse, " remarked athird. 

"Every man knows himself, God knows all men, " snuffled the fanaticalbarber who had once delivered a sermon from the Pompe des Brigands. 

"He made things lively while he lived, ba su!" droned the jailer of theVier Prison. "But he has folded sails now. "

"Ma fe, yes, he sleeps like a porpoise now, and white as a wax he lookedup there in the Cohue Royale, " put in a centenier standing by. 

A voice came shrilly over the head of the centenier. "As white as you'lllook yellow one day, bat'd'lagoule! Yellow and green, oui-gia--yellowlike a bad apple, and cowardly green as a leek. " This was Manon Moignardthe witch. 

"Man doux d'la vie, where's the Master of Burials?" babbled the jailer. "The apprentice does the obs'quies to-day. "

"The Master's sick of a squinzy, " grunted the centenier. "Sohatchet-face and bundle-o'-nails there brings dust to dust, amen. "

All turned now to the Undertaker's Apprentice, a grim, saturnine figurewith his grey face, protuberant eyes, and obsequious solemnity, in whichlurked a callous smile. The burial of the great, the execution ofthe wicked, were alike to him. In him Fate seemed to personify life'srevenges, its futilities, its calculating ironies. The flag-drapedcoffin was just about to pass, and the fanatical barber harked backto Philip. "They say it was all empty honours with him afore he diedabroad. "

"A full belly's a full belly if it's only full of straw, " snapped ManonMoignard. 

"Who was it brought him home?" asked the jailer. "None that was bornon Jersey, but two that lived here, " remarked Maitre Damian, theschoolmaster from St. Aubins. 

"That Chevalier of Champsavoys and the other Duc de Bercy, " interposedthe centenier. 

Maitre Damian tapped his stick upon the ground, and said oracularly: "Itis not for me to say, but which is the rightful Duke and which is not, there is the political question!"

"Pardi, that's it, " answered the centenier. "Why did Detricand Duke turnPhilip Duke out of duchy, see him killed, then fetch him home to Jerseylike a brother? Ah, man pethe benin, that's beyond me!

"Those great folks does things their own ways; oui-gia, " remarked thejailer. 

"Why did Detricand Duke go back to France?" asked Maitre Damian, cockinghis head wisely; "why did he not stay for obsequies--he?"

"That's what I say, " answered the jailer, "those great folks does thingstheir own ways. "

"Ma fistre, I believe you, " ejaculated the centenier. "But for theChevalier there, for a Frenchman, that is a man after God's ownheart--and mine. "

"Ah then, look at that, " said Manon Moignard, with a sneer, "when onepleases you and God it is a ticket to heaven, diantre!"

But in truth what Detricand and the Chevalier had done was but of humanpity. The day after the duel, Detricand had arrived in Paris to proceedthence to Bercy. There he heard of Philip's death and of Damour'sdesertion. Sending officers to Bercy to frustrate any possible designsof Damour, he, with the Chevalier, took Philip's body back to Jersey, delivering it to those who would do it honour. 

Detricand did not see Guida. For all that might be said to her now theChevalier should be his mouthpiece. In truth there could be no bettermouthpiece for him. It was Detricand--Detricand--Detricand, like achild, in admiration and in affection. If Guida did not understand allnow, there should come a time when she would understand. Detricand wouldwait. She should find that he was just, that her honour and the honourof her child were safe with him. 

As for Guida, it was not grief she felt in the presence of this tragedy. No spark of love sprang up, even when remembrance was now brought toits last vital moment. But a fathomless pity stirred her heart, thatPhilip's life had been so futile and that all he had done was come tonaught. His letter, blotched and blotted by his own dead cheek, she readquietly. Yet her heart ached bitterly--so bitterly that her face becamepinched with pain; for here in this letter was despair, here was thefinal agony of a broken life, here were the last words of the fatherof her child to herself. She saw with a sudden pang that in writing ofGuilbert he only said your child, not ours. What a measureless distancethere was between them in the hour of his death, and how clearly theletter showed that he understood at last!

The evening before the burial she went with the Chevalier to the CohueRoyale. As she looked at Philip's dead face bitterness and achingcompassion were quieted within her. The face was peaceful--strong. Therewas on it no record of fret or despair. Its impassive dignity seemed tosay that all accounts had been settled, and in this finality therewas quiet; as though he had paid the price, as though the long accountagainst him in the markets of life was closed and cancelled, and thedebtor freed from obligation for ever. Poignant impulses in her stilled, pity lost its wounding acuteness. She shed no tears, but at last shestretched out her hand and let it rest upon his forehead for a moment. 

"Poor Philip!" she said. 

Then she turned and slowly left the room, followed by the Chevalier, andby the noiseless Dormy Jamais, who had crept in behind them. As DormyJamais closed the door, he looked back to where the coffin lay, and inthe compassion of fools he repeated Guida's words:

"Poor Philip!" he said. 

Now, during Philip's burial, Dormy Jamais sat upon the roof of the CohueRoyale, as he had done on the day of the Battle of Jersey, looking downon the funeral cortege and the crowd. He watched it all until the ruffleof drums at the grave told that the body was being lowered--four rufflesfor an admiral. 

As the people began to disperse and the church bell ceased tolling, Dormy turned to another bell at his elbow, and set it ringing to callthe Royal Court together. Sharp, mirthless, and acrid it rang:

Chicane--chicane! Chicane--chicane! Chicane--chicane!

IN JERSEY-A YEAR LATER

CHAPTER XLVI

"What is that for?" asked the child, pointing. Detricand put the watchto the child's ear. "It's to keep time. Listen. Do you hear it-tic-tic, tic-tic?"'

The child nodded his head gleefully, and his big eyes blinked withunderstanding. "Doesn't it ever stop?" he asked. 

"This watch never stops, " replied Detricand. "But there are plenty ofwatches that do. "

"I like watches, " said the child sententiously. 

"Would you like this one?" asked Detricand. 

The child drew in a gurgling breath of pleasure. "I like it. Why doesn'tmother have a watch?"

The man did not answer the last question. "You like it?" he said again, and he nodded his head towards the little fellow. "H'm, it keeps goodtime, excellent time it keeps, " and he rose to meet the child's mother, who having just entered the room, stood looking at them. It wasGuida. She had heard the last words, and she glanced towards the watchcuriously. Detricand smiled in greeting, and said to her: "Do youremember it?" He held up the watch. 

She came forward eagerly. "Is it--is it that indeed, the watch that thedear grandpethe--?"

He nodded and smiled. "Yes, it has never once stopped since the momenthe gave it me in the Vier-Marchi seven years ago. It has had a charmedexistence amid many rough doings and accidents. I was always afraid oflosing it, always afraid of an accident to it. It has seemed to me thatif I could keep it things would go right with me, and things come outright in the end. Superstition, of course, but I lived a long time inJersey. I feel more a Jerseyman than a Frenchman sometimes. "

Although his look seemed to rest but casually on her face, it wasevident he was anxious to feel the effect of every word upon her, andhe added: "When the Sieur de Mauprat gave me the watch he said, 'May notime be ill spent that it records for you. '"

"Perhaps he knows his wish was fulfilled, " answered Guida. 

"You think, then, that I've kept my promise?"

"I am sure he would say so, " she replied warmly. 

"It isn't the promise I made to him that I mean, but the promise I madeto you. "

She smiled brightly. "You know what I think of that. I told you longago. " She turned her head away, for a bright colour had come to hercheek. "You have done great things, Prince, " she added in a low tone. 

He flashed a look of inquiry at her. To his ear there was in her voicea little touch--not of bitterness, but of something, as it were, muffledor reserved. Was she thinking how he had robbed her child of the chanceof heritage at Bercy? He did not reply, but, stooping, put the watchagain to the child's ear. "There you are, monseigneur!"

"Why do you call him monseigneur?" she asked. "Guilbert has no title toyour compliment. "

A look half-amused, half-perplexed, crossed over Detricand's face. "Doyou think so?" he said musingly. Stooping once more, he said to thechild: "Would you like the watch?" and added quickly, "you shall have itwhen you're grown up. "

"Do you really mean it?" asked Guida, delighted; "do you really mean togive him the grandpethe's watch one day?"

"Oh yes, at least that--one day. But I have something more, " he addedquickly--"something more for you;" and he drew from his pocket aminiature set in rubies and diamonds. "I have brought you this from theDuc de Mauban--and this, " he went on, taking a letter from his pocket, and handing it with the gift. "The Duke thought you might care to haveit. It is the face of your godmother, the Duchess Guidabaldine. "

Guida looked at the miniature earnestly, and then said a littlewistfully: "How beautiful a face--but the jewels are much too fine forme! What should one do here with rubies and diamonds? How can I thankthe Duke!"

"Not so. He will thank you for accepting it. He begged me to say--as youwill find by his letter to you--that if you will but go to him upon avisit with this great man here"--pointing to the child with a smile--"hewill count it one of the greatest pleasures of his life. He is too oldto come to you, but he begs you to go to him--the Chevalier, and you, and Guilbert here. He is much alone now, and he longs for a little ofthat friendship which can be given by but few in this world. He countsupon your coming, for I said I thought you would. "

"It would seem so strange, " she answered, "to go from this cottage ofmy childhood, to which I have come back in peace at last--from thiskitchen, to the chateau of the Duc de Mauban. "

"But it was sure to come, " he answered. "This kitchen to which I comealso to redeem my pledge after seven years, it belongs to one part ofyour life. But there is another part to fulfil, "--he stooped and passedhis hands over the curls of the child, "and for your child here youshould do it. "

"I do not find your meaning, " she said after a moment's deliberation. "Ido not know what you would have me understand. "

"In some ways you and I would be happier in simple surroundings, " hereplied gravely, "but it would seem that to play duly our part in theworld, we must needs move in wider circles. To my mind this kitchen isthe most delightful spot in the world. Here I took a fresh commission oflife. I went out, a sort of battered remnant, to a forlorn hope; and nowI come back to headquarters once again--not to be praised, " he addedin an ironical tone, and with a quick gesture of almost boyishshyness--"not to be praised; only to show that from a grain of decencyleft in a man may grow up some sheaves of honest work and plain duty. "

"No, it is much more than that, it is much, much more than that, " shebroke in. 

"No, I am afraid it is not, " he answered; "but that is not what I wishedto say. I wished to say that for monseigneur here--"

A little flash of anger came into her eyes. "He is no monseigneur, he isGuilbert d'Avranche, " she said bitterly. "It is not like you to mock mychild, Prince. Oh, I know you mean it playfully, " she hurriedly added, "but--but it does not sound right to me. "

"For the sake of monseigneur the heir to the duchy of Bercy, " he added, laying his hand upon the child's head, "these things your devout friendssuggest, you should do, Princess. "

Her clear unwavering eye looked steadfastly at him, but her face turnedpale. 

"Why do you call him monseigneur the heir to the duchy of Bercy?" shesaid almost coldly, and with a little fear in her look too. 

"Because I have come here to tell you the truth, and to place in yourhands the record of an act of justice. "

Drawing from his pocket a parchment gorgeous with seals, he stooped, and taking the hands of the child, he placed it in them. "Hold it tight, hold it tight, my little friend, for it is your very own, " he said tothe child with cheerful kindliness. Then stepping back a little, andlooking earnestly at Guida, he added with a motion of the hand towardsthe child:

"You must learn the truth from him. "

"Oh, what can you mean--what can you mean?" she exclaimed. Dropping uponher knees, and running an arm round the child, she opened the parchmentand read. 

"What--what right has he to this?" she cried in a voice of dismay. "A year ago you dispossessed his father from the duchy. Ah, I do notunderstand it! You--only you are the Duc de Bercy. "

Her eyes were shining with a happy excitement and tenderness. No suchlook had been in them for many a day. Something that had long slept waswaking in her, something long voiceless was speaking. This man broughtback to her heart a glow she had never thought to feel again, the glowof the wonder of life and of a girlish faith. 

"I am only Detricand of Vaufontaine, " he answered. "What, did you--couldyou think that I would dispossess your child? His father was the adoptedson of the Duc de Bercy. Nothing could wipe that out, neither law nornations. You are always Princess Guida, and your child is always PrinceGuilbert d'Avranche--and more than that. "

His voice became lower, his war-beaten face lighted with that fire andforce which had made him during years past a figure in the war recordsof Europe. 

"I unseated Philip d'Avranche, " he continued, "because he acquired theduchy through--a misapprehension; because the claims of the House ofVaufontaine were greater. We belonged; he was an alien. He had a rightto his adoption, he had no right to his duchy--no real right in theequity of nations. But all the time I never forgot that the wife ofPhilip d'Avranche and her child had rights infinitely beyond his own. All that he achieved was theirs by every principle of justice. My plainduty was to win for your child that succession belonging to him by allmoral right. When Philip d'Avranche was killed, I set to work to do foryour child what had been done by another for Philip d'Avranche. I havemade him my heir. When he is of age I shall abdicate from the duchy inhis favour. This deed, countersigned by the Powers that dispossessed hisfather, secures to him the duchy when he is old enough to govern. "

Guida had listened like one in a dream. A hundred feelings possessedher, and one more than all. She suddenly saw all Detricand's goodness toher stretch out in a long line of devoted friendship, from this dayto that far-off hour seven years before, when he had made a vow toher--kept how nobly! Devoted friendship--was it devoted friendshipalone, even with herself? In a tumult of emotions she answered himhurriedly. "No, no, no, no! I cannot accept it. This is not justice, this is a gift for which there is no example in the world's history. "

"I thought it best, " he went on quietly, "to govern Bercy myself duringthese troubled years. So far its neutrality has been honoured, butwho can tell what may come! As a Vaufontaine it is my duty to see thatBercy's interests are duly protected amidst the troubles of Europe. "

Guida got to her feet now and stood looking dazedly at the parchment inher hand. The child, feeling himself neglected, ran out into the garden. 

There was moisture in Guida's eyes as she presently said: "I had notthought that any man could be so noble--no, not even you. "

"You should not doubt yourself so, " he answered meaningly. "I am thework of your hands. If I have fought my way back to reputable lifeagain--"

He paused, and took from his pocket a handkerchief. "This was the gage, "he said, holding it up. "Do you remember the day I came to return it toyou, and carried it off again?"

"It was foolish of you to keep it, " she answered softly, "as foolish ofyou as to think that I shall accept for my child these great honours. "

"But suppose the child in after years should blame you?" he answeredslowly and with emphasis. "Suppose that Guilbert should say, What righthad you, my mother, to refuse what was my due?"

This was the question she had asked herself long, long ago. It smote herheart now. What right had she to reject this gift of Fate to her child?

Scarcely above a whisper she replied: "Of course he might say that, buthow, oh, how should we simple folk, he and I, be fitted for these highplaces--yet? Now that what I desired all these years for him has come, Ihave not the courage. "

"You have friends to help you in all you do, " he answered meaningly. 

"But friends cannot always be with one, " she answered. 

"That depends upon the friends. There is one friend of yours who hasknown you for eighteen years. Eighteen years' growth should make astrong friendship--there was always friendship on his part at least. Hecan be a still stronger and better friend. He comes now to offer youthe remainder of a life for which your own goodness is the guarantee. Hecomes to offer you a love of which your own soul must be the only judge, for you have eyes that see and a spirit that knows. The Chevalier needsyou, and the Duc de Mauban needs you, but Detricand of Vaufontaine needsyou a thousand times more. "

"Oh, hush--but no, you must not!" she broke in, her face all crimson, her lips trembling. 

"But yes, I must, " he answered quickly. "You find peace here, but it isthe peace of inaction. It dulls the brain, and life winds in upon itselfwearily at the last. But out there is light and fire and action and thequick-beating pulse, and the joy of power wisely used, even to the end. You come of a great people, you were born to great things; your childhas rights accorded now by every Court of Europe. You must act for him. For your child's sake, for my sake come out into the great field of lifewith me--as my wife, Guida. "

She turned to him frankly, she looked at him steadfastly, the colour inher face came and went, but her eyes glowed with feeling. 

"After all that has happened?" she asked in a low tone. 

"It could only be because of all that has happened, " he answered. 

"No, no, you do not understand, " she said quickly, a great pain in hervoice. "I have suffered so, these many, many years! I shall never belight-hearted again. And I am not fitted for such high estate. Do younot see what you ask of me--to go from this cottage to a palace?"

"I love you too well to ask you to do what you could not. You must trustme, " he answered, "you must give your life its chance, you must--"

"But listen to me, " she interjected with breaking tones; "I know assurely as I know--as I know the face of my child, that the youth inme is dead. My summer came--and went--long ago. No, no, you do notunderstand--I would not make you unhappy. I must live only to make mychild happy. That love has not been marred. "

"And I must be judge of what is for my own happiness. And for yours--ifI thought my love would make you unhappy for even one day, I should notoffer it. I am your lover, but I am also your friend. Had it not beenfor you I might have slept in a drunkard's grave in Jersey. Were it notfor you, my bones would now be lying in the Vendee. I left my peasants, I denied myself death with them to serve you. The old cause is gone. Youand your child are now my only cause--"

"You make it so hard for me, " she broke in. "Think of the shadows fromthe past always in my eyes, always in my heart--you cannot wear theconvict's chain without the lagging footstep afterwards. "

"Shadows--friend of my soul, how should I dare come to you if there hadnever been shadows in your life! It is because you--you have suffered, because you know, that I come. Out of your miseries, the convict'slagging step, you say? Think what I was. There was never any wrong inyou, but I was sunk in evil depths of folly--"

"I will not have you say so, " she interrupted; "you never in your lifedid a dishonourable thing. "

"Then again I say, trust me. For, on the honour of a Vaufontaine, Ibelieve that happiness will be yours as my wife. The boy, you see how heand I--"

"Ah, you are so good to him!"

"You must give me chance and right to serve him. What else have you orI to look forward to? The honours of this world concern us little. The brightest joys are not for us. We have work before us, no rainbowambitions. But the boy--think for him---" he paused. 

After a little, she held out her hand towards him. "Good-bye, " she saidsoftly. 

"Good-bye--you say good-bye to me!" he exclaimed in dismay. 

"Till--till to-morrow, " she answered, and she smiled. The smile had alittle touch of the old archness which was hers as a child, yet, too, a little of the sadness belonging to the woman. But her hand-clasp wasfirm and strong; and her touch thrilled him. Power was there, power withinfinite gentleness. And he understood her; which was more than all. 

He turned at the door. She was standing very still, the parchment withthe great seals yet in her hand. Without speaking, she held it out tohim, as though uncertain what to do with it. 

As he passed through the doorway he smiled, and said:

"To-morrow--to-morrow!"

EPILOGUE

St. John's Eve had passed. In the fields at Bonne-Nuit Bay the"Brow-brow! ben-ben!" of the Song of the Cauldron had affrighted thenight; riotous horns, shaming the blare of a Witches' Sabbath, had beenblown by those who, as old Jean Touzel said, carried little lead undertheir noses. The meadows had been full of the childlike islanderswelcoming in the longest day of the year. Mid-summer Day had also comeand gone, but with less noise and clamour, for St. John's Fair had beencarried on with an orderly gaiety--as the same Jean Touzel said, likea sheet of music. Even the French singers and dancers from St. Malo hadbeen approved in Norman phrases by the Bailly and the Jurats, for nowthere was no longer war between England and France, Napoleon was at St. Helena, and the Bourbons were come again to their own. 

It had been a great day, and the roads were cloudy with the dust ofMid-summer revellers going to their homes. But though some went manystayed, camping among the booths, since the Fair was for tomorrow andfor other to-morrows after. And now, the day's sport being over, thesuperstitious were making the circle of the rock called William's Horsein Boulay Bay, singing the song of William, who, with the fabled sprigof sacred mistletoe, turned into a rock the kelpie horse carrying him todeath. 

There was one boat, however, which putting out into the Bay did not beartowards William's Horse, but, catching the easterly breeze, bore awaywestward towards the point of Plemont. Upon the stern of the boat waspainted in bright colours, Hardi Biaou. "We'll be there soon aftersunset, " said the grizzled helmsman, Jean Touzel, as he glanced from thefull sail to the setting sun. 

Neither of his fellow-voyagers made reply, and for a time there wassilence, save for the swish of the gunwale through the water. But atlast Jean said:

"Su' m'n ame, but it is good this, after that!" and he jerked his headback towards the Fair-ground on the hill. "Even you will sleep to-night, Dormy Jamais, and you, my wife of all. "

Maitresse Aimable shook her great head slowly on the vast shoulders, andshut her heavy eyelids. "Dame, but I think you are sleeping now--you, "Jean went on. 

Maitresse Aimable's eyes opened wide, and again she shook her head. 

Jean looked a laugh at her through his great brass-rimmed spectacles andadded:

"Ba su, then I know. It is because we go to sleep in my hut at Plemontwhere She live so long. I know, you never sleep there. "

Maitresse Aimable shook her head once more, and drew from her pocket aletter. 

At sight of it Dormy Jamais crawled quickly over to where the Femme deBallast sat, and, 'reaching out, he touched it with both hands. 

"Princess of all the world--bidemme, " he said, and he threw out his armsand laughed. 

Two great tears were rolling down Maitresse Aimable's cheeks. 

"How to remember she, ma fuifre!" said Jean Touzel. "But go on to thenews of her. "

Maitresse Aimable spread the letter out and looked at it lovingly. Hervoice rose slowly up like a bubble from the bottom of a well, and shespoke. 

"Ah man pethe benin, when it come, you are not here, my Jean. I take itto the Greffier to read for me. It is great news, but the way he read sosour I do not like, ba su! I see Maitre Damian the schoolmaster pass mydoor. I beckon, and he come. I take my letter here, I hold it close tohis eyes. 'Read on that for me, Maitre Damian--you, ' I say. O my good, when he read it, it sing sweet like a song, pergui! Once, two, threetimes I make him read it out--he has the voice so soft and round, MaitreDamian there. "

"Glad and good!" interrupted Jean. "What is the news, my wife? What isthe news of highnesss--he?"

Maitresse Aimable smiled, then she tried to speak, but her voice broke. 

"The son--the son--at last he is the Duke of Bercy. E'fin, it is allhere. The new King of France, he is there at the palace when the childwhich it have sleep on my breast, which its mother I have love all theyears, kiss her son as the Duke of Bercy. "

"Ch'est ben, " said Jean, "you can trust the good God in the end. "

Dormy Jamais did not speak. His eyes were fastened upon the north, wherelay the Paternoster Rocks. The sun had gone down, the dusk was creepingon, and against the dark of the north there was a shimmer of fire--afire that leapt and quivered about the Paternoster Rocks. 

Dormy pointed with his finger. Ghostly lights or miracle of Nature, these fitful flames had come and gone at times these many years, and nowagain the wonder of the unearthly radiance held their eyes. 

"Gatd'en'ale, I don't understand you--you!" said Jean, speaking to thefantastic fires as though they were human. 

"There's plenty things we see we can't understand, and there's plentywe understand we can't never see. Ah bah, so it goes!" said MaitresseAimable, and she put Guida's letter in her bosom. 

 . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 

Upon the hill of Plemont above them, a stone taken from the chimney ofthe hut where Guida used to live, stood upright beside a little grave. Upon it was carved:

 BIRIBI, Fidele ami De quels jours!

In the words of Maitresse Aimable, "Ah bah, so it goes. " FINIS

NOTE: IT is possible that students of English naval history may findin the life of Philip d'Avranche, as set forth in this book, certainresemblances to the singular and long forgotten career of the youngJerseyman, Philip d'Auvergne of the "Arethusa, " who in good time becameVice-Admiral of the White and His Serene Highness the Duke of Bouillon. 

Because all the relatives and direct descendants of Admiral PrincePhilip d'Auvergne are dead, I am the more anxious to state that, apartfrom one main incident, the story here-before written is not taken fromthe life of that remarkable man. Yet I will say also that I have drawnupon the eloquence, courage, and ability of Philip d'Auvergne to makethe better part of Philip d'Avranche, whose great natural fault, anoverleaping ambition, was the same fault that brought the famous PrinceAdmiral to a piteous death in the end. 

In any case, this tale has no claim to be called a historical novel. 

JERSEY WORDS AND PHRASES

WITH THEIR EQUIVALENTS IN ENGLISH OR FRENCH A bi'tot = a bientot. Achocre = dolt, ass. Ah bah! (Difficult to render in English, but meaning much the same as "Well! well!") Ah be! = eh bien. Alles kedainne = to go quickly, to skedaddle. Bachouar = a fool. Ba su! = bien sur. Bashin = large copper-lined stew-pan. Batd'lagoule = chatterbox. Bedgone = shortgown or deep bodice of print. Beganne = daft fellow. Biaou = beau. Bidemme! = exclamation of astonishment. Bouchi = mouthful. Bilzard = idiot. Chelin = shilling. Ch'est ben = c'est bien. Cotil = slope of a dale. Coum est qu'on etes? } Coum est qu'ou vos portest? } Comment vous portez-vous! Couzain or couzaine = cousin. Crasset = metal oil-lamp of classic shape. Critchett = cricket. Diantre = diable. Dreschiaux = dresser. E'fant = enfant. E'fin = enfin. Eh ben = eh bien. Esmanus = scarecrow. Es-tu gentiment? = are you well? Et ben = and now. Gache-a-penn! = misery me! Gaderabotin! = deuce take it! Garche = lass. Gatd'en'ale! = God be with us! Grandpethe = grandpere. Han = kind of grass for the making of ropes, baskets, etc. Hanap = drinking-cup. Hardi = very. Hus = lower half of a door. (Doors of many old Jersey houses were divided horizontally, for protection against cattle, to let out the smoke, etc. ) Je me crais; je to crais; je crais ben! = I believe it; true for you; I well believe it! Ma fe! } Ma fistre! }= ma foi! Ma fuifre! } Mai grand doux! = but goodness gracious! Man doux! = my good, oh dear! (Originally man Dieu!) Man doux d'la vie! = upon my life! Man gui, mon pethe! = mon Dieu, mon pere! Man pethe benin! = my good father! Marchi = marche. Mogue = drinking-cup. Nannin; nannin-gia! = no; no indeed! Ni bouf ni baf } Expression of absolute negation, untranslatable. Ni fiche ni bran } Oui-gia! = yes indeed! Par made = par mon Dieu. Pardi! } Pardingue! }= old forms of par Dieul Pergui! } Pend'loque = ragamuffin. Queminzolle = overcoat. Racllyi = hanging rack from the rafters of a kitchen. Respe d'la compagnie! = with all respect for present company. Shale ben = very well. Simnel = a sort of biscuit, cup-shaped, supposed to represent unleavened bread, specially eaten at Easter. Soupe a la graisse = very thin soup, chiefly made of water, with a few vegetables and some dripping. Su' m'n ame = sur mon ame! Tcheche? = what's that you say? Trejous = toujours. Tres-ba = tres bien. Veille = a wide low settle. (Probably from lit de fouaille. ) Also applied to evening gatherings, when, sitting cross-legged on the veille, the neighbours sang, talked, and told stories. Verges = the land measure of Jersey, equal to forty perches. Two and a quarter vergees are equivalent to the English acre. Vier = vieux. Vraic = a kind of sea-weed. 

 ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS:

 A sort of chuckle not entirely pleasant Adaptability was his greatest weapon in life Being tired you can sleep, and in sleep you can forget Cling to beliefs long after conviction has been shattered Egotism with which all are diseased Egregious egotism of young love there are only two identities Follow me; if I retreat, kill me; if I fall, avenge me Futility of goodness, the futility of all He felt things, he did not study them Her voice had the steadiness of despair If women hadn't memory, she answered, they wouldn't have much It is not the broken heart that kills, but broken pride It is easy to repent when our pleasures have palled It's the people who try to be clever who never are Joy of a confessional which relieves the sick heart Kissed her twice on the cheek--the first time in fifteen years Knew the lie of silence to be as evil as the lie of speech Lilt of existence lulling to sleep wisdom and tried experience Lonely we come into the world, and lonely we go out of it Never to be content with superficial reasons and the obvious No news--no trouble Often, we would rather be hurt than hurt People who are clever never think of trying to be Queer that things which hurt most can't be punished by law Rack of secrecy, the cruelest inquisition of life Sacrifice to the god of the pin-hole Sardonic pleasure in the miseries of the world Sympathy, with curiousness in their eyes and as much inhumanity Thanked him in her heart for the things he had left unsaid There was never a grey wind but there's a greyer There is something humiliating in even an undeserved injury Uses up your misery and makes you tired (Work) War is cruelty, and none can make it gentle We care so little for real justice What fools there are in the world