Chapter Thirty One.
The highwayman on the Delft road.
The next thing I clearly remember was crawling up on deck, clad in a Dutch sailor’s jacket and cap (I had been stripped for action when I was pitched into the waves out of the Zebra), and seeing a stretch of red-tiled roofs and windmills and tall towers on the bank of the broad stream up which we sailed on the tide. Rotterdam was in sight.
I had lain in a sort of stupor since I was carried on board twenty-four hours ago. The Dutchmen had been kind to me in their rough way, particularly as they took me for a Frenchman. I thought it prudent not to undeceive them, and passed myself off to the skipper as a castaway citizen of the Republic One and Indivisible, which my knowledge of the language made easy.
But, as you may imagine, now that I stood on the deck of the Scheldt, my mind had room for but one thought. Miss Kit—where was she?
Even had her curiosity brought her on deck yesterday to see the rescue of the poor foreigner, she would hardly have recognised in the smoke-begrimed, swollen features of the half-drowned man her old squire and comrade of long ago. Still less would Martin, who had never set eyes on me for four years, discover me. I knew him well enough as I came upon him just then leaning over the bulwark taking an eyeful of Dutch scenery.
He turned round as I approached and nodded.
“Comment vous portez-vous?” said he, using up one of the slender stock of French phrases he had at command.
I replied in French that I did well, and was entirely at monsieur’s service, and madame’s too, for I heard, said I, monsieur did not travel alone.
Martin, who only half-comprehended, looked at me doubtfully, and turned on his heel.
Presently, as I leaned over the port watching the river, I overheard him in conference with the skipper, who spoke imperfect English.
“Convent of the Carmelite Nuns?” said the latter; “that is outside the town some distance. Is mademoiselle to be taken there?”
“Ay; those are my orders.”
“Will she go?”
“She must,” said Martin.
“She has not been very obedient so far,” said the skipper with a laugh. “You have not received much encouragement.”
“What do I want encouragement for,” growled Martin, “from her?”
“Perhaps the encouragement of Mees Norah, her maid, has been enough for you. But I warn you, my young lady will not travel so easily by land as by sea. You will need a troop of horse to take her to the Carmelites, I expect.”
This was said with a sneer at Martin’s qualifications as a squire of dames which that gentleman did not enjoy.
“I can manage my own business,” said he in an unpleasant voice. “I shall take her there in a carriage, and if she resists she will have to find out she is not her own mistress.”
“As you will,” said the skipper. “I thank my stars I have not the task.”
Indeed, I came to learn later on that he had good reason for so wishing. For Miss Kit, as soon as ever she discovered the vile plot which had been practised on her, had retired to her cabin, and held every one on board the Scheldt at arm’s-length except her maid, refusing to see Martin, of the skipper, or any one, and fortifying herself like a beleaguered garrison. Her cabin had a private companion ladder by which she could reach the deck without passing through the men’s quarters, and after the first day or so, the poop was yielded to her as her own territory without protest.
How was I to communicate with her now? I must if possible prevent her incarceration in the convent, from which I knew escape would be difficult.
I retired below and hastily scrawled on a piece of paper the following note:—
“Miss Kit,—The half-drowned man who was taken on board yesterday was he who writes this, and who is ready to die for you. You are to be carried in a coach to-night to the Convent of the Carmelite Nuns. Make all the delay possible before you consent to go, and so give me time to get beforehand on the road, where I will find means to take you to a place of safety.—Your devoted—
“Barry Gallagher.”
This paper I folded, and returned on deck in the hope of finding some means of getting it into my lady’s hands.
Just as I passed the cook’s galley, I came upon Norah, the maid, coming out with a tray on which was a little bottle of wine and a plate of biscuits. As we suddenly met, the tray slipped from her hand and fell to the floor, spilling the contents of the bottle and scattering the biscuits.
“Ach, but you’re clumsy!” exclaimed the damsel.
It was on the point of my tongue to return the compliment in her own language; but I remembered myself, and with a Frenchman’s politeness begged ten thousand pardons.
“Permit that I assist you to make good the damage, mademoiselle,” said I.
This mollified her, and she bade me hold the tray and pick up the biscuits while she went for another bottle of wine.
When she returned, nothing would content me but that I should carry the tray for her to the door of her lady’s cabin, which she graciously permitted, with a coquettish glance at Martin as we passed him on deck.
My agitation, if I betrayed any, was not all due to the fascinations of Miss Norah, and Martin had no cause to be jealous on that score. The truth was, that between the two top biscuits on the dish I had slipped my little note!
“Merci bien, monsieur,” said Norah at the door as she took the tray; “and it’s sorry I am I called you names.”
“Any name from those pretty lips,” began I, but she left me to finish my compliment to the outside of the door.
When we moored alongside the Quai, I renewed my thanks to the Dutch skipper, and offered to return him his coat. But he would not hear of it. Only, said he, if I was disposed to-morrow to lend a hand at unlading, he would consider the trouble of fishing me out of the North Sea sufficiently repaid. This I promised by all means to do; and glad to get free so easily, stepped ashore with the first to land.
As I passed the brig’s poop I thought I saw a face peep from the little cabin window, and after it a little hand wave. I put my own hand to my lips as a symbol both of secrecy and devotion, and taking advantage of the bustle attending on the arrival of a fresh craft, slipped out of the crowd into the street beyond.
Here, among the first, I met a priest, to whom I made obeisance.
“Holy father,” said I in French, “I beg you to direct me to the Convent of the Carmelite Nuns of this town, to which I have a message of importance from Ireland. I am a stranger here, and have but just landed.”
The priest eyed me suspiciously.
“The holy sisters receive no visitors but the clergy,” said he. “I will carry your letter.”
“Alas! I have no letter. My message is by word of mouth, and I am free to impart it to no one but to the lady superior. Does monseigneur suspect me of ill motives in seeking the convent?”
He liked to be called monseigneur; and looking me up and down, concluded the holy sisters had little to fear from me.
“The holy sisters live a mile or so beyond the city, before you come to Overschie, on the road to Delft. You will know the house by the high wall and the cross above the gate.”
“Monseigneur,” said I, “a thousand thanks, and may the saints make your bed to-night;” and I departed along the road he pointed out.
I had not gone far, or reached the open fields beyond the town, when I perceived, grazing at the roadside, a horse with saddle and pillion, such as market folk rode, which had evidently broken tether while its riders were away on some errand at a neighbouring auberge.
Necessity, which knows no law, and made me villain enough to deceive a priest, was hardly likely to stick at borrowing a nag, especially when the safety of my dear young mistress was at stake. It went to my heart to think that the honest couple would have to complete their marketing on foot; but I promised them in my mind that if the beast was one of sense and natural affection, it should find its way home sooner or later when its present task was done.
A short ride now cleared me of the town and brought me on to the road which follows the canal to Delft. It was already dark, and as I ambled past the lofty windmills that skirt the canal, I met scarcely a soul. Presently at a junction of roads I distinguished a little way back from the highroad the roof of a building almost hidden in trees, and closed round with a high wall. A thick, nail-studded gate, surmounted by a cross, marked the entrance. Here, then, was my destination.
I reined in my horse under the deepest shadow of the wall, within view of the portal, and waited. To pass the time, I took from my pocket the pistol which had lain there all the while I was in the water, and drawing the wet charge, replaced it with powder and shot which I had taken the precaution to provide myself with before I left the Scheldt.
Then it occurred to me, if I was to play highwayman, I could do it more securely out in the solitary road than within earshot of the holy sisters, who might harbour within their precincts watch-dogs, human or animal, who could spoil sport of that kind.
So I rode a little way back on my steps and halted under a clump of trees at the cross-roads, straining my ears impatiently for the noise of wheels.
Nearly an hour elapsed before they came, and I concluded Miss Kit must have taken my advice and given her custodian a bad time of it before she permitted herself to be conducted from the ship to the vehicle. Now the wheels advanced rapidly, and the frequent crack of the driver’s whip showed that Martin was trying to make up for lost time.
I could see as they approached that the two men were on the box, leaving the inside to the ladies. The driver was evidently pointing out the roof of the convent, dimly visible among the trees, and a face at the open window was peering out in the same direction.
At that moment I darted out of my hiding-place, and firing my pistol in the air, but near enough to the driver’s ears to make him jump, shouted gruffly,—
“Haltez là!”
The horse came up short on his haunches. The terror-stricken men gaped round in a dazed way and tumbled off on the far side of the coach, while the maid within uttered a loud scream. But almost before any of them knew what had happened, I was bending beside the face at the window.
“Quick, Miss Kit, mount behind me.” And passing my arm round her, I drew her through the window and set her on the pillion behind me; and next moment we were galloping away as fast as the beast could carry us, with her dear arms clasping me, and her breath coming and going in quick tumult on my neck.
For a mile we rode thus without a word, when I heard her give a little laugh.
“What is it?” I asked.
“What a trouble for Martin!” said she, “He has Norah to console him.”
“I am not jealous of Norah.”
And I thought her arms held me a little firmer.
“How well you managed it,” said she in a little. “I was terrified too, just at first. Where are we going?”
“To Biddy McQuilkin’s, at the Hague.”
“Biddy McQuilkin’s!” exclaimed she, with a start of surprise. “Surely she is dead.”
“So I thought; but she is not. She keeps an inn at the Hague; and has orders from one in high authority among the Irish rebels to take care of you.”
“As a prisoner?”
“Surely not; as a lady.”
She sighed.
“One peril never seems to be past,” said she, “but a new one looms ahead.”
“Courage,” said I. “Providence that saved you from the old peril will save you from the new.”
“Ah, Barry,” she said gently, “I begin to wonder if your name spells Providence to me. On that hateful ship I wondered often what had become of you. When I saw behind us at Malin a red flag waved on the cliff-top, I said, Could that be you, but for once too late to help?”
“It was,” I replied.
“I knew it!” she exclaimed almost triumphantly, “Night by night as we sailed further and further from home, I prayed Heaven to send you. Once when an English warship crossed our path, I pictured you among the crew, and wished they might capture us. Then when I got that wonderful little letter among the biscuits I knew my prayer was answered; and I troubled myself about nothing but to do your bidding. Poor Martin,” and she laughed again, “he was the sufferer by that.”
You may fancy if her voice across my shoulder that night was not music in my ears! It humoured her to talk of all the perils we had encountered together, and of the ups and downs in our lots since that first day I brought her in the boat from Rathmullan to Knockowen. Then she spoke of her father and the peril he was in, and of the feuds and dangers that beset our distracted country. From that we came to talk of my adventures, and of Tim. But I could not find it in my heart to tell her of the paper under the hearth at Kilgorman, or of the villainy by which her father came into the estates he now held.
Near the end of our talk I mentioned that I had seen Captain Lestrange in Derry.
She was silent a little, and then said,—
“He is the man my father says I must marry.” This was a speech I found no ready answer to, except a mumbled, “He is a fortunate man.”
“He does not think so,” said Miss Kit with a laugh. “He is good and kind, but he loves his liberty more than any woman.”
“And what says my little lady to that?” I faltered.
“Vive la Liberté,” said she. “Heigho, Barry, are we nearly there?”
We were past Delft, where no one supposed but we were a belated pair of market folk trudging home. Our horse had dropped into a leisurely jog, and the morning sky was beginning to show streaks of grey.
“Are you weary?” said I, putting my hand on the little arm that held me round.
“No, Barry, I am very happy so,” said she; and after that we were silent till the stars began to fade and the towers and spires of the Hague loomed ahead against the northern sky.
Despite our loitering, it was still early when we found ourselves in the streets of that city, inquiring for the auberge of the “White Angel.” After some trouble, we were directed through the town to the road that leads to the little fishing village of Scheveningen, two miles beyond the Hague, where, just as we came in sight of the sea, a little wayside inn with a swinging sign of a heavenly body in a snowy robe told us we had at last found our journey’s end.
No one was astir, but our knocking brought a groom on the scene, who rather surlily admitted us to the stable-yard.
“Tell madame she is wanted at once; I bear a message from Lord Edward, tell her.”
Here a head looked out from a window, and madame’s voice called out in broadest brogue,—
“Lord Edward, is it? And who might you be yourself?”
“I’m Barry Gallagher, Biddy. Put on your clothes, like a decent soul, and let us in.”
Biddy obeyed with an alacrity which led us to doubt whether her toilet below the shawl she wore had been very elaborate.
On the sight of me, still more of my fair charge, she broke out into a tumult of Irish welcome.
“Arrah, darlints, sure it’s glad I am to see you; and it’s expecting you I’ve been, for didn’t Lord Edward send me word to look to the young leddy? Come away, honey; for you look as white as the painted angel beyant there. So they sneaked you away, did they? And all because his honour was hanging the boys. Never ye fear, dearie, you’ll be safe with old Biddy, even if the whole of the United Irishmen come after you.—And you, Barry, you’re welcome too, though your father Mike wouldn’t let me be mother to you. Dear, oh. There’s many changes to us all since then. The last time I set eyes on yez ’twas in Paris, and little I looked to see you again when they had us all to the prison. And where’s Tim at all? He’s the boy, and a rale gentleman.”
“Give us some food, Biddy dear,” said Miss Kit, “and tell us all the news to-morrow.”
“’Deed I will,” said the good soul, and she bustled about till the whole household was awake to give us breakfast.
I waited only to allay my hunger, and then rose.
“Good-bye just now, Miss Kit,” said I.
Her face fell.
“Oh,” said she, “you’re not going to leave me, Barry!”
“Till to-night. I am pledged to pay the Dutchman for saving my life by working for him this day. After that—”
“Oh, go,” said she, holding out her hand, “for he deserves all the thanks in the world for saving you for me.”
She blushed as she saw how I lit up at the words, but left her hand in mine as I raised it to my lips.
“Farewell, my dear Barry,” said she. “Heaven bless you, and bring you safely back!”
All the world then seemed turned to brightness, and I stepped out like a man who treads on air. But at the door I remembered myself enough to return and seek Biddy in her kitchen.
“Biddy,” said I, “tell me one thing, as you will answer for it at the last day—which of us two, Tim or I, is the son of Mike Gallagher, and which is the son of Terence Gorman?”
She turned very white and sank into a chair. But I had no time to parley, and I urged her to speak.
“As I hope for salvation,” said she, and her breath came hard and her bosom heaved fast, “the one of you that has the mole between his shoulder-blades is the Gorman’s boy.”
“It is Tim then,” I exclaimed, and hastened to my horse.