CHAPTER XI.
THE FRENCH FLEET SIGNALLED.
Mrs. Bryce could seldom be happy for long together in one place. Before the end of September she had decided to quit Folkestone for Sandgate. Polly, nothing loath, chimed in with the plan eagerly; and Mr. Bryce, whatever he thought or wished, made no objection.
“If Buonaparte should come, my dear, what then?” was all that he ventured to suggest; and Mrs. Bryce snapped her fingers, not at him, but at the First Consul.
“Let him come, if he will. Pray, my dear, do you consider that we are bound to shape our course with a view to pleasing old Nap?” demanded the vivacious lady.
Mr. Bryce disclaimed any such meaning. He wondered privately what his wife’s feelings would be, if one day a round shot from a French ship should rush through the room in which she might be seated. But in that respect Sandgate was no worse than Folkestone; and since he never expected logic from his wife, he made no effort to convince her that she might be in the wrong.
To Sandgate therefore they went, on a rainy autumn day, when the sea wailed dismally, and the wind howled more dismally still, and the lodgings which Mr. Bryce had managed to secure wore an aspect most dismal of all. Even Mrs. Bryce’s spirits were affected by the state of the atmosphere.
Books in their possession were few, and had all been read. Jack failed to appear so soon as they had expected. Mr. Bryce sallied forth, despite the rain, but the ladies could not think of following his example. Mrs. Bryce, in despair, turned to one or two old volumes of the Gentleman’s Magazine, lying in a corner, and in so doing, to her gratification, she fished out two or three recent numbers of the same serial, including the current number for September, 1803.
“Ah, ha, my dear Polly, now we shall do!” she declared cheerfully. “Now we may defy the elements, and you shall get on with your purse-netting, and I will find something to read aloud for your entertainment. I wonder much that Jack does not come.”
“Jack is busy, or he would be here,” Polly said confidently. Just as she had her half-netted blue silk purse nicely arranged between foot and knee, Mr. Bryce walked in, carrying letters, at the sight of which Polly dropped her work and started up.
“Nay, not from France. Nothing from France,” Mr. Bryce said, with quick understanding; and Polly returned to her seat languidly. “One from Bath for you, and one from Norfolk for my wife. Two letters in a day! You may count yourselves fortunate.”
Mr. Bryce disappeared anew, and Polly remarked—
“My grandmother has written to me.”
“Read it aloud, Polly. ’Twill serve before the magazine,” quoth Mrs. Bryce; and Polly complied, looking ahead, lest she should stumble upon any sentence meant only for herself. The letter[1] ran as follows:—
“Bath. Oct. 28; 1803.
“My dear Polly,—Yours to Molly has very seriously disquieted my mind, I assure you. If General Moore, with his gt experience, considers that the French landing may be apprehended as likely soon to Take Place, ’tis sure the height of imprudence for you to remain in that neighbourhood, where the French Army, if it lands, will doubtless Pillage and Burn to the best of their Ability.
“Nor does it appear to me, my dear Polly, that you will be greatly the better off in Lonn, where certainly the Invading Army will immediately march, so soon as it has effected a Landing.
“I am therefore about to Propose what seems to me the wiser plan for all concerned. Which is, that you and Mrs. Bryce shou’d return again to Bath, without Delay, leaving Mr. Bryce, as Dou’tless he will desire, to take his proper share in the Defence of our Country. If Mrs. Bryce be willing to act according to this plan. I most gladly offer to her such Humble Accommodation as is in my power to bestow. The aspect of affairs is truly Alarming; and if it be seriously apprehended that Lonn is like to be in greater danger of Bustle and Trouble than Bath, there is no Necessity for you all to remain in that part of England. If Mrs. Bryce can dispense for awhile with the Good Table, to which she is used, and can put up with more Humble Fare, then every friendly Accommodation in my power is at her Service.
“Last Saturday there appear’d before the Market Place forty-three Blacks, who said they had been prisoners to the french, but had been retaken, and were come to offer themselves volunteers to King George. The Countrymen stared at them, and the women cried out upon them for ugly creatures. The next morning here arrived a coach-full of the same colour. They are all sent to Marlborough, how to be disposed of I don’t know.
“My love to Jack, who I hope will not be spoiled by his many friends—alas, too frequently the case in these days of scarcity of Good Young Men. Molly is well and behaves herself.
“Bath, it is expected, will soon be crowded with Irish Company. A great many large houses were engaged last week. The Bristol people think that, were the french to effect a landing on some of the Welsh coasts, they might soon expect to be troubled with them there and at Bath. Several meetings have been held on this subject. But ’tis the opinion of most that Lonn lies in greater danger.
“Yesterday was a solemn day for humiliation. The places of worship were well attended; and the Clergy here exerted themselves, I trust, to the best of their Abilities.
“May God avert from old England so great a Calamity as the presence of an Enemy on her Soil.
“Adieu. Your affectionate Grandmother,
“C. Fairbank.”
Mrs. Bryce listened attentively, and pronounced the writer’s mode of expression to be “vastly old-fashioned.”
“But when you write, you may thank her all the same, Polly. Mrs. Fairbank means kindly, and if I thought old Nap would come in truth—but ’tis all bluster and empty boasting. For my part, I put no sort of belief in no invasion of our shores. But you may tell her that I am most sincerely grateful, and that, should occasion arise, I will not fail to avail myself of her generous hospitality.”
With which Mrs. Bryce settled herself comfortably in an apology for an easy-chair—real easy-chairs had not yet been evolved—and read her own letter.
“From my cousin in Norfolk. And if you’ll believe it, Polly, they’re all in a bustle and fright there too, lest Nap should land first on the eastern coast. He’ll have enough on hand, if he’s to go everywhere that’s expected of him! And if he goes there, they’ll get them away into the fen country, where ’tis thought the French Army won’t be able to follow.”
Presently the letter was put aside, and Mrs. Bryce betook herself to the Gentleman’s Magazine, not without another passing allusion, contemptuously worded, on the state of alarm into which folks in general seem to have fallen.
“Listen now to this, Polly. ’Tis vastly entertaining. ‘Human nature is too fond of novelty.... Never did it seem to be running so much from its proper course as in the present age, when we observe night turned into morning, and the mornings change into night.... Where are the good days of old Queen Bess? The sun-rise breakfast, the noon-tide repast, and the twilight pillow of repose?’”
Mrs. Bryce stopped, to indulge in a laugh. “But for my part I have no especial wish to go back to the manners of Queen Bess. Nor to change luncheon into dinner once more.” Then she went on reading:—
“‘But among the most prominent foibles of the age is dress. Every breeze (until the present war) wafted over some new Parisian extravagance and impropriety, and we had sufficient of our own without any importation of such French fashions, French manners, and French ruinations.’ Then, my dear, the same writer goes on to relate how, after an absence of fifteen years, he returned to his natal town, and on Sunday, when in church, he could not resist observing the dress of a certain young woman in his front. She wore ‘the Spanish cloak, the dome hat, the single thin muslin petticoat, and the still thinner loose robe that hung from her shoulders,’ all this making him suppose her to be some personage of no small importance. But, to his amaze, he found the young female to be—the butcher’s daughter! ’Tis a paper dated ‘August,’ and signed ‘Old Square Toes.’”
A pause, during which Polly’s thoughts flitted away to Fontainebleau, and then Mrs. Bryce started anew:—
“Listen next to this. ‘Definition of old gentleman of a civil shopkeeper. “His familiarity goes no farther than to accept whatever kind of weather I am pleased to bring, and to take in good part my opinion of the invasion.”’ Vastly entertaining. And now do but listen to somewhat else——”
But the “somewhat else” was never read, for Jack walked in unannounced, and with him a young fellow, Albert Peirce by name, nephew to the Admiral, and subaltern in a newly-arrived regiment at Shorncliffe.
Introductions followed, Polly bestowing one of her most graceful curtseys upon the new-comer, in consideration of his relationship to their old friends, Admiral and Mrs. Peirce. No doubt, too, Polly liked to be admired, as was natural in so pretty a girl, and she read instant appreciation of her charms in Mr. Peirce’s rather good-looking face. So she did her best to be agreeable to him during the next two hours, and seemed to be in tolerable spirits. Whether those spirits remained equally good, after she had disappeared from general observation, retiring to her room for the night, none about her could know.
Early the next morning Polly was roused from profound slumber by agitated sounds.
“Polly! Polly! Polly! Wake up this instant, Polly! I vow and protest the child is crazed! Wake up, Polly! Polly, do you hear? Polly, they’re coming!”
Polly roused herself with great deliberation. She was always a heavy sleeper in the morning, though lively enough at night, and she dragged herself to a sitting posture, with half-shut eyes and loosely-hanging hair, looking, it must be conceded, not quite so lovely as when generally visible to the world.
“Must I get up already, ma’am? ’Tis early.”
“Get up! And already, quotha! ’Tis time you bestirred yourself in right earnest. Polly, Polly, I entreat of you to make haste. For they’re coming; they’re on their way hither.”
“Jack and Mr. Peirce?” Polly indulged in a yawn.
“Jack and Mr. Peirce indeed! Why, of course ’tis the French. Cannot you understand, child? Will you awake? We’ve not a moment to lose. I’ve always said ’twas nonsense, and they’d never truly come. But they’re off; they’re on their way. And the wind is favourable, and ’tis all up with us.” Mrs. Bryce frantically wrung her hands, standing beside the curtained bed, in her flowered dressing-gown, her hair too hanging loose, though not descending so low as Polly’s abundant mane, while her face was yellow-white with terror. “And what we’re to do nobody knows. Two French fleets of transports, and a whole French army aboard! And bonfires alight, and folks all astir, and there will be fighting, and people will be killed. And Mr. Bryce will sure be in the front of everything, and he will get shot, and I shall be left a widow, Polly.” Mrs. Bryce collapsed on the foot of the bed. “And we might have been safe away out of it, if I hadn’t made such a prodigious fool of myself, never thinking for a moment that old Nap meant a word of it all. I protest, ’tis enough to drive one distracted. I’ll never in my life go to the sea-coast again, not for no sort of consideration. And they say old Nap’ll be here in a few hours, and there’s no way of getting off—not a horse to be had for love or money! If I’d had a notion of it, I’d never have stopped here.”
By this time Polly had grasped the situation, and her drowsiness was gone. She sprang out of bed upon her little white toes, and made a movement akin to dancing, as she flung a pink wrapper round her shoulders. This was being in luck, she would have said, if she had spoken out her first thought. To find herself in the very thick of it all—as safe as if a hundred miles away, with Moore and his soldiers to protect her, yet able to see everything—it was delightful. Polly was a high-spirited girl, not easily alarmed, and fear found no corner in her mind this morning. She was simply eager and excited, whereas Mrs. Bryce, who, from sheer perversity had refused to believe in even the possibility of an invasion, and who from sheer lack of imagination had failed to realise beforehand what such an invasion might mean if it ever came, was overwhelmed with terror.
“Has Jack been?” asked Polly.
“Jack! No! How should Jack be spared? He is wanted, of course. They’ll all be wanted,” moaned Mrs. Bryce. “And they’ll all be killed. And we shall be taken prisoners, and be carried away to France, and put into dungeons, and never see England again.”
“I shouldn’t mind going to France, if they would let me be where somebody is!” murmured Polly. “But they won’t—they won’t. Napoleon has no such easy task before him. They’ll never get past our soldiers. Why, think—General Moore is here!”
“Nay, but he’s not; that’s the worst. He away at Dungeness Point. And the French may land before ever he can get back. Everything is gone wrong. Alack! Oh, dear!”
“Where is Mr. Bryce?”
“Gone off to see what’s being done. There was no keeping him back. I protest, he’d no business to leave me. If the French came in here, I declare I should die of terror on the spot.”
Polly executed another dainty pas on the bare boards.
“Hadn’t we best make ready, ma’am, before they come?” she cheerfully asked.
“It’s no manner of use, child. They may arrive any moment. Any moment, I tell you! And what on earth shall we do then?”
Polly suggested a preference for seeing the French in her frock, rather than in a condition of undress, and after much coaxing she managed to get Mrs. Bryce into the next room. With all possible expedition, she made her morning toilette, flitting lightly about, and wondering what would happen next. Then, discovering that Mrs. Bryce’s maid had fallen into a fit of hysterics over the prospect of “them mounseers a-comin’,” she took the maid’s place.
By the time that they both were dressed, Mr. Bryce returned, with a good deal to tell. The whole place was in a grand commotion. An express had been despatched to General Moore at Dungeness Point, telling him of the news received from Folkestone, and informing him that the brigade was already under arms. The volunteers had turned promptly out, also the sea fencibles; and one and all were prepared to do and dare each his utmost in defence of home and country.[2]
“Not a dull face to be seen, nor a frightened one, except——” declared Mr. Bryce, rubbing his hands, with a glance at the wan cheek of his usually lively wife. “All the world in high spirits, specially the soldiers. Jack only hopes that nothing may turn back the fleet. ’Tis time Napoleon should have a sharp lesson, he says. Heigho, Polly, you are as fresh as a rose this morning. Come, we’ll have our breakfast while we may. I see no need to starve out of compliment to the First Consul.”
“And pray, sir, take me out after,” implored Polly.
“Nay, child, you’re safer in here. Perchance you’d be hurt in the bustle. Besides, it maybe, Jack will run in for a word, and he would be vexed to find you gone.”
This was a cogent argument, and Polly submitted. She roved about the room, looking much out of the window, and singing under her breath scraps from ballads of the day. First came—
“‘Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lowered,
And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky.
And thousands had sunk on the ground, overpowered,
The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.
“‘Stay, stay with us—rest—thou art weary and worn;
And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay.
But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn,
And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.’”
Polly made a break here before her sweet voice took up another strain, more softly uttered:—
“When you’re parted, Polly Oliver,
Parted from your own true love,
Will you be true, Polly Oliver—
True to your own true love?
“Yes; though the waves divide us,
Yes; wheresoever you rove,
I’m ever your own little Polly—
Ever your true true love.”
She had altered it slightly, half by instinct, dropping the surname in the last verse.
“In truth, Polly, you seem mighty indifferent to Napoleon’s doings,” objected Mrs. Bryce; after which she inquired of her husband how they were to escape inland.
“Why, that I do not precisely see,” Mr. Bryce answered, with exasperating satisfaction. “Every man in the place will be wanted, and not a horse can be spared. Doubtless General Moore will arrange matters. I think ’tis needful that we should wait a while, and see what may happen. Depend on’t, Nelson has his eye upon the French fleet, and ’tis a question in my mind whether they ever can get so far as e’en to the coast of England.”
Mrs. Bryce recurred hysterically to her former assertion that the French might arrive at any moment.
“Hardly that, since ships must take time to go. But ’tis true they’ve signalled from Folkestone that the enemy’s boats had left Calais, and that the transports and ships at Ostend were also out and steering westerly. So, with this wind, they’ll probably be here in a few hours, if Nelson doesn’t cut them out on their way with his fleet. And I promise them, they’ll have a right good reception if they come. Eh, Polly? We’re making ready for ’em.”
“I can’t have you leave us again, not for no sort of consideration,” objected Mrs. Bryce. “Your duty, my dear, is to protect us. If the French come, what may Polly and I do?”
“They’ve a few small difficulties to surmount first,” Mr. Bryce remarked drily. “’Tis no case of walking quietly on shore. I’ll be back in good time, my dear, to protect you both, though, indeed, should the French arrive, my place would be in the ranks with others.”
Mr. Bryce had not been in such excellent spirits for many a day. He was a quiet and meek-mannered little man commonly, but the prospect of a fight made him feel quite young again. When next he returned he carried a musket with supreme satisfaction. Few middle-aged men have not some remnants of boyhood in them, and all the boyhood in Mr. Bryce came that day to the surface. He studied his new weapon with glee, talking much to Polly of “firelocks,” fingering daintily the touch-hole, showing her how the spark from the flint would set the gunpowder on fire, and foretelling the certain death of some unfortunate French conscript, forced to fight for Boney against his will.
“Nay, sir, but you need not kill him,” remonstrated Polly. “Only fire at his limbs, pray, and we will nurse him till he is well again.”
“I have writ a letter to your grandmother, Polly,” Mrs. Bryce said, in quavering tones. “Where is the wax? I wish it fastened at once. I protest I’ve scarce strength to lift a penholder. But I’ve informed her we will go to Bath so soon as ever we may. I trust only that we’ll not be made prisoners for life, before ever we’re away from this.”
Somewhat later, no further news having reached them, Mr. Bryce again sallied forth, and this time he consented to take Polly, both of them promising to return to Mrs. Bryce, on the very first intimation that the invading fleet had been sighted. They had not walked far, when a man on horseback drew near at a quick trot.
“’Tis himself!” Polly exclaimed, with enthusiasm. Both she and Mr. Bryce knew well the soldierly figure, with its peerless ease and grace of bearing, and every line of those fine features was familiar to them.
“All will now go well,” murmured Mr. Bryce.
“The General! ’Tis the General, sir.”
They stood still, and Moore, drawing rein sharply, sprang to the ground. He was well bespattered with mud, and he had the look of having ridden hard and fast.
“So,” he said, breaking into a smile which lighted up his whole face, “so, ’tis a false alarm this time!”
Polly’s exclamation contained a note of something like disappointment. Mr. Bryce seemed more gratified than astonished. The General’s keen glance went from the one to the other.
“Due to a mistaken signal,” he remarked briefly, “which the signal-officer at Folkestone understood to mean what it did not mean. The French transports have not left their stations, either at Calais or at Ostend.”
“And you, sir, were at Dungeness Point,” observed Mr. Bryce. “You must have ridden thence at a great speed.”
“At full gallop the entire distance. My horse, poor fellow, is, I fear, the worse. Not this one; I have mounted another. But the alarm is scarce a subject for regret. The spirit displayed on all sides has been of the best.”
“Will Napoleon really come, think you, sir?” asked Polly, half shy, half brave.
“If his intention be to come before the winter, he has little time to lose,” Moore answered courteously, also with a touch of reserve, for privately he had not much faith in the threatened invasion.
“And you think he may do so, sir, in very truth?”
“He may doubtless make the attempt, if he choose. The question is rather,—what will he gain by it? It would seem that Government has greater apprehension of invasion now than awhile since. Three more regiments join me next Tuesday.”
“’Tis better to be over-careful than under-careful,” suggested Mr. Bryce.
“And the stronger front we present, the less likely are we to be attacked. But I must away. Sir David Dundas will be arriving soon. My compliments to Mrs. Bryce. She is not, I hope, the worse for this alarm.”
“Somewhat shaken, sir; but we will return to cheer her up. She proposes flight to Bath for safety.”
“She might perhaps go to a worse place,” remarked the General, as he mounted and rode off, with a parting salute.
“Well, Polly?” said Mr. Bryce, when they had watched him out of sight.
“Well, sir?” echoed Polly, in arch tones.
“The false alarm, at least has served to show of what metal some folks are made,” said Mr. Bryce drily.
(To be continued.)
[HOUSEHOLD HINTS.]
Bread and milk for invalids should be made by crumbling the bread into a basin, pouring the boiling milk over it and warming it through on the fire in an enamelled saucepan. Care should be taken that there are no lumps or hard crusts.
When a head of long hair has to be washed, the hair should be first plaited and the scalp washed carefully, then the hair washed separately unplaited. This saves many tangles and loss of both hair and temper.
Flowers cut or picked in the early morning last much longer than those gathered later in the day, and, if they are to be sent by post, should be placed in water for a short time before being packed.
When having hair shampooed at a hairdresser’s, be careful to shut your mouth and breathe as little as possible while stooping over the marble basin. Otherwise you run great risk of illness by inhaling sewer gas from the waste pipe which should not be, but is sometimes, connected with a drain.
Stair-carpets should occasionally be taken up, the steps cleaned, and the carpet replaced so that what was on the edge of a step before should be now in the middle. Carpets treated this way will last much longer and not look shabby so soon.
A coal-scuttle should be kept by the kitchen fireplace to hold sifted cinders, and if these are damped and put on where there is a good coal fire, they make a fierce hot fire and save the coals; but they should be well damped with clean water just before using.
[ABOUT PEGGY SAVILLE.]
By JESSIE MANSERGH (Mrs. G. de Horne Vaizey), Author of “Sisters Three,” etc.