CHAPTER XV
UNITED
All through Picardy, from Artois to the Ile de France, from Normandy to Champagne, the wheat was a-ripening early that year, the trees in the orchards and gardens of the rich, fruitful province had their boughs bent to the earth with their loads, and, so great was the summer heat, the cattle stood in the rivers and pools for coolness, or sought shelter under the elms and poplars dotted about by the river's banks.
Yet, heat notwithstanding, the great bare road that runs from Calais through Boulogne, Abbeville, and Amiens, as well as through Clermont and Chantilly and St. Denis to Paris, had still its continuous traffic to which neither summer nor winter made much difference, except when the snows of the latter belated many diligences and waggons-for it was the high road between the coast and the capital. And thus it was now, in this hot, broiling June of 1746. Along that road, passing each other sometimes, sometimes breaking down, sometimes, by the carelessness of drunken drivers or postillions, getting their wheels into ditches and sticking there for hours, went almost every vehicle that was known in the France of those days. Monseigneur's carriage, drawn by four or six stout travelling roadsters-wrenched for the occasion from the service of Monseigneur's starving tenants-and with Monseigneur within it looking ineffably bored at the heat and the dust and the inferior canaille who obtruded themselves on his vision-would lumber by the diligence, or Royal Post, farmed from Louis the well-beloved-so, loved, perhaps, because he despised his people and said France would last his time, which was long enough! – or be passed by a desobligéant, or chaise for one person, or by a fat priest on a post-horse, or by a travelling carriage full of provincials en route for Paris. Also, to add to the continuous traffic on this road in that period, were berlins à quatre chevaux, carriers' waggons loaded with merchandise either from or to England, countless horsemen civil and military, and innumerable pedestrians, since the accomplishment of long journeys on foot, with a wallet slung on the back, was then one of the most ordinary methods of travelling amongst the humbler classes.
Seated in the banquette, or hooded seat, attached to the back of the diligence from Calais to Amiens, on one of these broiling days in June of 1746, were Kate Fane-as now she alone would describe herself or allow herself to be styled-and her father. They had crossed from England in the ordinary packet-boat a day or two before, and were at this moment between Abbeville and Amiens, at which latter place they proposed to remain for the present at least. To look at her none would have supposed that, not more than a week or two before, this golden-haired girl, now dressed in a plain-checked chintz, with, to protect her head from the heat, a large flapping straw hat, had been discarded by the man whom she had imagined to be her husband; had been told that she was, possibly, no lawful wife. For she looked happier, brighter at this time than she had ever done since she went through a form of marriage with the Viscount Fordingbridge, because-though not in the way that he had falsely insinuated-she was free of him.
"What was it Archie said to ye?" asked her father as the diligence toiled up a small hill, the road of which was shaded by trees from the burning sun. "What was it he said to ye in the letter you got at Calais? Tell me again; I like not to think that my daughter has been flouted and smirched by such a scoundrel as that. Lawfully married, humph! Lawfully married, he said, eh?"
"Lawfully married enough, father," Kate replied. "Lawfully enough to tie me to him for ever as his wife. But," she went on, "lawful or not lawful, nothing shall ever induce me to see him, to speak with him again."
"Read me the letter," said Fane; "let me hear all about it."
"Nay, nay," answered his daughter, "time enough when we get to Amiens, when we shall all meet again. Oh, the joyful day! The blessed chance! To think that to-night we shall all of us be together once more! All! all! Just as we used to be in the happy old times in the Trousse Vache," and she busied herself with taking a little wine and water from a basket she had with her, and a bunch of grapes and some chipped bread, and ministering to the old man.
So, as you may gather from her words, those who had been in such peril in England were back safe in France. Bertie Elphinston had crossed, disguised, of course, as a drover, unmolested by "infernal sloops o' war and bomb-ketches" – to use honest McGlowrie's words-or anything else. And, also, the Sholtos had come in the same way, finding, indeed, so little let or hindrance in either the river or on the sea, that they began to think the English King's rage and hate against all who had taken part in the late rebellion were slacked at last. They were, in truth, not nearly glutted yet, and the safe, undisturbed passage which they had been fortunate enough to make was due to that strange chance which so often preserves those who are in greatest danger.
Still, they were over, no matter how or by what good fortune, and that night-that afternoon, in another hour's time-all would meet at the Inn, La Croix Blanche, in Amiens.
At Calais Kate had learned the welcome tidings; a letter had been given into her hands by no less a person than the great Dessein himself-hotel-keeper, marchand-de-vin, job-master, and letter of coaches, chaises, and post-horses, and plunderer of travellers generally! – and in it was news from Father Sholto, as he might safely be called here in France, and from Bertie and Douglas.
Sholto's letter told her all she desired to know, viz., that Fordingbridge's suggestion of his being a priest was a lie, "the particulars of which," the Jesuit wrote, "I will give you at Amiens when we meet." Bertie's, on the other hand, told her-manfully and, of course, as a woman would think, selfishly-that he regretted that it was an implied lie. "Because," wrote he, "had it been the truth, we might have become man and wife within twenty-four hours of meeting, and now we are as far apart as ever." Some other details were also given, such as that Father Sholto was in residence for the time being at the Jesuit College, and that Bertie had rejoined his regiment and was now on duty at the Citadel. Douglas was at the Croix Blanche, and would take care that suitable rooms were kept for them, though, since it happened to be the great summer fair-time, the city was full of all kinds of people, and rooms in fierce demand at every hostelry.
These letters, received by Kate as they landed from the packet-boat in the canal at Calais, were sufficient to prompt her to lose no time in hastening onward-north. The diligence, she found, left the hospitable doors of Monsieur Dessein at five o'clock on summer mornings, and did the distance of sixty miles to Amiens in eleven hours, which Dessein spoke of approvingly-and falsely-as being the fastest possible. Still they could not afford anything that was faster-for they had little money in their purse these days. Therefore, at dawn, they clambered into the banquette, which happened to be vacant, and set out upon their road.
And now, as the diligence skirted the river Somme, and drew near to Picquigny, the towers of the cathedral Nôtre Dame d'Amiens came into sight, and the ramparts of the city. And, because it was fair-time, the roads were full of people of all kinds streaming towards it; of market people, with their wares, and waggons of fruit and vegetables, and poultry, of saltimbanques and strolling actors, strong men, fat women, dwarfs, and giants-since in those days fairs were not much different from what they are now, only the play was a little rougher and the speech a little coarser even among the lowest.
Nevertheless, amidst the ringing of the cathedral bells, as well as those of the Collegiate Church and Amiens' fourteen parish churches, the diligence arrived at last, and only one hour late, at the office of the Poste du Roi, and there, walking up and down in front of it, were Bertie and Douglas, both in their uniforms, and waiting for them.
"How did you know, Mr. Elphinston," Kate asked, glad of the bustle and confusion in the streets caused by the fair and by the arrival of the diligence, "that we should come to-day? We might not have crossed from England for another week-nay, another month, for the matter of that."
"We should have been here all the same," Bertie replied. "I am not on duty at this time in the day, and Douglas would have come every afternoon. We have watched the arrival of the diligence, Kate, for the last week-since-ever since you wrote to say you were about to set out."
"I did not know I told Archie that."
"No, but you told me. Have you forgotten all you wrote to me, Kate?"
"No," she said, in a low voice, and with her soft blush. "Yet, remember, Ber-Mr. Elphinston-we are as far apart as ever. Archie says I am, in truth, that man's wife."
"I remember," he replied; "I must remember," and he led the way into the inn, which was close by the Poste du Roi.
The young men had been fortunate enough to secure a room for themselves and the new arrivals, where they could sit as well as take their meals apart, in spite of the inn being crowded. Nay, those who crowded it now were scarcely of the class who require sitting-rooms, nor, in some cases, bedrooms even; many of them being very well satisfied to lie down and take their rest in the straw of the stables. For among the customers of La Croix Blanche were horse-dealers from Normandy and from Flanders; the performers at the booths, the strolling actors, mendicant friars-if friars they were! – vendors of quack medicines, and all the olla-podrida that went to make up a French fair. These cared not where they slept, while of those who sought bedrooms there were commis voyageurs, ruffling gentlemen of the road, bedizened with tawdry lace, and with red, inflamed faces beneath their bag-wigs à la pigeon-on whom the local watch kept wary eyes-large purchasers of woollen ribbons and ferrets, serges, stuffs, and black and green soap for the Paris market, in the production of all of which things Amiens has ever been famous, as well as for its pâti de canard. Nor did any of these people require private rooms for the consumption of their food, but, instead, ate together at the ordinary, or fed in the kitchen among the scullions and their pots and pans.
Therefore, undisturbed, or disturbed only by the cries that arose from below, as evening came on and the guests' table became crowded, Douglas and Bertie ministered to the wants of Kate and her father, and compared notes of the passages they had made across from England. Also they spoke of their future, Kate's being that which needed the most discussion.
"Prince Edward is safe," said Bertie, "of this there is no doubt. He is known by those of this country, though by none in England, to be secure with Cluny in the mountain of Letternilichk, near Moidart. Off Moidart is the 'Bellona,' a Nantes privateer, with three hundred and forty men on board, and well armed. She will get him away, in spite of Lestock's squadron, which is hovering about between Scotland and Brittany. Now, Kate, when he arrives in Paris, as he will do shortly, his household will be a pleasant one. Your place must be there."
"In the household of the prince!" exclaimed Kate.
"Ay! in the household of the prince. Nay, never fear. You will not be the only woman. The Ladies Elcho and Ogilvie will be with you; also old Lady Lochiel. Oh, you will be a bonnie party! While, as for Mr. Fane, some place must also be found."
"But who is to find these places?" she asked.
"Archie," replied Douglas. "He has interest enough with Tencin to do anything. Indeed, from finding a post at court to obtaining a lettre de cachet, he can do it."
"Why," said Bertie to him aside, noticing that he turned pale as he spoke, "did you shiver then, Douglas, as I have seen you do before now? You do not fear a lettre de cachet for Vincennes or the Bastille-and-and-we are not talking of the man at whose name I have seen you shiver before."
"I-I do not know," his companion replied. "It must be that I am fey, or a fool, or both. Yet, last night I dreamt that Archie was asking the minister for a lettre de cachet to consign someone-I know not whom-to the Bastille, and-and-I woke up shivering as I did just now."
"It could not be for you, at least," answered the other.
"Perhaps," replied Douglas, moodily, "for someone who had injured me. Who knows?"
Whatever reply his stronger-minded friend might have made to this gloomy supposition, which was by no means the first he had known Douglas to be subjected to, was not uttered since at that moment Archibald Sholto himself entered the room.
His greetings to Kate were warm and, at the same time, brotherly. He, too, remembered how for years the little party assembled now in La Croix Blanche had all been as though one family; he remembered the black spot that had come amongst them; that to Fordingbridge, whom he himself had introduced into Fane's house, was owing most, if not all, of the evil that had befallen them. Also he recalled that, but for Fordingbridge's treachery, neither he, nor Bertie, nor Douglas would have been forced to flee out of England for their lives; that Kate would never have forfeited her position nor have had the foul yet guarded suggestion hurled against her that she was no wife, but only a priest's mistress. Then, when their first welcomes and salutations were over, he spoke aloud to her on the subject that, above all, engrossed their minds.
"Kitty," he said, "is Fordingbridge gone mad? For to madness alone can such conduct as his be attributed."
"I do not know," she replied. "I cannot say. All I know is that he is a villain and a traitor-that I have done with him for ever. Yet he must be mad when he throws out so extraordinary a hint as that he is a priest. He could not have been a priest, and you not know it-could he?"
Up from the guests' room below there came the hubbub of those at supper, the shouts of the copper captains for more petits pigolets of wine, mixed with the clattering of plates and dishes, the calls of other travellers for food, and the general disturbance that accompanies a French inn full of visitors, as Father Sholto answered gravely:
"My child, he might have been a priest and I not know it; God might even have allowed so wicked a scheme to enter his heart as that, being one, he should go through a form of marriage with an innocent woman. But, my dear, one thing is still certain, he was not, is not, a priest-I know it now beyond all doubt; you are as lawfully his wife as it is possible for you to be."
"What-what, then, was the use of such a statement, such a lie, added to all the others which-God forgive him! – he has already told since first he darkened our door?"
"The gratification of his hate, his revenge against you and all of us. He hated you because you had never loved him, and had at last come to despise him; he hated Bertie because you had always loved him" (as he spoke, the eyes of those two met in one swift glance, and then were quickly lowered to the table at which they sat); "he hated me because I knew him. And, remember, until he had put himself in the power of Douglas and Sir Charles Ames by insinuating himself to be what he was not-a priest-he thought that I should soon be removed from his path for ever. Once in the power of the English Government, my tongue would have been silenced; it would have been hard to prove, perhaps, that he was not a priest; that you were a lawful married woman."
"Yet, surely, it could have been proved in some way. And-and-of what avail such a lie to him? Knowing he is not a priest, he would not have dared to take another wife."
"Perhaps," replied Sholto, "he had no desire to take another. If he is not mad, he had but one wish, to outrage and insult you, and thereby avenge himself upon you. Moreover, he must have some feelings still left in him-your very renunciation of him may have led to his denial of you."
"How have you found for certain that he is no priest?"
"In the easiest manner. A letter to the 'General' at Rome, another to the 'Provincial' at Lisbon, and, lo! a reply from each to the effect that neither under the name of Simeon Larpent nor the title of Viscount Fordingbridge had anyone been ever admitted to the Society of Jesus. At St. Omer, I knew, of course, such a thing could not have happened; nay, I knew more: I knew that neither as novice nor acolyte, even, had Fordingbridge ever been admitted, nor had he submitted to any of those severe examinations which all must pass through ere they can become these alone. As for priest-well, it was impossible, impossible that he could be one and I not know it, never have heard of it."
"So, Kate," whispered Bertie to her, "you are still Lady Fordingbridge. As far apart as ever-as far apart as ever."
"Surely," said she to him, as now they talked alone and outside the general conversation that was going on, "surely it is better so. I have renounced him, it is true; willingly I will never see nor speak to him again; he and I are sundered for ever. Yet-yet-Bertie," and for the first time now, after so long, she called him frankly by the old, familiar name, "I could never have come to you had I been that other thing. You could not have taken such as I should have been for your wife."
He looked at her, but answered no word. Then he sighed and turned away.
They sat far into the evening talking and making plans, while still, through the warm summer night, the noise of the crowded city came in at their windows and nearly deafened them. And this is what they decided upon for the future.
The troop to which Bertie Elphinston belonged in the Regiment of Picardy would be removed, later on, to quarters at St. Denis, and at about the same time Douglas would rejoin his regiment in Paris, while his brother Archibald was about to depart for St. Omer, where he should remain for some time. He had, he said, nothing more to do now in the world, since the restoration he had hoped so much from had failed altogether. Therefore, because at present there was no need for Kate to go to Paris, and because, also, her father became more and more ailing every day, they decided to remain at Amiens, to live quietly there in lodgings, and to have at least the friendship of the two young men to cheer them. There was still a little money left from the sale of Doyle Fane's fencing school in Paris-indeed, it had never been touched since Kate's marriage-which would suffice for their wants, especially since Amiens was cheaper than Paris to reside in. Then, when the time came, they would all move on to the capital, and there, as they told each other, try to forget the black, bitter year which had come and separated them all from the happy life they had once led together.
"Only," said Bertie once again that night to her, ere he went back to the Citadel, "only, still we are parted; the gulf is ever between us. O Kate, Kate! if it were not for that."
And once more for reply she whispered:
"'Tis better so, better than if it had been as he, that other, said. At least I am honest; if-if freedom ever comes, no need for you to blush for me."
"Nay," he said, "none could do that, knowing all. For myself, Kate, I would it had been as the wretch said. Then the bar would not be there."
"But the blot would."
With which words she left him and the others, going with her father to the rooms prepared for them.
Meanwhile, as now the full night was upon them, the hubbub and the uproar grew greater in the inn. Back from the booths and open-air theatres came the mummers and the mountebanks, the mendicant friars with their pills and potions, balsams, styptics, and ointments, the Norman and Flemish horse dealers-the latter drunk and shouting for more drink-and all the rest. And they distributed themselves about the Croix Blanche, as, indeed, they were doing in every other hostelry in Amiens, and laughed and shrieked and howled and cursed as they sought their beds in the straw or the garrets, and turned the ancient city into a veritable pandemonium.
"I will walk with you a part of the way," said Douglas to his brother and Bertie as they rose to depart. "This narrow street is hot and stuffy, especially with the fumes that arise from the revellers below. The night air will be cool and refreshing before sleep."
And buckling on his sword he went down with them, and out through the still crowded inn yard.
At the Jesuit College he parted with Archibald, and went on a little farther with Bertie, and then, saying that he was refreshed with the coolness, bade him also good-night.
"It is good for us all to be together again, Bertie, boy, is it not?" he exclaimed as they shook each other by the hand; "good to think that, with but a few intervals of separation when on service, we shall scarcely ever be parted more. Nothing is wanting now but that you and Kate could come together lawfully."
"That," replied the other, "seems never likely to be permitted to us. Well, we must bear it, hard as it is. Yet, Douglas, I am as honestly glad as you can be that we are safe back in France with all our troubles over."
"Yes," replied Douglas, "with our troubles over. Yet I wonder where that rogue ingrain, Fordingbridge, is?"
He was soon to know.