"What was it Archie said to ye?" asked her father as the diligence toiled up a small hill, the road of which was shaded by trees from the burning sun. "What was it he said to ye in the letter you got at Calais? Tell me again; I like not to think that my daughter has been flouted and smirched by such a scoundrel as that. Lawfully married, humph! Lawfully married, he said, eh?"
"Lawfully married enough, father," Kate replied. "Lawfully enough to tie me to him for ever as his wife. But," she went on, "lawful or not lawful, nothing shall ever induce me to see him, to speak with him again."
"Read me the letter," said Fane; "let me hear all about it."
"Nay, nay," answered his daughter, "time enough when we get to Amiens, when we shall all meet again. Oh, the joyful day! The blessed chance! To think that to-night we shall all of us be together once more! All! all! Just as we used to be in the happy old times in the Trousse Vache," and she busied herself with taking a little wine and water from a basket she had with her, and a bunch of grapes and some chipped bread, and ministering to the old man.
So, as you may gather from her words, those who had been in such peril in England were back safe in France. Bertie Elphinston had crossed, disguised, of course, as a drover, unmolested by "infernal sloops o' war and bomb-ketches"--to use honest McGlowrie's words--or anything else. And, also, the Sholtos had come in the same way, finding, indeed, so little let or hindrance in either the river or on the sea, that they began to think the English King's rage and hate against all who had taken part in the late rebellion were slacked at last. They were, in truth, not nearly glutted yet, and the safe, undisturbed passage which they had been fortunate enough to make was due to that strange chance which so often preserves those who are in greatest danger.
Still, they were over, no matter how or by what good fortune, and that night--that afternoon, in another hour's time--all would meet at the Inn, La Croix Blanche, in Amiens.
At Calais Kate had learned the welcome tidings; a letter had been given into her hands by no less a person than the great Dessein himself--hotel-keeper, marchand-de-vin, job-master, and letter of coaches, chaises, and post-horses, and plunderer of travellers generally!--and in it was news from Father Sholto, as he might safely be called here in France, and from Bertie and Douglas.
Sholto's letter told her all she desired to know, viz., that Fordingbridge's suggestion of his being a priest was a lie, "the particulars of which," the Jesuit wrote, "I will give you at Amiens when we meet." Bertie's, on the other hand, told her--manfully and, of course, as a woman would think, selfishly--that he regretted that it was an implied lie. "Because," wrote he, "had it been the truth, we might have become man and wife within twenty-four hours of meeting, and now we are as far apart as ever." Some other details were also given, such as that Father Sholto was in residence for the time being at the Jesuit College, and that Bertie had rejoined his regiment and was now on duty at the Citadel. Douglas was at the Croix Blanche, and would take care that suitable rooms were kept for them, though, since it happened to be the great summer fair-time, the city was full of all kinds of people, and rooms in fierce demand at every hostelry.
These letters, received by Kate as they landed from the packet-boat in the canal at Calais, were sufficient to prompt her to lose no time in hastening onward--north. The diligence, she found, left the hospitable doors of Monsieur Dessein at five o'clock on summer mornings, and did the distance of sixty miles to Amiens in eleven hours, which Dessein spoke of approvingly--and falsely--as being the fastest possible. Still they could not afford anything that was faster--for they had little money in their purse these days. Therefore, at dawn, they clambered into the banquette, which happened to be vacant, and set out upon their road.
And now, as the diligence skirted the river Somme, and drew near to Picquigny, the towers of the cathedral Nôtre Dame d'Amiens came into sight, and the ramparts of the city. And, because it was fair-time, the roads were full of people of all kinds streaming towards it; of market people, with their wares, and waggons of fruit and vegetables, and poultry, of saltimbanques and strolling actors, strong men, fat women, dwarfs, and giants--since in those days fairs were not much different from what they are now, only the play was a little rougher and the speech a little coarser even among the lowest.