Part 1 — CHAPTER XXXVI.

Rapid travelling, ninety years ago, was a comparative term, but Ivor performed the journey as fast as relays of horses could convey a post-chaise to the coast, and as quickly as contrary winds would allow him to cross the Channel.

He sent no warning of his approach. A letter could not go with greater speed than Denham went himself. Now that he was actually on the road to Polly, each hour’s delay became all but insupportable. Six long years since he had said good-bye for one fortnight to Polly! Would she be altered—as much as he himself was altered?

It was a cold day, late in spring, when he found himself at the front door of the Bryces’ comfortable mansion. The old butler opened to Denham, as once before to Roy, but this time Drake was not taken in. One glance—and his face changed.

“Sir!”

“You know me? I hardly thought you would.” Ivor grasped kindly the old retainer’s hand. “I am taking you all by surprise.”

“It is a surprise indeed, sir. And I’m heartily glad to see you again. Not but what you ain’t looking as you should, sir. Them furrin parts haven’t suited you, I’m thinkin’.”

“Captivity has not suited me. And I have travelled hard, and taken little rest. But the old country will put me right. Who is in?”

“My mistress, sir, is in the drawing-room, and Miss Keene and Miss Baron. I was about to take in lights.”

“Wait till I have gone in. And Drake, you can announce me, but don’t say my name so that it can be heard.”

Drake obeyed to the letter. He threw open the drawing-room door, and mumbled something inaudible. Denham entered, bowing ceremoniously.

“You can bring lights, Drake,” said Mrs. Bryce. The room was dark, and the fire had fallen low.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I’m excessive glad to see you, sir,” Mrs. Bryce declared cordially, after a hurried whisper to Polly, “Who did he say, my dear? Oh, well, ’tis easy to see—he’s one of the military. A soldier home from the wars.” Then she turned to Ivor with her welcome. “Mr. Bryce is away, I’m sorry to say, but doubtless you can await his return, and Mr. Baron will be in this minute.”

Ivor had some difficulty in recognising his friend Roy under this designation. Polly was casting half-shy glances at him. Something in the outline of his figure, dim though the light was, brought Denham to her mind, but it was not until he spoke that her colour changed fast from pink to white and from white to pink.

“I shouldn’t be surprised to be informed, sir, that you are but just home from the war,” said Mrs. Bryce.

“I have not been fighting, I regret to say. My turn for that will no doubt come. I have been long a prisoner.”

“And you have obtained your release?”

“The Emperor has consented to my return.”

Mrs. Bryce held up both hands.

“That is excessive gracious of him, truly. You are more fortunate than many. Roy Baron was not so well off, and he had to make his escape. But he has been since in the Campaign in Portugal and Spain under our great Commander, Sir John Moore. A truly melancholy story that, sir,—yet he died as a soldier would choose to die, covered with glory. And Roy—Mr. Baron, I should say—is now back with us for a little space; and we, his friends, fondly think he has done well. But will you allow me to offer you cake and wine? You have a very tired look. What can Drake be about not to bring the lights?” Mrs. Bryce’s hand was on the bell.

Denham was gazing earnestly towards Polly, so earnestly that she could not but return the gaze. A thrill ran through her, for there was no mistaking that voice. Molly took upon herself to put a pointed question:

“Have you come from Verdun, sir, if I might ask?”

“Pray take a seat, sir,” Mrs. Bryce was reiterating. She might as well have spoken to stone walls.

“I am straight from Verdun,” Ivor replied to Molly’s query. “As I am fain to think Miss Keene has already divined.”

Polly dropped a curtsey and said nothing. It was not for her to make any first move. Nobody could hear how her heart fluttered.

“Then, sir, doubtless you will bring messages for us all from the unfortunate prisoners there detained,” said Mrs. Bryce, not yet grasping his identity with one of those prisoners.

Drake at this moment carried in the lights, and Roy, entering with him, cried out in astonishment.

“Den! Why, ’tis Den himself! Can it be in very truth? Den, dear fellow!”—nearly wringing Ivor’s hands off with the energy of his welcome.

Pre-occupied though Ivor was with Polly, his gaze rested with satisfaction upon “his friend Roy.” The boy who had left Verdun for the dungeons of Bitche was a man now, broad-shouldered, well-built and soldier-like, frank as ever in manner, yet with a certain something in the young face, which told not only of endurance, but of the touch of sorrow. At the present moment, however, Roy’s look was all sunshine.

“I am glad, Den, more glad than words can say. Little I dreamt who I should find in here! And you’re free! But how is it? How has that come about? You don’t say old Boney has let you off! Of his own free will? I wouldn’t have given the old chap credit for so much generosity. What made him do such a thing? Lucille? No! Bravo, Lucille!”

Nobody else had a chance of being heard. Mrs. Bryce exclaimed and talked in vain. Polly and Molly waited. Roy’s eager questions had to be answered, before Denham was allowed to turn elsewhere.

Then came a change of manner and a lowering of voice.

“I shall have no end of things to tell you, things he said of you too, Den. Ay, I know”—at a slight gesture. “Another time. Yes, by-and-by. But you’ve seen accounts of the battle. That charge of the Reserve through the valley wasn’t bad! French column tried to turn our flank, you know. We did just knock ’em into a cocked hat and no mistake. The column just simply ceased to exist.”

Molly tried to put in a word, and was baffled.

“You’ll be as furious as I am at some of the comments in the papers. The utter ignoramuses! What about? Why, the state of our Army getting back from Spain. I should think the poor fellows were scarecrows, after all they’d gone through. Small wonder either! The scarecrows made the enemy give an uncommon good account of ’emselves at Coruña, all the same. But people here seem to think an Army can walk through a Campaign, and come back every inch as spick and span as when it left British shores. Much they know about the matter! And if shoes did wear out, and our fellows got back barefoot, whose fault was that but the fault of those who made the shoes at home?”

So much Roy poured out impulsively. Then he stopped. A consciousness had broken upon him of something unsatisfactory, something impending. Denham’s face was to him as an open book, and he saw written there more things than one. One thing that he saw made him turn sharply to Polly, as she stood a little way off, prettily composed. Was this the meeting of the two, after six years of enforced separation?

Roy recalled his talk with Polly on his return from Bitche, and in a flash he read the true state of affairs. He looked hard at each in turn.

“Polly, didn’t I tell you? He has come back.”

Polly stirred slightly.

“You understand? ’Tis Den himself.”

It was necessary for Polly to answer.

“Captain Ivor is indeed most fortunate to have obtained his release,” she said, adjusting her scarf.

“Fortunate to have obtained his release!” repeated Roy slowly.

Then he acted, with a decision and promptitude worthy of his vocation in life. A gesture ordered Molly to make herself scarce. Seizing Mrs. Bryce by the arm, he dragged away that astonished lady, reserving explanations till they were outside the room. After which he poured forth profuse apologies, but would allow no re-entrance, literally setting his back against the door.

(To be concluded.)