"Did Madame not get my letter?"
"Did you write a letter?"
"Yes; I learnt some time ago that this plot was hatching, and I wrote twice. The first letter, I know, must have miscarried, but the second—it should have reached you, for I am sure Mynheer Grootz must have received a letter written at the same time. That is why he is here now."
"We have been away from home: stay, Monsieur, I will enquire."
She soon returned with the letter unopened.
"It came three days ago," she said. "We have been for a week in Breda; there were festivities given by the officers of the garrison, and the servants did not think to send the letter, knowing that we should soon return. M. de——he must have found out the time of our departure, and so planned to waylay us. But we were late in starting; Mother was fatigued; and I see how it happened. Mynheer Grootz's coach was taken for ours; when the—the man found that it was not, he thought it had been sent on in front to deceive him. Oh, Monsieur Harry, but for your letter to Mynheer Grootz, and your coming so soon yourself——"
"Think no more of it, Mademoiselle. I cannot say how glad I am that I happened to be able to serve you. Forgive me; you are worn out; it will not do to have another invalid, you know——"
Adèle smiled in answer.
"Yes, I will go to bed," she said, "and I do thank you for Mother and myself."
She clasped his hands again, then ran from the room. Harry had never seen her so much moved. Hitherto she had always been so cold, so reserved, seeming to grudge the few words that courtesy demanded. Even when something claimed her active help, as in the stratagem by which Lindendaal had been saved from the raiders nearly eighteen months before, she had acted, indeed, with decision and courage, as a good comrade, but had at once relapsed into her former attitude of aloofness, almost disdain. With Fanshawe, on the contrary, she had been frank and gay, ready with quip and jest, gently correcting his French, merrily laughing at her own attempts to speak English, never wearying of accompanying on the harpsichord his west-country songs, which she quickly picked up by ear. Fanshawe was thoroughly in love with her—and Harry remembered with a pang that he bore a letter from Fanshawe to her mother, once more urging his suit.