The Sword of Gideon

"And so," the Comtesse de Valorme said, as now the coach drew up at a great solid house in a small square off this quay, "we part for the present. Yet, monsieur, we are more than acquaintances now, more than mere fellow-travellers-"

"Friends, if madame will permit."

"Ay, friends! Therefore will you not tell me what is your rightful name? It may be well that I should know it."

"My name is Bevill Bracton, madame. I never thought when I set out upon this journey that I should tell it to any but her whom I seek; yet to you I now do so willingly."

"You may tell it in all confidence, and you know you may. 'Bevill Bracton,'" she repeated to herself. "I shall not forget. 'Bevill Bracton,'" she said again, as though desirous of impressing it thoroughly on her memory. "But here," she went on, "you are to be known always as André de Belleville!"

"It would be best, madame. I shall be known to few and, if fortune serves, shall not be long here."

For a moment the Comtesse let her clear eyes rest on the young man, as though she were meditating somewhat deeply; then suddenly, though hesitating somewhat in her speech as she did so, she said:

"And this young countrywoman of yours-this lady whom you have come so far to assist? May I not know her name also? It is no curiosity that prompts me-"

"Madame," Bevill replied, "our confidence is well established, our friendship made. The lady's name is Sylvia Thorne."

"Sylvia Thorne! Sylvia Thorne! Why, I know her. We, too, are friends, and firm ones."

"You know her? You are friends?"

"In very truth. I have been here more than once before as guest of my kinsman. And-yes, Sylvia Thorne and I are friends. Ah! what a double passport would this have been to my friendship had I but known that you were on your way to sweet Sylvia."

"She is, then, sweet? Doubtless gentle also?"

"She is both. In Sylvia Thorne, whom you say you knew once as a little child, you will find a sweet, good woman. Grave, perhaps, beyond her years-she has suffered much by the loss of both her parents-and too calm and unruffled, it may be, for one whose footsteps have but now passed over the threshold of womanhood. Sincere with those who win her regard, contemptuous of those unworthy of the good opinion of any honest man or woman; while yet placed here as she is, she possesses one gift she had far better be without."

"And that is, madame?"

"The gift of beauty; for she is beautiful, but seems to know it not. And it may be that her beauty is too cold and stately; it has not the brightness, the joyousness, that should accompany the beauty of youth. But you will see her ere long. Observe, those whom I come to dwell with for a time are at the door. Farewell-nay, au revoir only, since you will not enter. Adieu till next we meet. You know the house now; the door stands ever open to those who are my friends."

CHAPTER XII

On that long quay over which the coach had passed but just now, Bevill Bracton, as he rode by its side, had observed an ancient inn, as all things were ancient in this old-world land-one that bore on its front the name, "Gouden Leeuw," and testified as to what its Walloon significance might be by having beneath it a fierce-looking gilt monster, that might be intended for a lion, as sign.

"That should be the house for me," Bevill thought, as now he rode back towards it. "A front room here, on the lower floor, if it may be obtained; the river almost at its feet, boats tied to old posts and stanchions. All is well. If danger threatens, as well it may, then have I the way open to me."

For Bevill had not been a soldier for nothing, nor had he forgotten that he who attempts daring deeds should ever have a retreat open in case of need.

That the business he was now about was, in absolute truth, of almost foolhardy daring he had known and recognised from the moment he decided to undertake it as he stood before the Earl of Peterborough at Fulham; while, as he advanced farther and farther through a land which, though not itself hostile to England, was in the clutches of England's greatest enemy, he had more and more recognised this to be the case. But now that he was here, in a city surrounded by those who had possessed themselves of it during a peace that had never been a complete one, a city whose heights and strong places were full of the enemy, he allowed no delusions to prevent him from acknowledging the perils by which he was surrounded. If he should be suspected, watched, and either denounced or arrested, there would be no hope for him. He was neither a soldier who would be saved by his calling nor a political agent who could be saved by any mission that might have been entrusted to him. He was merely a subject of the greatest enemy of France, disguised under a French name; a man who could have no ostensible reason for being here except as a spy.

As, however, he reflected on all this, while forgetting no point that would tell deeply against him-there was not one that would tell in his favour! – he felt no qualm of apprehension, and fear itself was utterly absent. He had set his life upon this cast; the hazard of the die must bring him either a restitution of all that he desired, or total oblivion of all things in this world. He had elected to make the throw, even as the soldier stakes his life against either Fortune's buffets or rewards; fear had no part or parcel in the attempt. Yet, as with the soldier, it behoved him to be wary, to fling no chance away, to risk no more than every brave attempt requires to make it a successful one.

What Bevill hoped to find at the "Gouden Leeuw" was, happily, obtainable. A room was put at his disposal which, while looking across the quay on to the river, had also, since it was at an angle of the house, another window giving on to an alley that ran along the side of the inn.

"Therefore," Bevill said to himself, "all is very well. Should I be sought for when I am in this room I still have two other modes of egress beside the door. Should they attempt to get at me from either window, still I have the door. Short of surrounding the house, I can hardly be trapped, and not at all without making a good fight of it."

"Yet," he continued to muse, as now he endeavoured to make himself presentable and, at the least, well washed and brushed and combed, since he intended at sunset to make his way to Sylvia according to the directions on the letter he bore; "yet it may never come to this. I obtained entrance easily to this city; I have but the brains of a bird if, after I have made myself well acquainted with the place, I do not discover some way of getting Mistress Thorne and myself out of it."

By this time the sun was beginning to dip towards where the North Sea lay afar off; already its rays were slanting across the Meuse and into the windows of his room. The air was becoming cooler; soon the evening would be at hand; and then he would make his way towards the "Weiss Haus," as he knew the abode of the late Mr. Thorne was termed; and, if it might be, present his credentials to the young mistress of that house.

But first he must make a meal, since he had eaten nothing since he set out from St. Trond. Therefore he went now to the usual description of room where travellers ate, and, ordering a good substantial repast, at down to do justice to it. While he was waiting for his supper to be brought to him, he drew from the pocket in his vest the letter which Lord Peterborough had given him, and regarded it again.

It was addressed in the Earl's own hand to "Mistress Sylvia Thorne, of the Weiss Haus, Liége, in the Bishoprick of Liége," and tied with silk, but unsealed, his lordship having either adopted the ancient courteous custom of leaving all letters of presentation open, or perhaps desiring that the bearer of it should read the credentials he bore.

Needless to say that Bevill was not one who would have availed himself of the chance he had possessed for days of discovering what those credentials were. He would not have been here as the accredited agent of the Earl, and on such a mission as this, had it not been certain that the recommendation was all that was necessary to induce Sylvia Thorne to entrust herself to his hands. The confidence of Lord Peterborough told him plainly enough what the contents of that letter must be; while, even if it had not been so, Bevill would no more have thought of untying the silk bow and reading those contents than of breaking the seal had there been one.

But his astute lordship had made one slip in what he had written. In one corner of the folds, where the superscription was, he had written, "To present my cousin, Bevill Bracton, heretofore known to you. – P. & M."

"My lord must have supposed this letter would leave my hand only to be taken into the lady's," Bevill said to himself; "otherwise he would never have written my name thus. He should have put in its place, 'Monsieur André de Belleville,' since it must pass through the hands of some servitor or waiting maid to reach hers." Then, smiling to himself, he went on, "He warned me of the danger I must encounter should this letter fall into the hands of others than Mistress Thorne. Those dangers might well have been added to by this forgetfulness. However, it matters not now. 'Tis easily made safe."

He bade the serving man, who had not yet brought him his supper, fetch a sheet of papers a white wax candle, and some Spanish wax, and, when this was done, bade him bring also an inkhorn and pen. Then, folding Lord Peterborough's letter in the fresh sheet, he lit the wax and impressed it with a ring he wore, and, when the horn came, addressed it in French to "Mistress Thorne, at the Weiss Haus." Adding also, "The bearer waits."

"The house," he thought as now he ate his supper, "should be on this or some other quay. My lord said that great was the merchandise in which her father dealt, and also that he owned many vessels. He would be near the water's edge, since the river is navigable to the sea."

For precaution-the precaution of not doing aught that might in any way, if danger should arise, be inimical to Sylvia Thorne's security-Bevill had resolved that he would ask no questions in the "Gouden Leeuw" as to the situation of her house. He would give no intimation whatever that could connect his appearance in this city with the Englishwoman who, though not a captive, was at least not free from the environment of her country's foes. He had resolved that the man supposed to be a Frenchman named André de Belleville, residing at this inn, should not be known, in it at least, to be a visitor to the young Englishwoman at the Weiss Haus.

He went out shortly on to the quay and walked slowly along under the row of trees planted on it and on a similar one across the river, and observed that many of the burghers were taking the evening air with their wives and children. In their aspect there was little to be perceived that would have told a stranger that, either in their strong places or outside their walls, there lay the hostile army of the most dreaded monarch in Europe, which, at this time, meant almost the whole world. Neither did he see any French about, and certainly no soldiers of any rank; and he did not know that strict orders had been given in the Duke of Burgundy's name that all of them were to keep apart from, and, above all, not to molest, the inhabitants of any towns or cities they either held or surrounded.

He saw, however, many monks and priests, which did not astonish him, since he knew well that, though the Reformed Faith had been long since adopted here by the inhabitants, the Bishopric of Liége was in the Spanish interests, which meant the Romish, and always had been. Nay, had he not heard that here was a college of English Jesuits, as well as another of French?

Even, however, a Bevill continued his way, while thinking that, at last, he would have to ask some honest burgher to direct him to where the Weiss Haus might be, he passed a group of men, one or two of whom were clad in the garb of a priest, while the others were undistinguishable by their attire.

One of the latter, a young man of almost his own age, had fixed his eyes on Bevill as he drew near-as, indeed, many other eyes had been fixed on his erect figure and comely face before-while, as the group passed him, this young man not only stared hard at him, but, as Bevill could observe by a side glance, turned round to look again as he went by.

"I' fags!" Bevill said to himself, walking on slowly, "the man seems to know me, though never have I consorted with any of his seeming friends to my knowledge or recollection. And yet-and yet-those dark eyes that glinted at me under the trees do not appear strange, any more than did his other features. Where have I seen him before, or have I ever seen him? Tush! if 'twas ever, it must have been when I was in the last campaign. We were much given to running against these gentry."

He had reached the end of the most frequented part of the quay by now, and had, indeed, come to a part of it where the high houses, built in many cases of dark blue marble, no longer presented an unbroken array. Instead, they were detached from one another, and stood in large gardens having walls round them; while on the front, towards the quay, were openings in which were enormous iron gates. In many cases great warehouses close by lifted their heads high into the air, so that here they alternated with the residences and spoilt the latter (whose appearance was handsome) by their own unlovely though businesslike aspect. But, farther away still, there stood another mansion deeply embowered in trees and, at some considerable distance beyond it, an enormous warehouse, yet one that was such a distance off that, since the house itself was surrounded by the trees, it would in no way disturb the peace of the latter or the views from it. And the mansion itself now gleamed out white in the evening sun.

"It may well be her abode," Bevill thought to himself. "Very well it may; and if it is not, then must I ask the whereabouts of the Weiss Haus; or, maybe, it is across the river. Yet that matters not. I passed a ferry but now."

When, however, he stood in front of that great white mansion he learnt that he had found the house of her whom he had come from England to seek.

Through the bars of the great iron gate which this mansion possessed in common with the others hard by, Bevill could see the gardens laid out in the stiff Dutch fashion he had so often seen before, though still, it seemed to him as if some attempt had been made to give to them an English appearance. Beyond the straight beds of tulips, the flowers of which were now almost all gone, there was a lawn, or grass plot, green as any lawn in England, smooth and well kept, and having at its edges beds of roses placed in front of formal statues and summer-houses.

"There is some touch of our land here," Bevill said to himself. "In good truth, I do believe that I have found the lady."

Seeing through the bars an old man weeding 'twixt the rows of tulip plants, though he seemed to do his work in a half-hearted way as though indifferent to what success his efforts might produce, Bevill, addressing him in the best Dutch he could summon up, asked, "Is this the house of Mistress Thorne?"

"Ja; Ja wohl," the old man said, looking up from his work. "What do you desire?"

"To see her. It is for that I am here."

The gardener let his eyes rove over Bevill as he received this answer, and observed that he was well and handsomely dressed, although his dress, and breast and neck lace, showed signs of travel in spite of the brushing they had received; then he said:

"The Juffrouw sees little company now-none but old friends, and specially none of those who lie out there or there," waving his hands with a sweep which included, as Bevill very well understood, those who lay outside the town and in the citadel and Chartreuse.

"It may be she will see me," Bevill said. "At least, I will make trial of it. Take this," he continued, while drawing from his breast the letter he had so recently furnished with a further wrapper and giving it to the man; "and this for your labour," putting a rix-dollar into his hand. "Now, go and do my bidding."

The coin did for Bevill that which, perhaps, neither the packet nor his own tone of command might have been able to accomplish, and, thrusting his hoe into one of the flower beds, the gardener went off towards the white house, while muttering:

"I can take it as far as the stoop, but no farther. There it must be given to a house servant, who may deliver it into the hands of the Juffrouw. I can answer for no more."

"Do that, and it will serve. Make haste, the night falls; it is growing late."

When the old man had shambled off, Bevill, standing by a thicket at one side of the garden, let his eyes roam over the great white front of the old, solid house while observing how firmly it had been built, and how strong and handsome it was.

In front of the ground floor, to which three stone steps led up, there ran a long verandah, also of stone: above, on the first floor, where, Bevill supposed, the saloons were, there projected huge, bulging stone balconies leading out from the windows, and on one of these there was a great table placed, with chairs by it, so that he supposed people sat out here in the cool of the evening when the sun was gone. Also, there were flowers in china tubs everywhere, and orange trees and shrubs all about, and awnings too, whereby the great house presented not only a look of great solidity, but also one of comfort.

But now he saw the old gardener coming back towards him, and observed that his hand no longer held the letter. And next he remarked something else.

He saw a great striped curtain drawn back from behind the window, and from behind a lace curtain also, and, a moment later, there stepped on to the balcony a young woman clad all in black, though her long robe was broidered with white lace-a woman who, he saw at one glance, was tall and slight; while-also in the same glance-he perceived that she was beautiful.

After which, as he advanced hat in hand, until he was almost directly under that balcony where now the lady, her hands upon the edge, stood looking down at him bowing before her, he saw that she waved a sign of salutation to him, and, as she leant further over, said:

"Sir, for this visit I thank you. It is long since we have met. You are vastly welcome. Enter my house, I beg. One of the domestics will bring you to me."

With a bow, accompanied by a courteous acknowledgment of her words, Bevill proceeded towards the house, when to his astonishment he heard the old gardener, who had reached his side before this, mutter some words in an angry voice-the words, "He here again! He! No matter. To-night he shall not enter."

Attracted by these mutterings and also by the old man's glances directed towards the great gate, Bevill could not refrain from following those glances, and, as he did so, saw that a man's eyes were staring in through the wrought-iron bars.

The eyes he recognised as those belonging to the same man who had stared so inquiringly at him on the quay less than half an hour before.

CHAPTER XIII

The hall of this old house was large and square, its floor composed of brown and yellow diamond-shaped marble tiles, over the greater part of which were thrown down various rugs of gorgeous hues. Facing the entrance was a large staircase, also of marble, that, after ascending for five steps, turned to either side and so led up to a gallery above, from which the first floor rooms opened all round.

Now, as Bevill entered the hall, he saw that Sylvia had descended from that floor and was standing on the top step of the five awaiting him. Then, as he approached, she descended the other four steps and, coming swiftly towards him with both hands outstretched, exclaimed:

"So you are Bevill Bracton, who once played with me in the gardens of Carey Villa at Fulham-the young man who pined to be a soldier and became one. In truth, and I am well pleased to see you; yet, had I met you elsewhere I should have scarce known you for my old playmate."

"Nor I you, Mistress Sylvia Thorne; for then you were a little winsome child and now-"

"Now I am a woman. One too," she added, while a shade crept over her face, "whom you find in sad and sorry plight. For, as you know, my father has gone from me-from me who loved him so! – and I am here in this beleaguered city, not knowing whether to leave it or stay on and brave the worst. Yet be that as it may, I thank you for coming here, for offering your services to your kinsman on my behalf."

Murmuring his regrets for the loss of her father and also for the situation in which she found herself placed, while protesting that that which he had done and hoped still more to do was nothing, Bevill could not but let his eyes roam over the features of the young woman who stood welcoming him. And, as he did so, he acknowledged how truthfully the Comtesse de Valorme had spoken when she told him that she had the gift of beauty.

For beautiful Sylvia Thorne was, with that beauty on which no man gazes without giving instant acknowledgment thereof, even though that acknowledgment is never outwardly expressed by eye or voice.

The child's large dark grey eyes-perhaps they were a dark hazel-yet who may tell the shade of women's eyes at one swift glance! – fringed with dark lashes, as he had recalled to the Earl of Peterborough, were, of course, the same; but the rest had changed. The dark chestnut hair that, in Sylvia's girlhood, had flowed loosely about her, was now coiled in masses above her white forehead; the clear-cut features that had promised so much in the young girl had redeemed in her young womanhood that which they promised. And those quiet, calm eyes well became the oval face, straight nose, and small mouth, the upper lip being divinely short; while, when Lord Peterborough had agreed that she was passing fair, and the Comtesse had said that she was beautiful yet seemed not to know that she was so, each had judged aright. Also, there was in her the tranquillity that the latter had spoken of, but shadowed, too, by the memory of a recent sorrow. For the rest, she was, like Rosalind, "more than common tall," upright, and full of dignity; a woman who, as years went on-if they were peaceful, quiet ones, with all that should accompany them, such as love, home, and children; years undisturbed by the struggles for triumph or the tears of failure-would develop into a stately, and it may be commanding one.

Doubtless, as Bevill looked on Sylvia Thorne, so, also, she looked to see what changes time had wrought in the youth who, once little better than a stripling, was now a man, strong, firm, self-reliant. If so, what she saw should not have impressed her unfavourably. The handsome features had not altered, but only become more firmly set; the mouth, well shaped, spoke of determination, and told of one who, without obstinacy, would still remain unturned from any resolution he had come to; the stalwart form of the man had taken the place of the tall, promising youth.

Seated in that great hall into which by now the rays of the evening sun were pouring, and to which two servants had brought great candelabra filled with white wax candles, while they had already lit those in the sconces on the pillars, Sylvia and Bevill spoke of what the future might have before them. But that which Sylvia now told the young man seemed scarcely to convey the idea that he had undertaken a journey likely to bear much fruit.

"Since my dear father's death," she said, after Bevill had described some portions of his journey from London, though omitting the fact of his having been recognised by Sparmann, since he thought it inadvisable to tell her that there was danger in his undertaking, "I have lived here with a companion. Almost, one might say, a chaperon, or, as the old tyrannical rulers of the land would have termed her, a duenna. Yet now she has fallen sick-in truth, I think the French have terrified her into a fever. Therefore she has departed-it was but yesterday-to her own people at Brussels, where, however, she will also find the French; and I am alone in this great house."

"What, in consequence, have you resolved on doing?"

"On shutting it up and seeking refuge at Mynheer Van Ryk's-"

"The house to which your friend the Comtesse de Valorme has gone!" Bevill exclaimed.