THE ADVENTURES OF HARRY ROCHESTER (continued 9)

"I regret, Madame, the necessity——"

He started back, for in the waning light he had just become aware that there was but one figure in the carriage, and that clearly the figure of a man.

"Triché, morbleu!" he cried in fury. "Someone shall pay for this. Come out, or I will empty this pistol into you!"

The only answer was the click of a pistol within the coach, and a flash from the corner. Grootz's weapon had missed fire. Whipping his own pistol from his belt Polignac fired; and the Dutchman fell back, hit in the shoulder. With a cry to his companions Polignac sprang on his horse, and galloped furiously back along the road he had come, the other two horsemen hard at his heels. Immediately afterwards the postilion cut the traces and set off in haste after his employer, leaving Grootz, the coach, and one horse to themselves.

Five minutes later, from the Eyndhoven direction, up rode two horsemen at speed. It was now almost totally dark; the coach could barely be discerned in the middle of the road, and Harry, who was foremost, pulled up only just in time to save his horse's knees. In a moment he was out of the saddle; Sherebiah was by his side, and while the man held the horses, Harry, anxiety tearing at his heart, looked into the coach. There was a huddled heap upon the floor.

"Steel and tinder!" he cried to Sherebiah.

A light was struck.

"Good heavens! it is Mynheer Grootz."

He bent down and touched the wounded man's hand, fearing he might be already dead. The touch revived Grootz from his swoon.

"On to Lindendaal!" he said faintly and brokenly. "Leave me! Ladies in danger. Take care. Desperate men: four; at once!"

Loth as Harry was to leave his friend in so ill a plight, the imminence of the peril to which the ladies were exposed was predominant.

"I will send a man back to you, Mynheer," he said. "Sherebiah, we must hasten."

The short halt had given the horses time to recover their wind. They had not travelled far, nor had they far to go. The two sprang to their saddles, and as they rode off into the darkness there was a look on Harry's face that boded ill for Polignac or any of his party. Never before, even when carried bound on board the Merry Maid, even when his own life had been attempted, had he felt the overmastering desire for vengeance that burnt within him now. The sight of his friend and benefactor wounded and helpless had quickened his indignation with Polignac and his crew into a fury of resentment, and at the back of his consciousness there was another and a subtler feeling which he did not pause to analyse. With eyes staring into the distance, ears strained to catch the slightest sound, every sense on the alert, he led the way over the heavy miry road, Sherebiah a short length behind. If anyone could have seen the riders' faces he would have been struck by the contrast between their expressions. Harry's was grim and tense with white rage; Sherebiah's round cheeks wore their settled look of cheerful placidity—the unruffled carelessness of a man of peace.

It was a furious gallop, over the two miles from the halted coach to the gates of Lindendaal. Harry's eager eyes at length caught a twinkle of light ahead to the right of the road. A moment later the faint sound of a shout came down the wind, then the crack of a pistol-shot. Digging his spurs into his steed's heaving flanks he drew his sword; it was a matter of seconds now. He flew past the ruined barn, standing bare and black on the right; and there, before him on the road, shone a light, from a carriage lamp as he supposed. Now mingled with shouts and oaths he heard the clash of steel; in a moment there loomed up before him at the entrance to the balustraded avenue a dark still mass, and in the yellow glare of the lamp he perceived two men on foot fighting desperately. He was still some yards away when he saw the man farthest from him shorten his sword and run his opponent through the body, then with lightning speed prepare to meet the horseman, whether friend or foe, whose coming the ring of hoofs had announced. As he dashed forward, Harry recognized in the sinister features and the wry mouth the evil face of Polignac. Leaning low over his horse's neck he made a sweeping blow with his heavy cavalry sabre that would have cut the Frenchman's spare frame into halves had he not with rare presence of mind sunk on one knee and allowed the blade to swish harmlessly over his head.

Harry was carried on for some yards before he could check the impetus of his horse, and then he found himself in the thick of a fight in which he could distinguish neither friend nor foe. A fierce oath on his right, however, proclaimed the identity of one of the group, and, turning, he saw the bulky form of Captain Aglionby on horseback outlined against the light from the distant house. Leaving Polignac for the moment Harry made straight for his elder enemy, who was wheeling to deal with the new-comer. It was no moment for nice sword-play on either side; cut and thrust, lunge and parry—thus the two engaged in the dark. Blade clashed on blade, horse pressed against horse, their hoofs struck sparks; nothing to choose between the combatants except that Aglionby was between Harry and the light.

Suddenly the captain made a supreme effort to quell his assailant by main force for good and all. Rising in his saddle, he brought his sword down with the full weight of his arm. But, thanks to the friendly light from Lindendaal, Harry saw the movement in time. Parrying the swashing blow with ease, he replied with a thrust that tumbled the captain groaning from his saddle. The horse plunged and galloped madly into the night. Harry did not wait to discover the full effect of his blow, but wheeled round to find Polignac, the duel on his left having terminated in the flight of one of the parties and pursuit by the other.

At the moment of wheeling he heard the voice of Sherebiah at his elbow.

"Hold, sir! 'Tis done. Mounseer ha' paid his score."

"You have killed him?"

"My sword went through un. He be on ground: no risin' for he."

"Then secure Aglionby. He fell from his horse a few yards up the road."

He himself sprang from the saddle and ran to the door of the coach. Wrenching it open, he saw by the light of the lamp Adèle de Vaudrey erect on the seat, supporting the unconscious form of her mother. The girl's cheeks were the colour of death; her lips were ashen; upon her face was the fixed look of resigned despair.

"Mademoiselle," cried Harry breathlessly, "all is well. You are safe."

A sob broke from the girl's dry lips; tears welled in her eyes.

"Mother has swooned," she said in a whisper.

Harry darted to the canal side, stuck his handkerchief on the point of his sword and let it down to the water, returning with it dripping wet to the coach. Bathing the lady's temples they revived her, and Adèle whispered the news that they were safe. Madame's nerves were quite unstrung; incapable of heeding what was said to her she wept and laughed alternately, to Harry's great alarm.

"We must get her home," said Adèle.

"Yes; I will find a man to lead the coach. You will not mind my going: Mynheer Grootz is wounded two miles away."

"Oh, Monsieur Harry, go then at once. I can take care of Mother."

Harry ran back to the road to find Sherebiah, who in his absence had made an examination of the ground with the aid of the carriage lamp. Polignac was stone dead; his body lay at the very brink of the canal. There was no sign of Aglionby or of the other two men, though traces of blood were found on the spot where the captain had fallen. Of the house party two men were badly wounded; these Harry despatched to the house for ministration while himself with Sherebiah hurried back at full speed to Mynheer Grootz. The coach stood undisturbed where they had left it. Grootz lay on the seat, conscious but very weak.

"Well?" he said, as they appeared.

"Well, thank God!" replied Harry. "The ladies are safe, Polignac is dead, Aglionby and the rest have fled."

"Zo!"

Quite content, the merchant said no more. He was taken at a walking pace to Lindendaal.

CHAPTER XXV

A Bundle of Letters

Jealousy—Hard Facts—A Special Plea—Family History—Brother and Sister—Marriage Lines—A Fair Claimant—Air Castles

Some hours later, when Madame de Vaudrey had been composed to sleep, and the three patients made as comfortable as possible pending the arrival of the doctor, who had been summoned from the village, Adèle left her mother's bed-side and joined Harry in the dining-room.

"I must thank you," she said, advancing to him with outstretched hands. "We have always to thank you. It seems to be fated that you should save us from that bad man."

"He will trouble you no more, Mademoiselle."

Adèle looked a question.

"Yes, he is dead."

The girl shuddered, and looked involuntarily towards the sword at Harry's side.

"No, it was not I; it was my man."

There was a look of relief in Adèle's face.

"How thankful to God we must be that you came in time, Monsieur!"

"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.

"Confound him!" he thought, and, his hands tight clasped behind him, he strode up and down the room with compressed lips and lowering brow.

He had no doubt now of the relationship in which he stood to Fanshawe; he was both his rival and friend. He tried to face the situation calmly. Fanshawe was a good fellow, an officer in the English army, and heir to a baronetcy and a fine estate. He could sell out at any moment, and doubtless enjoy by the liberality of his father an income sufficient to maintain a wife in something more than comfort. It gave Harry a pang to contrast his own position. He had no property, no family influence, nothing beyond his pay and the income so generously allowed by Mynheer Grootz. True, he was now in the service of Prince Eugene, and the circumstances in which he had joined the Austrian service gave him a good prospect of ultimate advancement; but it might be many years before he could venture to ask a lady to share his fortunes. Besides, if Mademoiselle de Vaudrey was indeed heiress to an estate, as Simmons had reported, a poor man could not seek her hand without incurring the suspicion of being a fortune-hunter: the mere suggestion brought a hot flush to Harry's cheeks. No; he could but stand aside. Fanshawe had failed once; he might yet succeed; and if it should so turn out, Harry could but wish his friend joy and go his way.

"Heigh ho! Some fellows are lucky!" he thought, and, heaving a tremendous sigh, he went to bed.

A good night's rest, and the knowledge that Polignac could never disturb her again, cured Madame de Vaudrey's hysteria, and she came down next morning somewhat pale, but in her usual health. After breakfast Harry took the first opportunity of finding his hostess alone, to deliver Fanshawe's letter. She smiled as she took it and noticed the handwriting.

"From that dear Monsieur Fanshawe, is it not?" she said.

"Yes, Madame."

"What can he have to write about, I wonder? Do you know, Harry?"

"Fanshawe told me, and—well, he asked me—that is, I promised to put in a word for him."

"Vraiment! Then I think I guess the subject of his letter. Come, mon ami, what have you to say for him, then?"

The comtesse watched Harry with a twinkle of enjoyment. Her mother's eye had penetrated the state of the case.

"Godfrey is a good fellow, Madame; amiable—you know that; he will be rich some day; he—sings a good song; he—in short, Madame, he is very fond of Mademoiselle, and—and——"

"And would make a good husband, you think? Well, my dear Harry, I shall tell Adèle that he has written to me, and repeat what you have said in his behalf; but you know her: she has a mind of her own; and I can only give her my advice."

And she left Harry in a tormenting perplexity as to what her advice would be.

It was a week or two before Mynheer Grootz was well enough to leave his room, and during those days his kind attendants were careful to avoid all but the most necessary references to what had happened. He was told that Polignac was dead and the hue and cry was out after Aglionby, and his convalescence was not retarded by any fears on the ladies' behalf. One morning, when the doctor allowed him to come downstairs, he sent Harry to find Madame de Vaudrey. It was time, he said, that the motive of Polignac's recent attempt should be seriously considered.

"Madame," he said in French, when with Harry they were closeted in the reception-room, "it has not yet been told you, but we have reason to believe that Polignac urged his suit upon Adèle because he had information that she is heiress to some estates."

"As she is—heiress to Lindendaal."

"Yes, but the estates in question must be of greater value. Your little estate here is not of so much worth as to account for Polignac promising large sums to Aglionby, first on his marriage with Adèle, secondly on her succession to her property. Tell me, Madame, know you of anything that could give colour to the beliefs of these wretches?"

"Nothing, my friend. My husband, as you know well, was a refugee, an exile: his family estates in France were confiscated long ago. As for me, I had nothing but my poor little dowry. No relatives of mine are owners of estates."

"But on Monsieur le Comte's side: his mother: she was an Englishwoman, I believe?"

"Yes. I know little of her; she died very soon after the birth of her only child, my dear husband."

"What was her name?"

"I do not remember. Certainly I have heard it, but it is many years ago, and English names are so difficult to keep in mind."

"But Monsieur le Comte—had he not some souvenir of his mother?—some portrait, or heirloom, or family papers?"

"I never saw any. But I have upstairs a box in which I treasure many little things that were his: perhaps you would like to see it?"

"Certainly. It would be as well."

Madame de Vaudrey sent a servant to a private room in the turret, whence he returned presently with a leather-covered brass-studded box. After some search the key was discovered, the box was opened, and the comtesse took out, one after another, various memorials of her dead husband. Among them was a bundle of papers tied up with ribbon; this she laid with trembling hands before her friend.

"You permit me, Madame?" he said.

She nodded through her tears.

Grootz untied the ribbon, and unfolded the topmost paper. A cursory glance showed that it threw no light on the subject all had at heart. Several other papers were examined with a like result; then, nearly at the bottom of the bundle, Grootz came upon a smaller packet separately tied. The outer wrapper bore, in a faded, delicate handwriting, the words: "Dernières letters de la famille de feu ma chère femme". Harry got up and leant towards him in some excitement.

"Wait, my son," said Grootz; "let us proceed with quietness."

He opened the topmost letter, and read it slowly through.

"It tells us nothing," he said. "It begins 'My dear sister', and ends 'Eustace'. We go to the next."

Unfolding this, he saw at the top the date June 12, 1659, and an address in London.

"This is in the same hand," he said. "It is cramped; Harry, your eyes are young; read it, my boy, aloud."

Harry took the letter and read:

"MY DEARE SISTER,

"It will please you to heare the Affaire goes according to our hopes. The people are well dispos'd to the Gentleman you wot of, & the rule of the Saintes is abhorr'd of the moste. But businesse of State holds lesse in your Estimation than the fortunes of your brother, and I have a peece of Newes that will put your gentle heart all in a Flutter. What do 'ee think, sweete? You never had a sister: will you thanke me if I give you one? There! not to keepe you on tenterhooks, I designe—now is yr heart going pit-a-pat—to wed: ay, Mary, your brother has met his fate. This daye weeke the Knot is to be ty'd. I knowe the questions that at this Newes flocke into your mind: is she black or faire, tall or short, of court or cottage? I am not carefull to answer; you shall love her, my sweet; 'tis the fairest, dearest ladie lucky man ever wonne, yonge, freshe, winsome as you could wishe. I dare not, as you may beleeve, wed in my owne name; 'tis too perilous as yet, my Businesse being what it is; indeede, Lucy herselfe knows not of my family, for being so yonge and simple, she might let fall in an unwatch'd moment what might bring me to the block. She shall knowe all in due season. I have not open'd my Designe to our brother, for in truthe I find no reason to truste him; his warm professions of Zeale for us seeme to me but Flams. I feare he has play'd throughout a Double Game. He stands exceeding well with the Godly Partie, & having been at Paines to enquire thro' a sure friend I can heare of nothing done in our behalfe, but rather of endeavors to feather his owne nest. But enough of that; if our hopes are crown'd, as praye God they may be speedilie, Nicolas will have——"

Harry paused as he read the name.

——"Nicolas will have no choice but to quitte the Hall, and make what Profitte he may of his owne farmes. Ask in yr prayers that the Happie Daie be hasten'd. And now no more from your righte loving Brother EUSTACE."

Harry laid the letter down, and looked at Mynheer Grootz.

"Why did you pause?" asked the Dutchman.

"'Twas a thought I had, Mynheer. It may be vain. Before I say more, will you look at the next paper?"

"Hé!" exclaimed Madame de Vaudrey, "I am becoming curious."

Mynheer Grootz with the same imperturbable calm unfolded the next paper of the bundle.

"This," he said, scanning it over his spectacles, "is not a letter; it is a document. It records the marriage, in the Huguenot church in Paris, on May 2, 1658, of Louis Marie Honoré, Comte de Vaudrey, aged 34, with Mary Berkeley,"—he pronounced the name in three syllables, foreign fashion—"aged 22, daughter of John Berkeley Esquire of Winton Hall, in the county of Wiltshire, England."

"'Tis found!" cried Harry, springing up in excitement. "We call the name Barkley in England; Madame, Monsieur le Comte was the son of Mr. Berkeley's sister; he is the squire of my own village Winton St. Mary; without a doubt it is his estates to which Mademoiselle is heiress. What a discovery we have made!"

"Stay, Harry," said Mynheer Grootz quietly; "did you not tell me that your squire has a son?"

"Yes, yes, but now I remember: at home I have heard it said that Mr. Berkeley was lord of the manor only by default of other heirs: yes, it comes back to me now: the villagers did not like him; they grudged him his estate; he was stepson of the former squire, and step-brother of the lady who became Comtesse de Vaudrey."

"Still I do not understand. The lady had a brother—the gentleman whose name was Eustace; being employed in state business, to do with the restoration of your King Charles, I think, he was doubtless the elder of the two: he would be his father's heir, and his children after him. The letter, you see, announces his approaching marriage."

"You are right, Mynheer. I heard him talked of, too; he was killed in a fray with highwaymen on the Dover road, when he was returning from France, after King Charles came back, to claim his estates. Yes, the squire's family history is well known in the village; but I never heard of a Mistress Eustace Berkeley; perhaps the marriage did not take place after all."

"It would seem so."

"It must be so," cried Harry. "Do you not now see Captain Aglionby's part? When he stayed with you, Madame, six years ago, he must have discovered Monsieur le Comte's relationship with Mr. Berkeley; that explains his hold over the squire; it explains also the scheme arranged between him and Monsieur de Polignac. Indeed, it is clear as daylight: the captain bled Mr. Berkeley on pretence of keeping his secret; and he sold that secret to Polignac."

"The odious man!" exclaimed Madame de Vaudrey, who sat in a state of perfect amazement as link after link was added to the chain.

"A very villain!" said Grootz, smiting the table. "Madame, it appears that Adèle is indeed the rightful owner of the estates now held by this miscreant Berkeley, and I, Jan Grootz, will make it my business, as soon as I am recovered, to see that right is done."

"And it is to Harry that we owe it all! Oh, my dear Harry, Adèle shall thank you! If only my dear husband could have lived to bless you too!"

"Zo!" exclaimed Grootz. "But, Madame, I have a thing to say. Adèle shall thank Harry; yes; but I say tell her nothing until I have been to London, and with the aid of English law have overthrown the villain Berkeley. It will be best; yes, it will be best."

"Very well, my friend. Dear Adèle! to think of her as lady of an English manor! She has thought much of her English grandmother: she will love to live in England; I have no English blood in me, and I dread the sea; but I must live with her, of course I must."

Grootz compressed his lips.

"Il ne faut pas vendre la peau de l'ours avant de l'avoir tué," he said sententiously.

CHAPTER XXVI

The New Squire

Jonahs—Step-brothers—Whose Gain?—The Female Line—The End of the Story—Treason—The Fleet—In Italy with Eugene—Home—Adèle Studies Geography—Lady Bountiful—Minshull Remembers—A Warning from Mr. Tape—Mr. Tape at Hungerford—Exit Harry Rochester—At the Gate—A Royal Feast—What's in a Name?—A Rustic Moralist—Wedding Bells

Giles Appleyard, giving a flick to the off leader, scraped his well-rasped chin over the stiff collar of his coat and addressed the outside passenger who had just mounted his coach at Basingstoke.

"Why, Willum Nokes," he said, "'tis many a long day since I set eyes on your noble frame. How's the wicked world sarven 'ee, Willum?"

"Fairish, Giles coachman, on'y fairish. A've never bin the same man since that tarrible day when John Simmons gi' me the go-by. Ay, I were constable then, a-sarven the Queen and Sir Godfrey, and wi' the bodies of all the souls in Winton Simmary under me. Now I be on'y parish beadle at Basingstoke, sarvant to pa'son, and rulen over none but the misbehaven childer in church."

He sighed and shook his head.

"Ay, and th' on'y thing as keeps me above ground is a journey once a year to th' old place, where I wanders round a-thinken deep things o' the noble line o' life as used to be."

"Ay, poor soul, 'ee did truly make a gashly fool o' yerself that day, Willum. Well, better a live fool than a dead 'oss, as you med say."

"An' yerself, Giles—you looks hale an' hearty as ever I seed 'ee."

"Ay, Willum, I goos up an' down the world rain or shine, merry as a grig."

"'Ee must see a powerful deal o' life, Giles; all sarts an' perditions o' men, as pa'son sings in church. Who med be your insides to-day, if I med axe so homely a quest'on?"

"Only two to-day, Willum. There be little travellen for a week or two arter Christmas. One on 'em be a Dutch skipper; I mind I carried un once afore; ay, 'twas the same day as young pa'son Rochester and Sherry Minshull rode a-top, all agwine to Lun'on. Young pa'son be now a sojer, so 'tis said, an' hob-a-nob wi' the mighty o' the earth. The way o' the world, Willum; some goos up, like young pa'son; some goos down, like Willum Nokes; some goos steady, like Giles Appleyard; eh, soul?"

"Ay, 'tis constables goos down, a' b'lieve. But who be your other inside, coachman?"

"Why, no one an't telled me, but I'd take my affidavy afore any justice o' peace 'tis a limb o' the law. I knows they sart. They ought to pay double; for why? 'cause bean't safe to carry; last time I carried a lawyer fore off wheel broke as we trundled through Winterslow. When I seed this chap at Angel and Crown this marnen, says I to myself, 'Zooks!' says I, 'what poor mortal soul be agwine to suffer now?'"

For the rest of the journey coachman and passenger exchanged gossip on their common acquaintances. William Nokes alighted at the Queen's Head, at Winton St. Mary, and shook his head in sympathy with Mistress Joplady when he saw the two inside passengers descend from the coach and enter the inn.

"One a furrener, t'other a lawyer!" he muttered. "Ah! what tarrible things some poor souls ha' got to putt up wi'!"

Mistress Joplady, however, welcomed both her guests with her wonted heartiness, and with her own hands plied the warming-pan for their beds.

At ten o'clock next morning the two strangers left the inn together. One of them carried a small portfolio. They went through the village, across the common, and, entering the park gates of Winton Hall, walked up the long drive to the porch and asked whether Mr. Berkeley was at home. After a few minutes' delay they were invited to step in, and conducted to a little room in the turret, where they found the squire in cassock and skull-cap, warming his withered hands at the fire.

"Mr. Berkeley?" said the elder of the two.

"That is my name. What is your business?"

"My name, sir, Jan Grootz. My friend Mr. Swettenham Tape, of Lincoln's Inn."

"Well?"

"You will permit me to take a chair; dank you! And my friend Mr. Tape; dank you!"

At the mention of his name, Mr. Berkeley flashed a shrewd glance under his bushy white eyebrows at the Dutchman, then gripped the arms of his chair, and waited.

"Mr. Berkeley, my business will not hold you long. You will pardon if I begin at de beginning and tell you a little history?"

The squire kept his eyes fixed on his visitor, but said nothing. Taking his silence as permission to proceed, Grootz settled himself in his chair, with his plump right hand ready to punctuate his sentences.

"Dis history dat I tell you, sir, I hope you will find it interesting. It is ver much about yourself; you are old man, but of dose old men, pardon me, who regard demselves as de most interesting subjeck in de world; zo! De history begin long ago; zixty-vive year indeed, when your shadow first zink over dis place." Grootz's hand made a comprehensive sweep. "You were den Nicolas Heller, an eleven-year boy; your moder, a widow, she had married Mr. John Berkeley, a widower, wid two children, one"—here the forefinger wagged—"Eustace Berkeley, a nine-year boy; de oder, Mary, a child four year. On your moder Mr. Berkeley settle de farms of—of——"

"Winton Chase and Odbury," said Mr. Swettenham Tape, speaking for the first time.

"Zo; de farms of Winton Chase and Odbury; you took de name Berkeley, and after your moder dese farms should become yours. Dree years go, your moder die; Mr. John Berkeley is again a widower, and never marry no more. War had broke out, he take part wid de king and fight in de vield, your step-broder alzo whenever he is of age to bear arms. But Nicolas, poor boy! is not strong, he is always at home to care for de estates; besides, he do not love de king; no, Nicolas never love nobody—nobody but himself."

Grootz paused and bent a little forward in his chair; the squire had not moved a muscle.

"De king is killed, Oliver Cromwell is ruler in de land, and after de battle of Worcester, Mr. John Berkeley, his son and daughter, go for safety to France. But Nicolas—he find dat he is a Puritan, a saint in heart; he give money—it was not his to give—to de Parliament side, and he speak of his stepfader—of de man, mark you, to whom he owe everyding—as a traitor, a malignant. At same time he write letters to de traitor in France telling how he work to keep his estate for him, if chance come he zall return and enjoy his own. How kind is Nicolas! zo!

"Time flows; de chance come; King Charles wears his fader's crown, but Mr. John Berkeley is not alive to return alzo. In 1658 he die. But his son, Nicolas' stepbroder Eustace, what of him? In June 1660 he come back to claim his inheritance, but he never see his home. No, on de road he is set upon and murdered."

Still the old man sat rigid in grim silence.

"De murder of Eustace Berkeley, whom do it profit? De men who killed him?—not zo; dey stay not to empty his pockets. It profit nobody but Nicolas Berkeley. Dink you not dat is singular? To me it is very singular. Zo!"

The Dutchman spoke always with the same careful deliberation. His tone now became stern.

"I come now, Mr. Berkeley, to someding dat interest you more. Mr. John Berkeley had, not only a son, but alzo a daughter." The keen-eyed Dutchman noticed a slight twitching of the squire's brow. "Ah, I thought dat would interest you! De daughter, Mary, marry in Paris de Comte de Vaudrey, a nobleman, a Huguenot; dat is not long before King Charles come back. Her broder Eustace risk his life to come to England on service for his sovereign; he write letters to his sister; interesting letters; I take leave to read you someding he said."

He took the portfolio from the lawyer's hands, selected a paper from it, and read the following passage:—

"'I feare he has play'd throughout a Double Game. He stands exceeding well with the Godly Partie, & having been at Paines to enquire thro' a sure friend I can heare of nothing done in our behalfe, but rather of endeavors to feather his owne nest. But enough of that; if our hopes are crown'd, as praye God they may be speedilie, Nicolas will have no choice but to quitte the Hall, and make what Profitte he may of his owne farmes.'

"Zo! dis letter, and oders, was received by Madame la Comtesse de Vaudrey—dat is, Mary Berkeley—when her husband was absent from Paris. He return; de poor lady is dying; she leave a little boy. He write to Eustace from Paris; he get no reply; he write again, dree times in all; still no reply, and he dink his wife's friends English and care not any more. As for him, he has pride and keep silence, and believe Eustace Berkeley is now lord of Winton Hall.

"Zo time pass. Den come trouble to de Huguenots in France, and de Comte de Vaudrey take refuge wid his son in Holland. He read no English; but he keep dings dat belong to his wife, among dem de letters of Eustace. His son Louis marry in Holland a Huguenot lady. Fader, son, both are dead, but"—he wagged his forefinger impressively—"but Louis Comte de Vaudrey leave a daughter, Adèle, and it is on behalf of Mademoiselle Adèle de Vaudrey I wait upon you to-day. I know well dese dings are not new to you; I know dat. It is now some years when Captain Aglionby—an adventurer, a cut-droat—discover how Mademoiselle Adèle is related to de house of Berkeley. Already he know someding of you; he have an uncle Minshull dat live on your estate. He see a chance to feader his very bare nest, and he take it. You are de squire, he dink; a rich man; you will pay well to keep de secret. He come to you; you do pay well; you become his generous patron, and he do your dirty work. But sometimes you lose temper, and give him hard words and close your purse. Perhaps, dink he, he may find yet anoder rich man who will buy de secret. Such a man is Monsieur de Polignac. Your Aglionby take money from you, and bargain wid Polignac to get more money when he become by marriage owner of dis estate and turn you out. But de plan is found out; we have settle with Polignac; he is dead; we search for Aglionby; he hide himself; and now, Mr. Berkeley, it is your turn. I come to you to demand, on behalf of Mademoiselle Adèle de Vaudrey, possession of her property in seven days from dis present day. My friend Mr. Tape of Lincoln's Inn have copies of all de papers; he will show dem, at proper time, to your lawyer. De history is now at end, Mr. Berkeley. I dank you for your zo-patient hearing. It is now to you; zo!"

Mr. Berkeley had spoken never a word. For a few moments he remained motionless in his chair; then, lengthening his arm, he pulled a bell-rope at his side. A servant entered.

"Thomas," said the squire in his thin hard voice, "show these gentlemen to the door."

Grootz and the lawyer glanced at each other. The latter gave a slight shrug and began to tie up his portfolio. Grootz rose.

"I have de honour, Mr. Berkeley, to wish you good-day."

And with his companion he left the room.

An hour later the village was startled by the news that the squire had had a stroke. A man had ridden to Salisbury for the physician, and the gossips at the Queen's Head were already discussing the expected succession of "young squire" to the estates. But in the afternoon the report was contradicted. The squire had merely been seized with a fainting fit; he had recovered and was to all appearance his usual self.

A week passed; Mr. Berkeley had received from Mr. Swettenham Tape of Lincoln's Inn a formal demand for the surrender of the property, to which he made no reply. At the end of the week Mr. Tape filed a suit in chancery. But the mills of the law grind slowly. Grootz had returned to Holland, a new campaign had opened, and Harry Rochester was with Prince Eugene in northern Italy before Mr. Swettenham Tape had all his affidavits sworn.

A few weeks before the case was to be opened before Lord Chancellor Cowper, a bailiff armed with a warrant, and accompanied by two strong tipstaves, appeared at the house of a Mistress Consterdine near the Cockpit, Whitehall. The bailiff gained admittance, and when after some time he returned to the street he was accompanied by a tall bulky man in semi-military garb, with whom he and the tipstaves entered a hackney coach and were driven to Newgate. The prisoner was at once brought before the magistrate and charged under the name of Ralph Aglionby with entering into a treasonable conspiracy on behalf of the exiled Stuarts. In addition to the letters taken in his lodging, other papers that had been brought from Germany were put in by the Crown, proving Aglionby to have been in the service of Her Majesty's enemies; and a man Simmons, a joiner in London, who had received a free pardon, gave evidence that Aglionby had fought with the Bavarians at Blenheim and elsewhere, holding a commission in the Elector of Bavaria's forces. His papers were found to include letters from Mr. Nicolas Berkeley of Winton Hall, forwarding sums of money to Aglionby in Holland. The sequel to this discovery was the arrest of Mr. Berkeley at his inn in Soho, and his inclusion in the indictment for conspiracy.

The trial came on in due course. Captain Aglionby's connection with the Jacobites was fully established, and he was sentenced to be transported to the Plantations for twenty years. Mr. Berkeley's complicity was not so clearly shown, though he could bring no evidence to prove his statement that the sums remitted to his fellow-prisoner were payment for private services totally unconnected with the Jacobite cause. The circumstances were suspicious, and the judge considered that he showed great lenience in condemning Mr. Berkeley to pay a fine of £500. Although he had for years enjoyed a large income, he had but little ready money at command. He had spent large sums in purchasing lands adjoining the Winton property, and the extravagance of his son had been a constant drain upon his purse. With the civil action de Vaudrey v. Berkeley pending in the court of chancery, he found some difficulty in borrowing sufficient money to pay his fine.

The chancery suit came on for hearing. The claimants had engaged the highest counsel of the day, and brought a great array of evidence, documentary and oral, from Holland. Mr. Berkeley's case was ably argued, but the evidence was irresistible; the decision was given against him; he was ordered to produce the title deeds of the property, and to render an account of all that he had derived from the estates since his illegal usurpation of them forty-five years before. He wished to appeal; but, discredited by the result of the trial for conspiracy, he was unable to raise the necessary funds. He was moving heaven and earth to overcome his difficulties when payment was demanded of the sum he had borrowed to meet the fine, and as the money was not forthcoming he was arrested and thrown into the debtors' prison in the Fleet.

It was December before the case was finally decided. As soon as Mynheer Grootz was released from his business cares by the armies going into winter quarters, he accompanied Madame de Vaudrey with Adèle and part of their household to England, and saw them installed in Winton Hall. At Adèle's wish, Mr. Berkeley was not pressed for the costs of the suit he had lost; but his other creditors were relentless, and determined to keep him in the Fleet prison until the income from the farms he inherited from his mother should have enabled him to pay his debts.

It was many months before Harry learnt of the success of Grootz's efforts on behalf of Adèle. In March, 1705, he left Austria with Prince Eugene for Italy, where the prince's cousin, Victor Amadeus the Second of Savoy, was maintaining a difficult struggle against Marshal Vendôme. He was with the prince at the indecisive battle of Cassano in August, and spent the winter in Turin. There letters reached him from England telling how Adèle had taken up her residence at Winton as lady of the manor, and when he wrote his warm letter of congratulation he said to himself that his fate was now sealed. At Turin also he received a letter from Fanshawe reporting his father's death and his own determination to sell out and live on his estate. This news gave Harry a fresh pang, for, though he knew that Fanshawe's suit had been again rejected, he felt that as next-door neighbours Adèle and he would see much of each other, and their constant companionship might at length end in a match which on many grounds must be considered excellent.

Next year he served Prince Eugene as aide-de-camp at the battle of Calcinate in April, and again five months later at the brilliant victory of Turin, when the prince, by his total defeat of the Duke of Orleans and Marshal Marsin, finally saved Savoy from the clutches of King Louis. His own services did not go unrewarded. The prince gave him the colonelcy of an imperial dragoon regiment, and held out hopes that if he remained in the emperor's service he might before long gain an estate and a title of nobility. But a few days after the battle, he received from England a letter which altered the whole course of his life. It was a short note from Madame de Vaudrey, written at Winton nearly three months before. Certain circumstances had come to light, wrote the lady, that rendered his presence at Winton desirable as soon as he could obtain leave. It was nearly four years since the black day on which he had left his home so sadly; he was hungry for a sight of the old scenes and the old faces, and felt something more than curiosity to see Adèle de Vaudrey as lady bountiful of the parish. He went at once to Prince Eugene with the letter; the prince drew from him the whole story of his connection with the family of Lindendaal, and with a twinkling eye consented to his immediate departure for England.

"The French will give us no more trouble here," he said. "My next battle will be fought on other soil. I said before, you remember, that you were in love. You thought not. We shall see. Go home; but the war is not over. I shall hope to see you at the head of your regiment in the next campaign."

Sherebiah was as much delighted as his master at the thought of seeing home again.

"To tell 'ee the truth, sir," he said, when Harry ordered him to make preparations for departure, "I be a-thinken o' Katrinka. I don't feel happy in my mind at the notion o' her at Winton Simmary wi'out me. Why, old feyther o' mine, ancient soul as he be, if he knows what a hand her've got for griddle-cakes—zooks! sir, he'll be a-marryen her hisself, never thinken as I be more'n a boy."

One October day Harry and Sherebiah embarked at Leghorn for the voyage home. Their vessel made quick sailing as far as Gibraltar, where Sir George Rooke had planted the flag of England two years before; but was beset by contrary winds in the Atlantic, beat about for days in the Bay of Biscay, and reached Southampton sadly buffeted six weeks after leaving Leghorn. The travellers lost no time in taking horse, and rode up to Winton Hall late one November evening. Harry was received with a warmth of greeting that made him glow with pleasure. Even Adèle welcomed him with more frankness than she had ever before shown him, though he detected a different constraint, a something new in her manner, that puzzled him. The evening was spent in talking over old times and the strange events that had happened since their last meeting. Mynheer Grootz, Harry learnt, had visited Winton more than once since he had installed Adèle in her property nearly a year before, and was coming over to spend Christmas with them. Godfrey Fanshawe, now Sir Godfrey, was a frequent visitor and had been the means of introducing them to many of the best people in the county, who had welcomed Adèle with open arms. Madame afterwards told Harry privately that Sir Godfrey had once more proposed to Adèle, and been finally refused. Adèle herself looked older and more womanly. She had acquired considerable fluency in English, and was fond of going about among the villagers, taking the keenest interest in ways of life and thought so novel to her.

"But the dear girl is not happy," said Madame with a sigh. "No, she is not happy. I fear she is home-sick. We have sold Lindendaal and repaid Mynheer Grootz's friend who so generously bought up that odious man's mortgages. But Adèle was happier at Lindendaal than she is here. She has been restless ever since we came to England, and you would be surprised to know, Harry, how she throws herself lately into the details of this horrible war. The Courant comes to us every day by the coach from London, and the house is littered, perfectly littered, mon ami, with maps of Italy. Decidedly she is a changed creature."

"Mamma," interrupted Adèle, "don't give Monsieur Harry a wrong idea. I am happy enough, but——"

"Hé! voila!" exclaimed Madame with a little gesture. "She is happy, but——"

"And what is this business that required my presence?" said Harry, to relieve the girl of her manifest embarrassment.

"Oh! Adèle must explain that. It has been her affair always."

"Really, Mamma, I think you should explain. You wrote to Monsieur Harry."

"Eh bien! but it was you who told me what to say. No, I leave it to you: I have no head for affairs, especially for affairs so complicated. But it is growing late, and Harry must be tired. We will let him have a good night's rest: then to-morrow, ma chérie, you can have a whole morning together."

The morning turned out bright, and after breakfast Adèle proposed a walk round the grounds. Harry was nothing loth, and when Madame did not offer to accompany them, he concluded that, living in England, she had decided to conform to English ways. In the course of that ramble Harry heard a story that amazed him.

During the past year Adèle had made many friends among the villagers, and one friend in particular, old Gaffer Minshull. She had been specially gracious to him for the sake of Katrinka, who, however quick she might be in learning how to cook Wiltshire bacon and to sing Wiltshire songs, was certainly slow in learning Wiltshire English. The Lady Squire, as he called her, had become a great favourite with the old man, and, as she grew accustomed to his dialect, he talked to her freely about the village, the late parson, and the late squire, of whom he was no longer "afeard". Adèle, like everyone else, had always been puzzled about Mr. Berkeley's hatred of Harry, and she asked the old man whether he knew of any reason for it beyond his being the son of the squire's sturdy opponent, Parson Rochester. Minshull confessed that he was as much perplexed as she. The old squire's man Jock had told him of the incident witnessed at the park gate on the day of Harry's departure for London, when, seeing him walk by, Mr. Berkeley had looked as if he had had a shock; and he remembered that Squire had left the Hall in a post-chaise the next day, though whither they went Jock never would tell.

This set Adèle thinking. She made further enquiries of the old man. Had not the squire a brother? At the question Minshull looked hard at her, and replied with some hesitation that such was the case; he had a brother, or rather a step-brother. Adèle enquired what had become of him; she knew, for Grootz had made no secret of his discovery; but she asked in order to get more information. He died, said the old man, on the Dover road; a fine young man, though he did hold to that false Charles One and his light son Charles Two. Then insensibly the old man was led on to talk at large; he seemed anxious to ease his mind of a burden; and with the garrulity of old age, and being no longer "afeard" of the squire, he at length poured out the whole pitiful story.

Forty-seven years before, in '59, when he was a Republican trooper and his regiment was stationed at Blackheath, he was passing one morning through London on his way back to camp after—he was ashamed to confess it—a riotous night. Suddenly he was called into a church to witness a marriage. No one was present save the clergy, bride and bridegroom, and the other witness, apparently a lady's-maid. In his half-fuddled state he had no clear recollection of anything beyond the facts that he signed his name and came away with a guinea.

About a year later, after the Restoration, when his regiment was gloomily expecting the order for disbandment, he was strolling one evening in the direction of Shooter's Hill, and attracted by a crowd about an inn door. A young gentleman had been discovered a few miles down the road, lying unconscious, and severely wounded. He had been brought to the inn, and soon afterwards his servant appeared, a Frenchman, who had fled when his master was attacked by footpads. From him it was learnt that the name of the wounded man was Berkeley, and that he was on his way to Winton St. Mary to take possession of the family estates. Minshull, out of sheer curiosity, asked with many other bystanders to be shown the unfortunate gentleman, and to his amazement he recognized him as the bridegroom whose wedding he had witnessed nearly a year before. A message was sent to Winton St. Mary, and two days later Mr. Nicolas Berkeley appeared on the scene. Minshull meanwhile had hung about, partly out of curiosity, partly out of interest in the man whose murder had followed so quickly upon his marriage.

The wounded man never recovered consciousness. He died soon after his brother's arrival. Minshull found an opportunity of speaking to the squire, and condoled with him on the loss of so handsome a brother, and on the sad plight of the young widow left to mourn his loss. Mr. Berkeley had appeared surprised at the mention of a widow, and asked the trooper to tell him all he knew. This was very little; he could not remember the church where the marriage had been performed, nor the name of the bride; all he was sure of was the identity of the bridegroom; he did not even remember the name Berkeley. The squire had shaken his head and frowned: a secret marriage!—there was something suspicious in that; his brother had some reason to be ashamed of his alliance: he would look into it; but for the present it was best to drop the curtain on the episode. He had then offered the trooper a situation at the Hall, which Minshull, with no settled livelihood after nearly twenty years' military service, eagerly accepted. He received good wages, and by and by a cottage on the estate. He was well aware that the squire treated him thus generously to keep his mouth shut, and though many times he had felt the prick of conscience, he was so comfortable, and, as time went on, so much afraid of the squire, that he had never broken the tacit pact between them.

Old Minshull's story worked so powerfully upon Adèle's imagination that she became at length ill at ease. What had become of the bride whose marriage he had witnessed? Adèle remembered how Eustace Berkeley had spoken of her in his letters to Mary de Vaudrey; she remembered, too, that he had married under a feigned name. Her uneasiness grew so intolerable that she persuaded her mother, not without difficulty, to put the facts before the same lawyer whom Mynheer Grootz had employed—Mr. Swettenham Tape of Lincoln's Inn. He warned her that enquiry might result in the loss of her property, but she insisted on an investigation, and as it promised to be an interesting enquiry, the attorney took it up with enthusiasm.

One of his first steps was to interrogate Mr. Berkeley's man Jock, who had driven with his master to Hungerford on that November day three years before. As the result of the interview, the lawyer himself made a journey to Hungerford, where he called at the parsonage and had a conversation with the vicar, enquiring particularly about his predecessors in the living. He learnt that the former rector had died in 1680 at the age of sixty-eight, leaving a grandson, his only daughter's child, a young man of twenty-one who had just taken deacon's orders. The grandson's name was Rochester. Did the vicar know anything of the young man's father? Nothing but the vaguest rumours; it was generally understood that Lucy Rochester's husband had deserted her a few months after their marriage, and that was naturally a subject on which the family would say nothing. Was the lady still living? She had died ten years before her father. If Mr. Tape desired further details, there was one person who might gratify him if she wished: the wife of the landlord of the Bear Inn, who had been lady's-maid to Mistress Rochester.

The attorney hastened to the inn, engaged a room for the night, and took the first opportunity of having a gossip with Mrs. Pemberton, the hostess, a comely, pleasant old dame of near seventy years. She had the keenest recollection of the one romantic incident of her life. Mistress Lucy!—of course she remembered the sweet pretty creature. She had been with her in London the year before the King came back, when she was visiting her aunt. And Mr. Rochester, too—ah! such a handsome young gentleman; but a wicked deceiver, she feared. He had protected Mistress Lucy from footpads one evening: that was the beginning of it, and the end was a marriage, and a sad end it was, for Mr. Rochester went away to France three months afterwards, on some urgent business which he did not explain, and he never returned. Mrs. Rochester remained for nearly a year in London, then returned to her father at Hungerford with her infant son, a bonny boy who grew up a blessing to her, and became a parson, and died only three years back at Winton St. Mary, she had heard.

Mr. Tape asked whether she remembered the church in which the wedding had taken place. To be sure she did; it was St. Andrew's Undershaft; she remembered how dark it looked, and how awed the other witness had appeared to be, a rough soldier who was fetched in from the street, and was a little overtaken with liquor. And, strange to say, this was the second time she had been asked about this incident of long ago, a miserable-looking old gentleman having called upon her three years before; after talking with her, he had left the house without so much as asking for a tankard of her home-brewed.

On returning to London, the attorney examined the register of St. Andrew's Undershaft, and made a copy of the entry of a marriage on June 19, 1659, between Eustace Rochester, bachelor, of St. Andrew's parish, and Lucy Fleming, spinster, of Hungerford. The information given by Gaffer Minshull and Mrs. Pemberton was then embodied in affidavits, and the whole case being complete, Mr. Tape laid the result of his investigations before Madame de Vaudrey and her daughter, and asked for their instructions.

Harry had listened to Adèle's story, as they rambled round and round the park, with a strange mixture of emotions. Astonishment was perhaps the dominant one, but there was also the happiness of knowing something about his family, and dismay at the knowledge that he, and not Adèle, was the rightful owner of the Berkeley estates.

"Why, then you are my cousin, Adèle!" he said.

"Yes, Harry,—and you are head of the family."

"How plain it makes everything! And do you know, I pity the wretched old man who has lived for nearly fifty years with these crimes on his conscience. He must have led a miserable life."

"That is why I am glad all is discovered. I should lead a miserable life too if I found I was enjoying what did not belong to me."

"But that is nonsense, Adèle. You don't imagine I shall take the estates? Not I. The good folks here adore you already; I won't take from them their lady squire."

"You must."

"No, no! Only weak or foolish sovereigns abdicate, Adèle: you are not weak or foolish. Besides, I have my career. I am on the high road to preferment. Prince Eugene has given me a regiment, and—I didn't mean to tell you this—promises me an estate and a title in Austria."

"And you know perfectly well that you would rather be plain Mr. Berkeley, an English squire, than count or prince or royal highness in Austria. No; I will not listen to you: if you insist on being an Austrian—well, I shall give up the estates to the crown: Queen Anne shall be lady of the manor."

"You cannot: you are not of age, and Madame would never hear of it."

"Mr. Henry Berkeley, I have only two years to wait."

They had come round to the gate leading from the park to the graveyard.

"Come and see the monument the people put up in the church to your father, Harry," said Adèle, with a change of tone. He opened the gate for her; she passed through, then turned, and said: "It is you or Queen Anne, Mr. Berkeley."

Harry was on the other side of the gate. They looked into each other's eyes. He knew her strength of character: he had no doubt that she would do anything to which she had made up her mind. He was troubled, and, resting his arms on the upper bar of the gate, stood thus pondering.

"Adèle," he said presently, "but for me you would stay at the Hall?"

"If I were the rightful owner, certainly; but now it is clearly impossible."

"Not quite impossible, Adèle, even so."

He waited for an answer, but she was unexpectedly silent, her eyes cast down.

"Not quite impossible, Adèle. If you will not stay for any other reason—tell me, Adèle, will you not stay for my sake?"

Still she made no answer, only looked up with a shy startled glance. But in that look Harry found courage to repeat his question.

* * * * *

"Never did I ply my fark at such a roaren dinner—never in my born days; I tells 'ee true, souls."

"Ay, I seed 'ee myself, Lumpy, a-scoopen chidlens an' plum-pudden an' furmenty into your thropple till I thowt 'ee'd bust. 'Twere noble eatin', to be sure."

"Ay, Soapy, an' cost a pretty penny, I warrant. Squire Harry be a different sart o' feller to old Squire as was. Never did he gi' us a warmen-up, nor never would, if there'd ha' bin farty weddens."

"Why bean't every day a marryen day? 'T'ould keep all our innards warm an' cosy 'ithout us doen a hand's turn."

"'T'ould be the ruin of a poor stunpoll like 'ee, Jemmy. I'm afeard 'ee'll never be a man, an' if 'ee got your vittles so easy 'ee'd be more like a fatted calf 'n ever."

"Ah! I knows my dumb brain be weak by natur'. I mind how dazed I were the black day young pa'son went to Lun'on, and John painter made Mis'ess Joplady's pictur' the colour o' sut."

"An' it'll be the colour o' sut to-morrer, souls, I gi' my word for that. They tells me 'tis treason, but John painter do blot out Queen's yead to-morrer, and inn turns to Berkeley Arms again."

"Like a 'ooman, changes her name at a wedden.—Ah! here be neighbour Minshull; a scantling o' cheese and a mug o' old stingo for gaffer, Mistress Joplady; he'll want a summat to comfort un, poor aged soul, this night o' fearsome joy."

"True, Tom cobbler, I be gone eighty-vive. I ha' seed un home-along, souls; my boy Sherebiah be a man at last, an' I be proud as a grandfeyther a'ready. Never did I think my boy an' young pa'son 'd say the awful words in church the same day. 'I take thee, Addle,' says Master Harry in a feelin' key, and 'I take thee, Katrinka,' says my boy when the gentry was done; and they little small words do have a world o' better or wuss in 'em."

"Ay, gaffer; 'ee can sing 'Now lettest thou thy sarvant depart', wi' a honest mind, hey!"

"Hoy! Not me! I bean't got no vurther 'n 'My soul doth magnify' yet. I'll bide a bit longer afore I goos to churchyard, trust me. My boy as was do say there'll be another wedden afore long; the Dutchman and Mis'ess Addle's mother be a-comen to't. He've been sweet on her, a' b'lieve, for many a forlorn day. My boy ha' carried many a noble gift from the man to th' 'ooman."

"Two furreners makes a better match nor one o' one sart, t'other o' t'other. Mistress Addle be a goodly maid, nesh as a ripe apple; but her be French; that you cannet deny; and French and English be like oil and vinegar."

"And what do mix better in a sallet-dressen?—tell me that, souls."

"Ay, Mistress Joplady, we cannet gainsay 'ee on a matter o' that homeliness; but what med 'ee say o' the name? Addle! it bean't a very coaxen name for a squire's lady, be jowned if it be."

"Dear lamb! to take her name in vain! You, Soapy Dick you, we all knows 'ee for a addle-pate; else your hair wouldn' grow so fiery red. What do a bide-at-home like 'ee know o' high names an' titles? Addle be the true French for a bloomy cheek—Sherry Minshull telled me so hisself. Bean't that the true meanen on't, gaffer?"

"Sherry's yead be full o' rare knowledge, Mis'ess. But daze me, name or no name, 'tis all one: French her were, English her be; and if any twanken feller do say her bean't good, and comely, and a comforten wife for young Squire—why, old as I be I'll try the thickness of his poll, I will so."

"I'll help 'ee, gaffer. My weak head cannet make no goodness out o' Addle, but her gi' me a zilver zixpence for choppen wood, her did, and if I cracks a poll wi' 'ee, mebbe her'll gi' me another."

"Ay, hers be a good heart, 'tis true. Why, her went along to Grange and begged and prayed young Sir Godfrey to putt poor Willum Nokes back into 's ancient place o' constable. And Sir Godfrey he can't refuse her nothen, for all her have refused he, as 'tis said; and so wi' noo year poor Willum'll be back in his little small cottage, a-rulen over parish in the Queen's name once more."

"Such changes as the world do see! Look 'ee, souls, I be eighty-vive, and I've seed a mort o' things in my time. I ha' growed like a oak from boy well-nigh to grandfeyther, an' seed six high and mighty sovrans goo to yearth: two Jameses, two Charleses, Noll Crum'ell, and Dutch Willum to end the tale. Ay, the world be full o' ups and downs. To think, now, that old Squire—him as once I were so tarrible afeard on—be now eatin' the bread and water of affliction in a Lun'on prison-house! And they do say as how his son Piers be joined in matrimony to a Dutch 'ooman o' great tonnage, full o' years an' goold pieces. An he were a right youth a'd pay his old feyther's debts an' set the captive free; but not he, I warrant: he'll lay out all the goold th' old wife gies un on wigs and furbelows. And there be Squire Harry—young pa'son as was: who'd a thowt, when his poor feyther went under ground, 'twas a rightful squire Bill sexton had dug for, and the boy a-droppen warm tears into his holler grave ought to ha' been squire that minute in his place? Ay, I mind the sermon as pa'son spoke out in church fust Sunday arter news come o' Master Harry bein' true squire. I seed un climb pulpit steps, and I know'd by the spread o' his petticoats summat awful for poor sinners was a-comen, an' I felt all leery down the small o' my back. 'God is the judge,' says pa'son in his slow, tarrifyen way: 'he putteth down one, and setteth up another.' That were the holy text, out of Thy sarvant David's psa'ms, and daze me if pa'son didn't scarify old Squire as if 'twas pa'son hisself was choused out o' his rightful proputty. 'Twas a powerful bit o' preachen; every 'ooman there was took wi' a longen to let the water-drops tummle, but none on 'em durst begin till Mis'ess Addle's mother set the key. Then 'twas a little Noah's flood; you mind, souls?—such a fall o' tears bean't seed in Winton Simmary since pa'son told us Princess Henrietta were dead in France."

"And be Squire Harry a-gwine to gi' up the trade o' killen, and bide at home wi' poor peaceful folks like we as never slays nowt but pigs and other beasts o' the field?"

"Ay, 'tis so. My boy do zay he med ha' been a knight or lard at a word wi' Prince Eugene; but bless 'ee, he've got his lands to look arter, and we poor folks besides, and like his feyther afore un he have a true heart for home an' friends. Why, he wouldn' gi' up the charge o' we poor souls, not to be the Lord's anointed."

"Hark 'ee, Gaffer Minshull; bean't they the bells at last?"

"Ay, 'tis so. Pa'son commanded a peal at zeven o'clock by way o' holy consolation to bride an' bridegroom. Old Everlasten ha' took his coat off; 'tis he do call the changes; and i' feck, the bells 'll romp through a rare randy afore he've done wi' 'em. Now, sonnies, what d'ye say to wenden out-along an' callen choir and orchestry together? Then we'll march up t' Hall, and sing 'em a lively ditty as 'll cheer 'em up arter the Christian doens o' the day. Sackbut, psalteery, an' all sarts o' music, says the Book; we cannet muster they holy instruments, to be sure, but wi' fiddle and bass-viol and serpent, and a little bit o' tribble an' bass, we'll make a shift to raise a goodish randy toon. What d'ye say, sonnies?"

"Be jowned if it bean't a fine notion for such a old aged martal. Ay, let's out-along and make all the nise we can."

"A thimbleful afore 'ee goos, souls. Mugs all, an' lift up your hearts in a noble cheer for Squire an' Lady Squire, wishen 'em long life an' a happy end. All together now; spet it out o' your wynd-pipes; hurray! hurray! hurray!"

CHAPTER XXVII

Visitors at Winton Hall

Weather-bound—A Home Circle—Marlborough Unbends—Of Princes—A Certain Harry Rochester

One January evening, in the year 1712, a little group was gathered in the turret-room of Winton Hall. The wind was roaring without; snow had been falling steadily all day; but within all was warmth and peace. A big wood fire blazed on the open hearth, lighting up with its ruddy glare as charming a scene as any English country-house could show. It was the children's hour; little Eustace Berkeley, a sturdy boy of five, stood by his mother's knee on one side of the hearth, and on the other, Mary, two years younger, nestled in her father's arms.

Squire Berkeley looked up from his copy of the Courant.

"The duke is dismissed from all his offices, Adèle."

"What that mean, Faver?" said the boy instantly.

"The Queen has sent away the great man who fought her battles so bravely; he will hang up his sword and perhaps never use it again."

"Why did the naughty Queen send the great duke away, Faver?"

"Why naughty tween send dute away?" echoed Mary, a golden-haired fairy, the image, as Mevrouw Grootz was wont to declare, of Adèle at the same age.

"Because the Queen does not like him as she used to do. She likes somebody else better, and there are unkind people who whisper in her ear stories about him that are very likely not true. He is a great man, Eustace, and there are always little men to say unkind things about the great."

"Are you a great man, Faver?"

"No, my son; I am a plain English squire, that would rather live here with you all than in any king's palace."

"But your father might have been a great man," said Mistress Berkeley. "A great prince——"

"Nay, nay, my dear," interrupted the squire, "leave that story till the children are older. It is bed-time now, my chicks. Hark how the wind roars! Think of the little birds out in the cold; they have no warm cosy cots like yours. In the morning, remember, we are to make a figure of the great duke in the snow.—But what is that?"

The deep-toned house-bell had clanged in the hall below.

"'Tis late for a visitor, and in this snowstorm too!"

He threw open the door, and stood waiting. In a few moments a man appeared.

"An't please 'ee, sir, a coach be snowed up a hunnerd yards or so beyond church, an' the travellers be come afoot to axe if 'ee'll give 'em shelter."

"Of course! I will come down. Tell Dick to take a couple of horses and haul the coach out of the drift, and ask Sherebiah to prepare some hot cordial."

He followed the man downstairs. Just within the doorway stood two white figures muffled up to the ears in long cloaks. They doffed their snow-laden hats as Harry appeared, and the elder came forward.

"I crave your pardon, sir," he said in smooth mellow tones that revived old memories and quickened Harry's pulse—"I crave your pardon for troubling you at such an unseasonable hour, but my coach is blocked in a drift a hundred yards or so beyond the church, and as my friend Lord Godolphin is far from well, I have come to ask your hospitality until we can free the coach and return to the inn. I am the Duke of Marlborough."

"Your grace is heartily welcome. But pray do me the honour to accept beds for the night. The inn is near a mile away, and you are cold and wet. Let me remove your things. I have already sent a man to bring your coach to my stables, and there is a good fire above."

"I thank you. I cannot resist your invitation. To whom are we indebted for our welcome?"

"Henry Berkeley, my lord; this is Winton Hall."

"Ah! I remember the name. There was some little romance, if I mistake not, about the inheritance a few years since. Thank you, Mr. Berkeley! this is indeed a haven of refuge to worn-out travellers."

Divested of their outer garments and provided with slippers, the two noblemen preceded their host up the stairs. At the door of the turret-room he advanced a few paces.

"My dear, his grace the Duke of Marlborough and Lord Godolphin. They are our guests to-night."

Mistress Berkeley rose and made a sweeping curtsy, blushing prettily, and throwing a half-startled, half-amused glance at her husband. The children made round eyes of wonder.

"Madame, 'tis a charming welcome. We were driving to my lord Pembroke's at Wilton Park, and were besnowed. 'Tis indeed a delightful transformation."

He patted the children's cheeks playfully. Lord Godolphin, who was evidently ill, had already thrown himself wearily into a chair.

"Well, my little man, what is your name?" asked Marlborough of the boy.

"Eustace Berkeley, sir."

"A pretty name, egad. And what would you like to be when you are a man, eh?"

"A soldier, and wear a red coat, and a sword, and fight for the Queen."

"A proper answer, indeed. Well, if you grow strong, and do what your father and mother tell you, you may be a soldier one day, and perhaps—who knows?—a great man."

"I do not want to be a great man."

"Why not, my boy?"

"Faver says people are not kind to great men, and the Queen likes somebody else better, and sends them away."

"A little philosopher already, Mr. Berkeley," said my lord, smiling at the child. "Well, well, my little fellow, be a good man; not even the Queen could wish you better than that."

"'Tis the children's bed hour, my lord," said Mistress Berkeley. "I pray you excuse me."

As mother and children left the room, Sherebiah, who as butler at Winton Hall had settled down as a very comfortable man of peace, entered with a tray on which were silver tankards of mulled wine. The good fellow looked not a day older than when he had led Katrinka to the altar six years before. He placed the tray on a table and silently withdrew. The guests sipped the grateful liquor and sat in tired silence gazing into the fire.

Presently Mistress Berkeley returned.

"Supper is served, my lords," she said.

"A sweet word to famished men."

The duke offered her his arm and led the way to the supper room, followed by Lord Godolphin and Harry. At the table he kept up an animated conversation with his hostess, yielding as all men did to the charm of a rarely gracious personality. Lord Godolphin was as little inclined to talk as to eat. When the cloth was removed, and Sherebiah had placed bottles on the table and left the gentlemen to themselves, Marlborough crossed his knees and said:

"Egad, Mr. Berkeley, you are a lucky man, with such a wife and such children. We could not have fared more happily—eh, my lord?"

"Nay indeed," replied Godolphin, thawing a little. "We could never have reached Wilton to-night. The wind, hark you, is gaining in fury—a sorry night for travellers."

"Ay; that poor wretch at Basingstoke is well quit of his troubles. A sad case, Mr. Berkeley; but too common, I fear. 'Twas a broken soldier; they had clapt him in the stocks as a vagrant; never in my life saw I a more piteous object. He was outside the inn, and hailed me as we alighted to dine and change horses. Had fought at Blenheim, he told me, captain in a Hanoverian regiment, Aglionby by name, and lately returned from the Indies. We had him released; but the poor fellow was even worse than he seemed; for he died of a sudden before we left the inn. He was on his way to this very village to see a cousin, I bethink me he said. 'Tis thus we serve the men who have fought our battles."

There was a note of bitterness in Marlborough's voice.

"Your pity, I fear, was ill-deserved, my lord," said the Squire. "I know the man. He fought at Blenheim, indeed, but on the other side, and for treasonable practices was sent some six years ago on a long term to the Plantations. He must have escaped."

"Poor wretch! He had a miserable end. In spite of what you tell me, Mr. Berkeley, I pity him. Such is the fate of too many loyal soldiers also, the innocent victims of war. You who live a quiet country life have certainly chosen the better part. The prizes of court and camp are in the end but Dead-Sea fruit. 'Put not your trust in princes': 'tis the truest of warnings, as we old stagers—eh, my lord?—have reason to know."

A cheerful fire, good fare, and a fine vintage of much-travelled Madeira had completed the good impression made by the host. The elder men began to talk freely, with none of the constraint which the presence of a younger man and a stranger might in other circumstances have produced. Harry was amused to find that the passage of years had altered him beyond recognition, and wondered when a suitable opportunity would occur of recalling himself to the recollection of his guests. All at once Lord Godolphin said:

"'Tis strange, Mr. Berkeley, that I am for the second time detained in this village by an accident. My host on that occasion was, I think, a Mr. Fanshawe. Is he still living? It was ten years ago."

"Sir Godfrey Fanshawe is dead, my lord; his son now owns the Grange."

"It all comes back to me. We were travelling to London—Frank and I, Jack—and our coach broke down as we left a cricket match. Sir Godfrey Fanshawe was good enough to give us beds for the night, and we had gone but a few miles on the road next morning when we were pulled up by a fallen tree, and in a trice were looking down the muzzles of half-a-dozen horse pistols. I had sent some of my young men ahead to arrange a change of horses; the others bolted, and there we were in the midst of the gang. 'Twas an uncommonly tight place; Frank, always handy with his pistol, got in a shot, but in another half-minute we should have been stripped or worse when there came from the wall at our left a wild hullabaloo worse than a dozen Thames bargemen touting for a fare. The rascals turned tail and bolted; over the wall sprang a man and a boy, and egad, I remember now how I laughed when they told me they'd done the trick betwixt 'em. 'Twas a rare flam. And the boy——"

"I think, my lord——" began Harry, feeling somewhat uncomfortable; but Marlborough, setting his glass down on the table, bent forward and interrupted.

"Egad, Godolphin, you bring things back to me. The boy—we were always going to do something for him. He found his way to the Low Countries, and showed himself a lad of mettle. I came across him once or twice; noted him—for the second time, by the way—for an ensigncy, and found that he was already a cornet in a Dutch regiment. He did well with Eugene, I believe. Rochester—that was his name—Harry Rochester. I wonder what became of him! Certainly he owed nothing to patronage—yours or mine. Wasn't he the son of the parson here? Mr. Berkeley, has he ever revisited these parts? 'Pon my soul, I should like to meet him again."

"I was about to explain, your grace, that—I am that Harry Rochester."

* * * * * * * *

A Selection from the Catalogue of

G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS

Complete Catalogues sent on application

The Light Brigade in Spain

or

The Last Fight of Sir John Moore

By Herbert Strang

Author of "Tom Burnaby," etc.

With a Preface by Lieut.-Col. WILLOUGHBY VERNER.

Illustrated by William Rainey, R.I. 12mo. $1.50

"In 'Boys of the Light Brigade' Mr. Strang draws upon the resources of the Peninsular War, and succeeds in extracting much freshness from well-worn themes, as Moore's retreat to Corunna and the heroic defence of Saragossa. The personal interest of the story is kept at a high tension.... It is a book which no boy will be able to put down when once started. The volume is provided with excellent maps and plans of the scenes in which the incidents take place."—The Standard.

"This author has fairly earned the right to be accepted as the legitimate successor of the late George A. Henty in furnishing entertainment for youth. Like Henty, Strang manages to galvanize the dry bones of history into a close semblance of glorious life.... The present volume contains vivid and spirited descriptions of campaign life in Spain ... with many rare and interesting episodes.... This is good reading for young and old."—Chicago Post.

"The author describes graphically with truth to history the last fight of the British commander, Sir John Moore. It is a stirring military story in the manner of those written by the late George A. Henty, but really with more authenticity."—Philadelphia Press.

"An interesting story, with extra good measure in its incidents and character ... and with some pretty little love passages."—Cleveland Leader.

* * * * * * * *

BY THE SUCCESSOR TO HENTY

KOBO

A Story of the Russo-Japanese War

By HERBERT STRANG

Author of "The Light Brigade in Spain," etc.

Illustrated by William Rainey, R.I. 12mo, $1.50

"It is a dashing romance for boys, founded on the Russo-Japanese War and worthy of the late Mr. Henty at his best. A story that every schoolboy will enjoy and one that will be read with much pleasure and profit by many older readers as well."—Cleveland Leader.

"The story throughout bristles with adventures, it is well written and the author shows intimate knowledge of Japanese character and customs."—San Francisco Bulletin.

"In one respect Mr. Strang's tale is even better than many of the late G. A. Henty's. It has more dash and dialogue. These are strong points in the work of this writer, who is destined to fill the place vacated by the lamented author of 'Under Drake's Flag,' and 'With Clive in India.'"—The Dundee Advertiser.

"For vibrant actuality there is nothing to come up to Mr. Strang's 'Kobo.'"—The Academy.

"A great amount of actual military history is incorporated with an exciting and romantic plot."—The Westminster Gazette.

* * * * * * * *

By ELBRIDGE S. BROOKS

Historic Boys. Their Endeavors, Their Achievements and Their Times. With 29 full-page illustrations. 8vo, pp. viii + 259.

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Chivalric Days and Youthful Deeds. Stirring Stories, presenting faithful pictures of historic times. Illustrated, 8vo. $1.25

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* * * * * * * *

FOR YOUNG PEOPLE

ROYAL ROGUES

By ALBERTA BANCROFT. With Illustrations by Louis Betts. 12mo. $1.25

There are few healthy-minded folk, whatever their time of life, who will not confess to a fondness for fairy tales of the right sort. "Royal Rogues" has that quality which makes a children's book win the hearts of grown-ups. The heroes are merry twin rogues, king's sons of course, but with a strain of fairy blood in their veins. Wildly strange and delightful are their explorations in the realms of fairyland.

"A charming story ... must be accounted one of the prettiest and cleverest of modern fairy stories."—Worcester Spy.

ON BOARD A WHALER

An Adventurous Cruise through Southern Seas. By THOMAS WEST HAMMOND. With 16 full-page illustrations by HARRY GEORGE BURGESS. 12mo. $1.25

"Thrilling throughout.... In the name of American youth, we thank Mr. Hammond for resuscitating a memory that had slumbered so long."—Com. Advertiser.

"The yarn he spins of that and other trips in search of oil is one of the best I ever read. It is indeed a thrilling, exciting, dangerous story of the sea, a tale of personal experience put into book form by as brave a sailor as ever chased whales, and it is full of that local color which makes a fellow's blood tingle as he turns the pages. The illustrations are excellent."—HENRY HAYNIE in The Boston Times.

G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS NEW YORK LONDON

* * * * * * * *

By HERBERT STRANG

The Adventures of Harry Rochester: A Tale of the Days of Marlborough and Eugene.

The Light Brigade in Spain; or, The Last Fight of Sir John Moore.

Kobo. A Story of the Russo-Japanese War.