CHAPTER XVII.
IN THE YEAR 1807.
More than eighteen months had slid away since the day when Denham Ivor had been summarily despatched with other détenus to Valenciennes. Once or twice a letter from him had reached the Barons, but it was now long since the arrival of the last. Whether Denham remained yet at Valenciennes was a matter of supposition, not of certainty. For aught that his friends knew to the contrary, he might have been passed on to the grim fortress, Bitche, to Sédan, or elsewhere.
Roy continued to live at Verdun with his parents, for the long-desired passport to England had never been granted. Though not compelled to give his parole, or to sign his name twice daily at the maison de ville, as were all détenus who did not care to pay a monthly tax for freedom from this bugbear, he was practically as much one of Napoleon’s prisoners as any man in the place.
One day in the spring of 1807 he stood upon the ramparts, gazing eagerly towards the nearest town gate. Roy at sixteen was much the same that Roy at twelve or fourteen had been, only decidedly taller and broader. He looked almost as boyish as ever, with the same curly fair hair and honest grey eyes. Not so good-looking, perhaps, as in more childish days, but attractive enough.
To some extent habit does and must mean use. Four years out of a boy’s life are a goodly slice of time, and Roy had now been four years a captive, banished from England, and separated from his twin-sister. He might and often did chafe and fume, and it had been a sore disappointment not to find himself on his sixteenth birthday an officer in the English Army. Still, he had good health and unquenchable spirits, and however impatient he might be by fits and starts, no one could have described him as unhappy. He had the gift of making the best of things; and a certain breezy spirit of philosophy stood him in good stead. Hard as it had been to find himself cut off from Molly for an indefinite period, harder still to lose Denham, he managed on the whole to enjoy life, finding entertainment in everything and everybody.
“I say. Hallo! There’s something going on,” he exclaimed.
Roy gazed with widely-opened eyes, trying to make out the cause of that gathering throng.
Colonel Baron had gone into a neighbouring street on business, telling Roy that he would meet him presently on the ramparts. Roy supposed that he would be expected to remain where he was till his father should return. But as he watched, the pull became too strong. Something certainly was happening. What if Colonel Baron had forgotten all about him, and had gone in that direction to discover what was being done?
Roy could endure himself no longer. He descended to the ground, set off full tilt, and speedily reached the outskirts of the crowd, running plump against the Rev. Charles Kinsland, who received the onslaught with a “Hallo, Roy!”
“I beg your pardon, sir. What’s up?”
“A party of détenus back from Valenciennes, I believe,” the young clergyman answered. “There was a report this morning that we might expect them; and it seems to be true. Any friends of yours, I wonder? There they come through the gate.”
Both pressed on, but Roy made the quicker advance, edging himself among the crowd with great dexterity. The thought of Ivor had come up like a flash of lightning. Not that he expected to see Denham himself—the chance was too remote, the delight would be too supreme—but that some news of him might now be obtained. Somebody who had arrived would certainly have seen him, have talked with him. Roy might keep up his spirits and enjoy life, despite partings and deprivations; but no one who could have known how the boy’s heart leaped at the very idea of a word about Ivor, would ever have accused him of lack of feeling.
He forced his way to a good position near the gate, and scanned face after face of the returned wanderers. Many were familiar; but it was one, not many, that Roy wanted; and though he had assured himself that he did not expect, yet keen disappointment laid hold upon him when Ivor failed to appear.
Greetings between friends parted for eighteen months passed warmly, and the buzz of voices was considerable. Suddenly his glance fell upon a man standing somewhat apart, leaning against a wall. A little child lay asleep in his arms, and Roy’s first impression was of somebody who was awfully tired with the march. He actually gazed full at the face without recognition, so much was it altered; the features sharpened into a delicate carving in very pale bronze, like a profile on some rare old coin, and the dark eyes set in hollows. “Poor fellow; he does look done!” thought Roy, and he went nearer.
“I say—hadn’t you better give me that little thing to hold?”
“Why—Roy!”
The voice too had a worn-out intonation, but the smile was not to be mistaken.
“Den—you don’t mean to say——”
Their hands met in a prolonged grip.
“You’ve come back! I am glad!”
“Yes. How are you all?”
“Den—I say—what’s wrong with you?”
A man came limping up, in appearance a respectable artisan. He took the child from Ivor’s arms.
“No words can thank you, sir, for your goodness to us,” he said, not noticing Roy. “God will reward you. I never can.”
“I shall be at Colonel Baron’s. Come and see me some day—tell me how you’re getting on.”
“I will, sir. Thank you kindly.”
Ivor remained in the same position, and a hand touched Roy. He turned, to find himself facing the young artist, Hugh Curtis.
“You back too! That’s good. And your wife?”
“Wife and baby coming. Didn’t you know I had a little one? Well, I have. Jolly little thing too. They’re in a cart with others—thanks to Captain Ivor”—in a lower tone. “Never mind about us; get him home”—with a glance towards Denham. “I’ve got to find rooms for ourselves, after I’ve been to the citadel. Must report myself there first, I’m told. And then I shall have to meet my wife.”
Roy moved two or three paces away with him.
“I say, tell me—what’s been the matter with him? He looks as if——”
“Not well for some time, and sharp attack of illness a few weeks ago. He has walked the whole way here from Valenciennes. Got a horse for himself, and at the last gave it up to young Carey—a poor consumptive young fellow. Said Carey needed it most. Just like him, you know. And then carrying that child for hours yesterday and to-day!”
“What for?”
“Child’s father hurt his foot, and could barely get along. And the little thing cried with everybody except Ivor. You know his way with children. But he’s about used up now. Get him home, and make him rest.”
Curtis went on, and Roy touched Denham’s arm.
“I’ll get a fiacre to drive you up the hill. Stay where you are till I come back. There’s one near.”
He rushed away, and happily was successful in his search.
Ivor had taken his seat, when Major Woodgate walked briskly up.
“Roy—got Ivor? That’s right,” he said in his quick fashion. “Don’t bring him to the citadel. I’ll go and answer for him, and fee the gendarmes, if needful. Just met Curtis, and heard what’s been going on. Done the hundred and fifty miles on foot, I’m told, and ill to begin with. A piece of Quixotism! I shall come and give you a bit of my mind, Ivor, another day. You don’t look up to understanding it now.”
Denham laughed slightly, but made no effort to defend himself, and they drove off, Roy watching his restored friend with a rapt gaze.
“Den, what was it for? Why didn’t you ride?”
“I did intend. Somebody else was in more need.”
“Couldn’t you have had a second horse?”
“No. The order took everyone by surprise. Most of us were short of cash.”
Roy thought of what Curtis had said. “And I suppose you gave what you had to everybody else, and kept none for yourself.”
“I shared with others—of course—”
“But you ought to have kept enough for riding. You’d no business—Den, you’re awfully used-up.”
“When did you hear from me last?”
“Oh, ages and ages ago. I began to think—Are you glad to come back?”
“To my friend, Roy? Yes,” with an affectionate glance.
“Isn’t it a beastly shame that I can’t be in the Army yet?”
“Ah, that sounds like the Roy of old!”
“But it is. A beastly shame. What made you carry that little girl?”
“Her father fell lame, and she didn’t take to other people, I could not stand the wailing. He’s a good honest fellow—badly off through no fault of his own.”
“Shame!” muttered Roy again. “What is the reason for your all being sent back now, I wonder?”
“I don’t know.”
Ivor seemed incapable of starting remarks himself; and Roy, realising his condition, sank into silence, unable still to take his eyes from that worn face. They reached the house, and he sprang down. “Shall I go and tell them?”
“No—no need. I’ll come. Can you pay the driver? I’m cleared out completely.”
In the salon upstairs were Colonel and Mrs. Baron, and with them was Lucille, as was often now her custom. She had gradually become almost a member of the Baron family, and one and all they were extremely fond of her. When Roy flung the door open, and marched triumphantly in, his arm through Ivor’s, one startled “Ah-h!” broke from her, before the other two had grasped what was happening; and then her face, usually almost without colour, became crimson. Her eyes shone, the lips remaining apart.
“Denham!” the Colonel and his wife exclaimed.
Colonel Baron’s grasp of Ivor’s hand and his fixed gaze were like those of Roy. Mrs. Baron’s delight was even more plainly expressed. She had long been as an elder sister to Denham, and when he bent to kiss her hand, with the grave deference which he always showed towards her, she did what she had never done before—gave him a sisterly kiss on the cheek.
“This is joy! O this is joy,” she said. “Nothing else could be so great a happiness—except going home. Welcome, welcome!” Then she held his hand, with eyes full of tears searching his face. “But, my dear Denham, you have been ill—surely you have been ill. How thin!—how altered! What have you been doing to yourself?”
“He has walked the whole way here from Valenciennes,” cried Roy, before Denham could speak. “He was to have ridden, and he gave up the horse to somebody else.”
“Was that necessary?” the Colonel asked.
“I thought it so, sir.”
“Papa, he had no money left. That was why. He gave it all away. He couldn’t even pay the driver, coming up here.”
“But you could have borrowed from somebody—you would know that I should repay!”
“If I could have been sure, sir, that you would still be here—but there was no certainty. And so many now are in difficulties, that it is no easy matter to borrow—except by going to those whom I will have nothing to do with.”
“How did you manage about food? My dear, make him sit down. How did you manage?”
The question was disregarded. “Any letters?” Ivor asked.
“One from Mrs. Fairbank a few weeks since. That is all. Good accounts of Polly and Molly. Have you not heard from them?”
“Not since leaving Verdun.”
“They may not have heard of your going to Valenciennes. Did you see a statement in the Moniteur not long since, as to correspondence with England? To the effect that more than a hundred thousand letters had been taken possession of by the French Government, and bills to the value of millions of pounds sterling.”
“No wonder we détenus are not flush of cash! No, I did not see it. That may have been when I was ill.”
“You have been ill, then?”
“Yes. Nothing to signify. How did Mrs. Fairbank’s letter reach you? Post?”
“Through M. de Marchand—under cover to him. We have advised her repeatedly to try again that mode, since it seems the most hopeful. But doubtless our letters don’t reach them.”
Lucille, after exchanging a warm English handshake with Denham, had held back, waiting her opportunity to slip away. She glided now towards the door, unseen by Ivor, who was gazing thoughtfully on the ground. Roy ran to open it, and she said softly as she went out, “Do not be merciless to your friend. Give him some small repose. He is what you call—dead-beat.”
Roy nodded. “You always did seem to see exactly how Den was, didn’t you?”
Lucille made her escape promptly, with heightening colour, and Ivor asked, “Where is the letter?”
“Roy has it, put away,” Mrs. Baron said. “It is partly to Roy and partly to my husband. But you need food and sleep before anything else.”
“Nay, if you knew how we have travelled and slept at night, you would allow the more pressing need to be for a bath and a change of clothing,” Ivor said, rather drily. “Well, since you can assure me that ’tis all good news, I will wait half-an-hour.”
“And then I’ll read it to you, if you like,” observed Roy. “It isn’t very interesting, Den. More than half is from my grandmother to my father; and you know how she writes always of the things which nobody wishes to near. And the rest is from Molly to me. But as for Polly, my grandmother does not say much—does she?” with a look at his mother. “Save that Polly is well.”
“Which point settled, I will beg, if I may, for a supply of water,” Ivor replied.
(To be continued.)
[HOUSEHOLD HINTS.]
Many people think night air injurious and carefully close their windows even in hot weather, whereas, in towns, the night air is the purest and best, free from smoke and other impurities. And the sleep is more restful where there is some fresh air coming into the room of the sleeper.
A little powdered borax on a damp flannel cleans dirt off white marble and china basins.
When the edges of palm leaves in pots get torn and unsightly, they can be cut and trimmed with a pair of scissors.
When tortoiseshell combs get to look dull, polish them with a little olive oil with the hand. If very bad, soak them in oil for a few hours.
In case of fire in a house, if the staircase be alight and retreat that way be impossible, the inhabitants should shut all the doors behind them and wait in a front room till help comes. A window that is over a doorway is preferable as there is then foothold for the firemen. If it is possible to escape otherwise, crawl on hands and knees on the floor rather than walk upright, for smoke rises and the nearer the floor the clearer the air. In any case doors and windows should be shut to prevent a draught.
If you do not want the smell of dinner all over the house, see that the slide over the kitchen range is open for the smell to go up the chimney. You will also save your coal bill largely if you keep this slide open except only when it is wanted closed for a short time to make a fire fiercer.
The seeds of the first blossoms on a plant or flowering shrub grow into the best plants.