Title: The House of Spies
Author: Deeping, Warwick
Language: English
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THE
HOUSE OF SPIES



BY

WARWICK DEEPING



With Frontispiece in color by

A. C. MICHAEL



New York

Cassell & Company, Limited

1913



Copyright, 1913, by
CASSELL & COMPANY, Limited



CONTENTS
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XV
CHAPTER XVI
CHAPTER XVII
CHAPTER XVIII
CHAPTER XIX
CHAPTER XX
CHAPTER XXI
CHAPTER XXII
CHAPTER XXIII
CHAPTER XXIV
CHAPTER XXV
CHAPTER XXVI
CHAPTER XXVII
CHAPTER XXVIII
CHAPTER XXIX
CHAPTER XXX
CHAPTER XXXI
CHAPTER XXXII
CHAPTER XXXIII
CHAPTER XXXIV
CHAPTER XXXV
CHAPTER XXXVI
CHAPTER XXXVII
CHAPTER XXXVIII
CHAPTER XXXIX
CHAPTER XL



The House of Spies


I


Jasper Benham tumbled out of bed, with the crack of a pistol-shot
splitting the silence of the night. Before him ran the long casement
window, each diamond pane a silver lozenge set in a frame of jet.
Moonlight came through and lay patterned upon the floor.

"Master Jasper--Master Jasper----!"

It was a plaintive howl from under the window, the voice of a man who
was afraid.

"Master Jasper--horse-thieves in t' yard!"

The lattice opened, and a pair of broad shoulders caught the moonlight.

"What's this--Jack----?"

John Bumpstead, the groom, was squeezing himself against the wall.

"Dear Lord--sir--they've bruk into t' stable. Me and Jim Burgess tumbled
up to see what was wrong. We couldn't face pistols, sir. They be there
still, sir----"

"What! The infernal rogues! Here, take the blunderbuss, Jack, and have a
blaze----"

"Master Jasper--I dursn't----"

"You're not man enough to scare rooks!"

The figure disappeared from the window, and from the moonlit room came
the sounds of an active young man plunging furiously for his clothes.
Anything served; a frilled shirt, the red coat of a lieutenant of
volunteers thrown over a chair, a pair of riding-breeches and rough
boots. A hanger hung from the bed-post, and there was the blunderbuss in
the corner. Jasper Benham went down the oak stairs with the clattering
impetuosity of a boy playing hide-and-seek. He drew back the bolts of
the heavy porch door, and ran the oak bar out of its socket.

Jack Bumpstead waited in the porch, with little coquettish flirts of
something white swaying in the draught. He had been valorously quick in
dressing, but his teeth chattered behind his thin beard.

"Take the oak bar, Jack; it's a good cudgel. How many of them?"

"May be a dozen."

"Fudge! Where's Jim Jenner?"

"I shouldn't like t' say, sir."

"No doubt back in bed and under the sheets by this time! Shout--if you
can't fight, Jack; make a noise--anything. Come along."

They skirted along the terrace, turned down by the yew hedge, and so by
the stone-paved passage between the bake-house and the great brick barn.
The passage was in deep shadow, and Jasper had no notion that a man was
lurking there till the yellow spurt of the powder in the priming-pan of
a pistol made him throw himself against the wall. The piece missed fire,
and the clatter of heavy boots over the stones betrayed what had become
of the man who had pulled the trigger. There was some shouting in the
stable yard, and the stamping of horses. One deep voice sent oaths
flying, the savage and impatient oaths of a man in a fluster.

Jack Bumpstead had thrown himself flat on his face. He caught young
Benham by the ankle.

"You shan't go for to be shot, master; they be some of Dan Stunt's
gang."

"Let go--you fool!"

"They don't mind God or devil, sir. Better for 'em to have the nags----"

"Let go, Jack, or by Jove----"

He twisted free and ran on into the yard in time to see a hustle of
horses crowding through the gateway into the moonlight. One fellow was
still lying across his horse's back with his legs dangling. Another sat
gaunt and erect, pistol raised, ready, like a big forefinger.

Jasper's blunderbuss came up. He fired high, because of the horses, and
the belching mouth of the blunderbuss stabbed the night with flame.
Smoke hung for a moment, drifting away in wisps. The gateway had emptied
as though by magic, and in the place of the black knot of men and
horses, a strip of moonlit road was guarded by the two black, brick
pillars with their two stone balls.

Jasper ran for the gate, shouting to Jack Bumpstead as he ran.

"Get a lantern--get a lantern."

Nothing lay in the roadway beyond the gate, no dark thing that squirmed
with leaden slugs burning in its body. A dark blur that moved broke the
white road across the paddock. Jasper watched it a moment with jaws set,
and then turned back into the yard. He was in an ugly temper, and even
the tail of Jack Bumpstead's shirt, flickering in doleful whiteness by
the stable door, flapped no laughter from him. A tinder-box was kept on
a window-ledge close to where the cord that held the great stable
lantern sloped down to a hook in the wall. The groom had groped for the
tinder-box and was trying to get a light, though his hands were shaking
so that he struck the flint with his knuckles more often than he struck
it with the steel.

"The deuce, Jack! Here, give me the things!"

From the loose-box at the far end of the stable came the whimpering of a
horse and the clatter of hoofs on the brick floor.

"Why, they've left Devil Dick!"

"Sure, Master Jasper, sure!"

"That's luck, indeed!"

John Bumpstead managed to get one of the sulphur-tipped matches alight.
Benham had lowered the great lantern and it dangled close by. The groom
put the match to the candle, and the yellow rays shooting between the
black bars showed four empty stalls littered with trampled straw.

Benham pulled a wry face.

"Confound the blackguards! Two cart-horses, and Peggy, and Brown Bob
gone. And they have left Devil Dick, the best of the whole bunch!"

He went to the loose-box, and a warm nose was thrust over the door. The
horse's lips nibbled affectionately at his hand.

"Jack, light that other lantern there. Run into the house and get me a
brace of pistols. You'll find them in the case on the oak chest in my
room. Run, man, run. I'll saddle Dick."

"Sir----?"

"Don't stand and stare, you fool! Do you think I'm going to let these
gentry go without a gallop! I may follow them up if I can't bring them
to action."

In ten minutes Devil Dick was prancing sideways through the gateway,
carrying a bare-headed, bare-legged man with a pistol in each pocket. A
good square jaw, blue eyes, and a firm mouth are the points of a
youngster who does not fawn upon fate. Jasper Benham had been an
impudent young cub, a little laughing, keen-eyed imp who had been
whacked and cuffed into a sturdy, determined, brown-faced man.

Jasper drew Devil Dick on to the grass and listened. The night was
still, with a gibbous moon sailing away up yonder, and a vague,
inconstant breeze murmuring occasionally in the trees and hedgerows.
Rush Heath House stood black and huge at Jasper's back. He listened to a
faint galloping rhythm coming like the noise of a stream running in the
distance. The moonlight shone on the deep-set eyes under the square
brows.

"Tsst--Dick--on--lad."

They started away through the paddock, and over the furze-covered slopes
of Rush Heath, the big black horse swinging smoothly between Jasper's
knees. Stones clinked in the road. The stunted thorns rushed by,
stretching out warning hands. In the damp places the rush tufts
splintered the moonlight like silver wires. The further woods were very
black upon the hillsides, and the fresh smell of the spring night was
tinged with the scent of the sea.

Jasper galloped through Polecat Wood, on over Stubb's Common, and past
Flanders Farm into Lavender's Hole. At the top of the further hill he
drew in to listen, and heard something that heartened him and set his
blood a-spinning. There was good turf along the track over Stonehanger
Heath, and by the light of the moon he could see the fresh marks left by
the horses ahead. A lively imagination is needed for the making of a
coward, and Jasper Benham's shoulders were too sturdy to form a
squatting-place for fear. Devil Dick at a gallop was made for audacity,
pistol-shots, and the clashing of swords.

"Scurvy thieves----!"

The land was very wild here, rough wood and heathland rising toward
uplands that overlooked the sea. Stunted oaks and firs hung in black
tangles against the moon. Desolate furze-covered knolls heaved this way
and that, and the track plunged, twisted, and burrowed through thickets.
Even higher ground lay up yonder under the moon, a bluff ridge where the
trees had been blown all one way by the wind, and the furze rolled like
green breakers.

Jasper saw the roof and chimneys of a house rising black against the
sky. He lost sight of it for a moment as the track curved under a rocky
bank where dwarf trees and brushwood broke the moonlight. Then the house
reappeared again upon the hilltop, a bleak house, parapeted,
square-windowed, with massive chimneys built for the roar of the wind.
Tattered thorns, oaks, and firs sheltered it on the north and the
south-west, and held out their arms to it as though it had tormented
them for years with some strange secret. The furze broke upon the very
walls of its terrace and garden.

Jasper drew in, like a man challenged in the darkness.

"Stonehanger! I had forgotten the old place!"

He looked up at it, frowningly, as though it roused grim thoughts,
ghostly drifts of gossip that made folk draw nearer to the fire.

"Who's there now? Bless me if I know! These horse-thieves----!"

He took a pistol from his pocket and let Devil Dick advance at a walk.
The black house up yonder oppressed him. Such things had happened there.
It was as though it threw a shadow across his heart.

What was that? Horses galloping! By George--what a fool he was to be
shying at a dark house like a nervous horse, while the gentry yonder
were going over the hill. Jasper urged Devil Dick to a trot. The track
was steep here, and Uttered with loose stones.

But in chasing blackguards a man may forget to be on his guard against
the blackguards' tricks. At the spot where the grey stone wall of the
Stonehanger garden began a great yew threw its shadow across the road.
And a man leaning round the trunk of the tree, flashed a pistol at
Jasper, and then jumped into the road.

"Take that--for being obstinate, and be darned to you!"

Jasper was down in the road as quickly as the man, simply because Devil
Dick had swerved and thrown him, and left him lying on his back. The
horse-thief bent over Jasper with the butt-end of his pistol ready. A
superfluous precaution. Benham of Rush Heath lay as still as a stone,
and his horse had bolted down the road.

The man spat, and nodded.

"You lie nice and quiet there, lad. I should have liked your nag, but
the beast's bolted. Good-night to ye----"

And he went off with a wave of the hat.



II


There was a light in Stonehanger House. It had flashed out suddenly in
one of the side windows, as though the black house had raised an eyelid
and looked out on the world with a sinister, yellow eye.

The light disappeared from the window, and left the eastern side of the
house a mere dark surface. At the same moment a gust of wind came over
the hill from the sea. The stunted trees shook their fists at the house,
cursing it and bidding it beware.

Then a door opened, and the light came out into the paved yard at the
back of Stonehanger. It flickered across toward the stable whose stone
roof was brushed by the boughs of a clump of firs. There was the sound
of some one hammering at a door, a hollow sound like blows struck with
the hilt of a sword upon the panelling covering some secret
hiding-place.

The light approached the road, shooting yellow rays among the overgrown
laurels and hollies of the shrubbery inside the stone wall. There was a
gate here, with an arched stone bridge leading over the ditch to the
road. The gate was thrust open and the lantern held out at the end of a
white forearm. Ten yards away Jasper Benham lay flat on his back, one
arm flung out, the other twisted as though it were broken. The lantern
swayed uncertainly at the gate and then came down into the road. It
showed the white face and the slight figure of a girl, a red cloak flung
over her shoulders, her dress open at the throat.

She stood and looked at the figure in the road as though she were
shrewdly afraid, and ready to reason with herself for being so.

"Don't be a coward, Nance. You won't help any one by being afraid."

She spoke the words aloud, in a mood to be reassured by the sound of her
own voice.

"Can't you see that the man has a soldier's coat? The French may have
landed at last. You heard horses go by, and the sound of a pistol-shot."

She moved forward and, holding the lantern shoulder-high, bent over the
man in the road. It was a pure coincidence that Benham opened his eyes
at the same moment, and blinked at the light that was within two feet of
his face.

"Hallo!--O--my head!"

He stirred, turned on one elbow, and fell back with a savage start of
pain.

"Damnation, what's this? What have they done to my arm? Who--? I say--I
beg your pardon----!"

Sudden sanity came into his eyes, and he lay and stared at the girl's
face. It seemed that these two were fascinated momentarily by each
other's eyes. Benham moistened his lips, and made an effort to explain
himself.

"I must have had a crack on the head. Of course, what am I thinking of!
The scoundrel shot at me from behind a tree. Where's Dick? Can you see
anything of a horse?"

She looked up and down the lane, and her eyes returned slowly to his
face. They were very solemn eyes, big and dark, like the eyes of a
southern woman.

"I can't see any horse. Have the French landed----?"

"The French?"

"Yes."

"Nothing so respectable. I was chasing horse-thieves, and one of them
shot me from behind that yew-tree. I'm Benham of Rush Heath."

Her solemnity took the colour of compassion.

"I'm sorry. And your poor arm there! No, don't move. I'm Nance Durrell,
and this is Stonehanger Lane."

"Durrell! H'm. That fellow's bullet must have broken my right arm."

"I heard horses galloping, and the sound of a pistol-shot. You see, I
was watching for father. And I couldn't wake David; he's stone deaf."

"You live here then?"

"Yes, at Stonehanger. Don't you know?"

Jasper looked discomfited by his ignorance.

"It's my head; this tumble has knocked my wits to pieces. I wonder if I
can get up."

She put the lantern down, and they regarded each other with great
seriousness.

"I don't know. There's your arm! And it has been bleeding."

"Has it?"

"Sssh--it must hurt!"

"Well, I can't lie here in the road, can I?"

"No."

"I must get up--and home--somehow."

She looked at him as though considering what was best to do.

"I know. You ought to have your arm fastened to your side. I had my arm
broken once. I'll go in and get a scarf."

She picked up the lantern and disappeared through the gate with beams of
light swinging about her in the darkness. As for Jasper Benham, his head
had cleared sufficiently to admit some measure of astonished curiosity.
Who were the Durrells, and how had they come to Stonehanger House, and
how was it he could not remember ever having heard the name?

"Nance Durrell--Nance Durrell."

He repeated it to himself as he lay under the shadow of the yew-tree, as
though the uttering of the name might help him to realise that he was
not dreaming in his bed at Rush Heath. No; the ground was solid, the yew
bough above him was solid, the pain in his arm was very real. And the
girl who called herself Nance Durrell? He found himself waiting
impatiently for her return, and watching the foliage of the shrubs for
the shine of her lantern.

She was back again in the road, carrying a red scarf in one hand.

"I had to hunt for it, or I should not have been so long."

She put the lantern down, and knelt beside him, her lips parted, her
eyes full of her purpose. It struck Benham of a sudden that she must
have led a free and rather lonely life. She seemed ready to rely upon
herself, to meet responsibilities with the frank self-reliance of a girl
who has had to trust to her own hands.

"Do you think you can sit up?"

"Of course I can."

"Wait; I'll help you. Hold your arm with your other hand."

She drew herself behind him, and put her hands under his shoulders.

"Now."

He was up, with her hands still holding him, and her breath touching his
cheek.

"Can you bear it?"

"Yes."

"Draw the arm across--so."

"Phew--confound it! I'm sorry; it's nothing."

"I know how it must hurt."

The frank impulse toward sympathy in her voice sent a start of emotion
through him. He set his teeth as she bound the broken arm to his side
with the red scarf. There was a kind of pleasure in the pain.

"What gentle hands you have."

"Have I? There! How does that feel?"

"Splendid."

"Now I'll help you up."

Whatever a man's pluck may be it cannot raise him above nature, or make
him independent of the ills of the flesh. Jasper Benham scrambled to his
feet to be smothered by a sudden fog of faintness that blotted out the
moonlight and set him groping with his hands.

"I can't help it--but----"

She understood what ailed him, and was practical in her compassion.

"You're faint."

Her hands steadied him.

"Put your head down--just for a moment."

He felt the grip of her strong young hands, and the thrill of it may
have helped his heart.

"That's better."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

She picked up the lantern and, holding it high, looked at him with frank
concern.

"You can't get back to Rush Heath to-night."

"I am afraid that's the truth."

"You must come in here. I'll wake David somehow. He can go over to Rush
Heath as soon as it is light, and tell them to send a cart."

"What a friend you are."

She stood there in sudden forceful contrast to all the things feminine
that he had ever known. There was a sweet and brave directness about her
that challenged his manhood. Simple, chivalrous homage; some women win
such service with a word or a look. He bowed to her, and his heart bowed
with his body.

"You are very good to me."

"Good! What else could one do!"

Everything about the grey, upland house seemed fashioned out of stone.
The paths and yard were paved with rough stones from the quarry; the
hall and passages floored with flagstones. Jasper Benham found himself
lying on a long couch under the window in a room that might have been
part of an old religious house. It was walled and vaulted with stone,
and the fireplace was a great yawning recess with carved pillars on each
side of it.

Nance Durrell had gone to wake David Barfoot, the servant, who slept in
a room by the stable. Benham lay back with his head on the round squab,
and looked about him with the consenting curiosity of a man who dreams.
Who were the Durrells, and how had they come to Stonehanger, this grey
house, that for thirty years had been spoken of as a house of horror?
Benham was not an imaginative man, but this grey room with the huge yawn
of its fireplace filled him with a vague sense of eeriness and mystery.

He heard footsteps crossing the paved hall. Nance reappeared with an
armful of wood. Her big, brown eyes ran over with laughter, the
mischievous and sparkling laughter of perfect health.

"I have managed to wake David. We make him leave his window open,
because there is only one way of waking him."

"Throwing stones----?"

"I could only find the stable bucket--and I'm afraid I dropped it on
David's head."

She put her wood down and, kneeling, stirred the heap of grey ash in the
fireplace. Her breath roused it to redness, and the twigs that she threw
on crackled with flame. Benham watched her as though the kindling of
that fire was one of the most wonderful things that he had ever seen.
The burning wood threw a warmth upon her, and made her black hair gleam.

"Don't you love making a fire?"

"Yes, when it is not at six o'clock on a winter morning."

"Oh, I love that, too. It is so glorious to get warm."

To Benham the whole adventure had been incredibly delightful. Only by
degrees did he become conscious of himself, of his bare legs, and the
general precipitation of his dress. But somehow these things did not
seem to matter. The girl had picked up the incidents of the night as
naturally as she would have gathered wind-blown apples out of the grass.

"There's David."

Sounds came from some far-off corner of the house. Nance disappeared, to
return with a skillet full of milk, a cup, and some bread and cheese on
a plate.

"I am going to heat this milk for you."

"You are taking too much trouble."

"I should have to sit up--anyway. Father may return to-night. He was
coming by the night coach, and meant to walk from Battle."

Jasper was seized with a desire to ask questions, but his finer
instincts smothered the desire. And in another minute she was holding
out the cup of milk to him with that solemn and intent look in her eyes.

"You must get some sleep now. I shall have to keep awake by the fire,
and listen."

"For Mr. Durrell? He will have a long tramp from Battle."

"Yes. David never hears anything."

"A useful man on occasions."

"Does the arm hurt you much?"

"No, nothing to speak of."

She brought a rug from somewhere and threw it over him, and took the cup
when he had finished the milk.

"I will put out the lantern. The firelight will do for me."

She drew an arm-chair before the hearth, took some logs from the oak
log-box and piled them against the fire-back. Benham lay and watched her
out of the corners of his eyes. She sat herself down with the firelight
playing upon her black dress, and touching her throat and face. Perhaps
she had outwatched her own wakefulness, for presently she fell asleep,
her head resting against the chair back, her face turned toward the
window.

Jasper Benham could not sleep. The aching of his broken arm, and a
feeling of restlessness kept him awake. Moreover, he was very conscious
of the nearness of the girl sleeping in the chair; and the alluring
strangeness of her white face seemed sharpened by his own pain. He
became feverish and nervously alert, unable to master the thoughts and
conjectures that made a whirligig of his brain. He began to question the
history of Stonehanger as a sick man busies himself with patterns on a
wall. Was it true that Inchbold had killed his wife here fifty years
ago? Was it true that two men had fought a duel to the death in this
very room? What of the tales told of the haunting horror of the house, a
horror that had emptied it and kept it empty for twenty years? Nance
Durrell, sleeping before the fire, seemed to contradict all this. The
ebbing and flowing of her breath between the red lips of youth might
exorcise such ghost tales.

But Benham was very restless. The flicker of the firelight through the
vaulted room made a grim, fantastic shadow-play. There was a listening
silence about the house that made wakeful ears tingle with imaginary
sounds. Sometimes a log settled, and sent up a scattering of sparks.
More than once a gust of wind rattled the windows.

Suddenly Benham turned his head. He had heard, or thought he had heard,
the ring of a horse's hoofs upon the stones of the court-yard. He
wondered for the moment whether he ought to wake Nance Durrell.

Benham's eyes were turned toward the fire. He did not see something
white glide up toward the window. A face seemed to flatten itself
against the panes, and to be distorted by the crinkles in the glass. It
remained there for a few seconds, and then melted back into the night.



III


Two men were waiting in the stone porch that sheltered the yard-door at
Stonehanger. A third man crossed the yard with long, silent strides, and
joined the two who were waiting. He took one of them by the arm.

"Over here--among the shrubs."

They moved away into the moonlight, and along under the shadow of a
stone wall toward the wild tangle of the neglected garden. The man who
had spoken carried himself with a grand air that was spoilt by a
suggestion of swagger. He had restless eyes that threw rapid glances
from side to side. The man whom he held by the elbow had white hair and
a thin, sharp, eager face. The third fellow was a little tub of a
Frenchman, frog-faced, blue-chinned, and very fat.

"Here, this path will do. Anthony Durrell, what shall you say if we are
trapped?"

"What do you mean?"

"For God's sake, sir, keep that squeaky voice of yours down in your
shoes! Pardon me, I am somewhat excited. There is a red-coat officer
lying at his ease upon your couch. He had covered himself with a rug,
but I got a glimpse of his red jacket. And Mademoiselle Nance is asleep
before the fire."

The three men stood close together under the laurels and hollies,
whispering with their heads close, and speaking sometimes in French and
sometimes in English. The tall man seemed to take the lead.

"Pest on it, Durrell; I have a mind to go back and shoot the man through
the window."

"No--no--I will not countenance----"

"There, there, am I a fool! The house may be full of red-coats. We have
got to find that out. Your daughter expects you?"

"Yes."

"Well, then, you must go and knock as boldly as any corporal. Jerome and
I can stay in the shadow by the porch. If the red-coat is alone, and
means mischief, we can deal with him. If he has men with him, they will
catch nothing but a respectable scholar returning after a journey to
London. It is lucky I left the horses in the quarry."

Anthony Durrell fingered a prominent and bony chin.

"I think you are right, Chevalier."

"Tut, tut, it is plain as the moon. Jerome and I know where to bolt to
in case of trouble. Go and embrace your most charming daughter."

Nance Durrell woke with a start, and her eyes met the eyes of Jasper
Benham.

"I've been asleep!"

"There is some one knocking."

She was up instantly, and kindling a piece of stick at the fire she lit
the lantern.

"It must be father."

Nance went out, and Benham heard her shooting back the bolts of the
door. A man's cheery and exclamatory voice told of a home-coming.

"Why, child, here we are--at last."

"I am so glad you have come."

"All well, all well?"

"Yes. But we have had an adventure."

"What--what!"

"Let me take your cloak. Yes; a gentleman was shot at and wounded by
horse-thieves--in the lane. I had to help him in here. He is in the
parlour."

"Bless my soul!"

"Come in and see him."

Benham sat up, the rug falling from him, as Nance Durrell and her father
entered the room. He saw a thin, narrow-shouldered man in black
regarding him with weak and red-lidded eyes. Anthony Durrell had one of
those narrow, hungry, aspiring faces, the face of a man whose desires
would never be satisfied. He might have been a bookman, a fanatic, or a
dreamer of dreams.

He came in smiling, and the smile spoilt the dignity of his face. It
lifted the angles of the mouth too markedly, showed the gaps between the
teeth, and was too reminiscent of a snarl.

"Good evening to you, sir."

Benham had risen. He had the watchful look one sees in the eyes of a
young man who is brought into sudden contact with a personality that is
new and strange.

"Miss Durrell has told you? Yes. I must say, sir, that I am vastly
grateful----"

"Common courtesy, common kindness, Mr.----"

"Benham of Rush Heath."

"Mr. Benham. I hope you are not badly hurt."

He rubbed his hands, and smiled with a sympathy that seemed ill at ease.

"A broken arm, sir."

"Indeed! That's bad."

He looked fixedly at Benham, and then turned to Nance.

"I commend you, my dear child. I am glad that we have been able to be of
service to Mr. Benham. What does the clock say? What, gone two! It seems
to me that it will be kinder to leave Mr. Benham undisturbed. You can
get me some supper in the kitchen, Nance. And then I think bed will be
very welcome."

He stood a moment staring at the fire. The smile had died from his face
and left it cold and preoccupied. When he turned once more toward
Benham, the smile spread again over his face, unspontaneously, forced up
from within.

"Mr. Benham, sir, I will not disturb you further. Make what use you
please of this room. Shall we decide to meet again in the morning?"

He gave Jasper a stiff and constrained bow, and walked slowly from the
room. Nance followed him, but turned at the door.

"Good night. Is there anything else you would like?"

"No; only to thank you again."

Her brown eyes smiled kindly at him as she closed the door.

"Nance, dear."

"Yes, father. David is in the kitchen."

"Ah, send him to bed, and get me some supper. I have left my bag in the
porch. I had almost forgotten it."

"I'll fetch it for you."

"No, no; get me some milk heated. I feel rather chilled."

And he left her with irritable precipitation. Durrell had no more than a
few hurried words with the two men who waited in the yard. He had closed
the door behind him, and spoke in a half-whisper.

"No danger--I hope. It's a young man who was shot in the arm while
chasing horse-thieves. I will send the girl to bed, and then come back
for you."

"Who is the man?"

"A young Benham of Rush Heath."

"Psst--damnably awkward----!"

"I mustn't stay now."

"Yes, get back."

Half an hour passed before Nance took one of the brass candlesticks from
the mantelpiece and went up to bed, yawning behind her hand. David
Barfoot had been sent back to his room, and Anthony Durrell had
Stonehanger House to himself.

The first thing he did was to take off his shoes, and go very cautiously
along the passage leading from the kitchen to the hall. A faint line of
light showed under the door of the room where Jasper Benham of Rush
Heath sat on the couch, swinging his heels. Durrell went softly to the
door and listened. The key was on the outside. He felt for it, and
turned it with the utmost caution. Yet the lock gave a faint click as
the catch shot home, and Durrell stood for three minutes, listening for
any sound in the room within.

Durrell's ears satisfied him that all was quiet, though he would have
felt far from satisfied had he been able to see through the panels of
the door. Jasper had heard the click of the lock. He was sitting on the
couch, and staring intently at the door. Presently he crossed the room,
sliding his feet silently over the stones, and tried the door, only to
find it locked.

"That's funny!" he said to himself; "it seems that the old fellow
doesn't trust me. What has he to be anxious about?"

He turned and sat down in the chair in which Nance had fallen asleep.

Anthony Durrell had opened the porch door, and was whispering to the men
in the porch.

"Go round to the kitchen entry. Don't make a noise. Nance has only just
gone to her room."

They disappeared into the darkness, and Durrell felt his way back toward
the kitchen, shutting the door that closed the passage from the hall.
Entering the kitchen, he drew the heavy stuff curtains across the
windows, and then let the two men in.

"Don't talk too loud. The old house is solid--but I don't want Nance to
hear."

Jerome the Frenchman glanced greedily at the bread and cheese on the
table, and drawing up a chair he pulled out a bottle of schnapps, and
began to eat and drink. The taller man smiled, and laid his cloak and
hat on a dresser. He stood six feet, held himself arrogantly, and looked
down at Durrell out of a pair of hard, brown, closely set eyes. He was
clean-shaven, and the skin of his face was harsh and red. His long,
straight nose had a curiously drooping tip, and two deep, vertical
furrows where it joined his forehead. The man had the air of an
aristocrat, and the easy and contemptuous manner of one who has seen too
much of life.

"Durrell, I don't like this interlude. What's the fellow's tale?"

"He says that he was chasing horse-thieves, and that one of them shot
him down yonder in the lane. Nance found him and brought him in."

"A plague on the women! Pity is the devil! Where was he hit?"

"In the arm."

"Sure?"

"It was bound up with a scarf, De Rothan."

The Chevalier straightened himself, and gave a toss of the head.

"I tell you what I think, Durrell--the man's a spy. I know young Benham.
He is just the man they would choose to play a bluff, downright part.
They may have suspicions. Who tied up the arm?"

"Nance."

"The devil! There you are! What do you mean by having a pretty daughter!
Even if this is no spying trick, the booby may give us trouble. David
should have had the job. You never know what a pair of soft eyes and
hands will do."

Durrell looked troubled.

"But, Chevalier----"

"Yes, yes; it is accursedly awkward whichever way we look."

Jerome, his mouth full of bread, threw a suggestion into the air.

"Shoot the dog."

De Rothan laughed, sat on the edge of the table, and reached for
Jerome's bottle of schnapps.

"You are a wise fellow, Jerome, always loading up against emergencies.
But you are a little too rough in your methods. Strategy does it. I
shall have my eyes on Mr. Benham."

"A snap of the fingers for him, then," said the Frenchman with a grin.

Durrell brooded, staring at the fire.

"The boat will not come ashore till to-morrow after dark, and then only
if we give the signal."

"Yes; you will have to pack us in the attics, and get that fellow out of
the house."

"Early."

"And take a ramble to the quarry."

"Yes, yes; no doubt."

Durrell answered irritably, like a man oppressed by a crowd of cares.

"The girl must be asleep by now."

"Very well. Away to the rookery. Bring that bread and cheese along with
you, Jerome. I have only talked as yet."

Durrell took the lantern and went out into the passage. He was away for
about five minutes. Then they saw him standing in the doorway,
beckoning.

The two men drew off their boots and gathered their belongings. They
followed Anthony Durrell up the oak stairs to the attic story of
Stonehanger House.



IV


Jasper Benham lay on the couch under the window and watched the dawn
come up over the sea.

It was a stealthy creeping of tawny light into the sky, a rising of blue
hills and headlands, dim, huge, and distant against the broadening East.
The vague grey sea became a sheet of amethyst crossed by a band of gold.
Birds were piping in the ragged thorn-trees upon Stonehanger Hill. A
sense of wonder seemed to sweep across the land, touching the hills with
splendour, and leaving the valleys full of a shadowy awe.

The breaking of the day was a relief to Jasper after a restless and
pain-haunted night. He had come by odd snatches of sleep, but the
starting of the broken arm had always awakened him, and left him at the
mercy of his thoughts. The great, grey room, lit by the faint glow of
the dying fire, had filled him with restless and unreasoning distrust.

He raised himself slowly on the couch, and his head swam with the fall
of the previous night when Devil Dick had thrown him in the lane. Yet
faint and dizzy as he was, the view from the window astonished him. From
the Stonehanger uplands, wild, furze-clad slopes melted into the
green-tinged browns of the April woods. Nearly the whole coast from
Hastings to Beachy Head was visible. Pevensey Bay was a great half-moon
of silver cutting into the green flats of the Level. The dim blue sky
met the dim blue sea. Along the rim of Pevensey Bay were dotted little
round pillars, the distant martello towers with the black mouths of
their twenty-four-pounders waiting for Napoleon and the French.

Benham knelt on the couch and gazed. He had heard vague movements about
the house. A door had opened somewhere, and footsteps descended the
stairs.

Then a girl's voice sounded out yonder amid the furze.

"Coop--coop--come along."

Jasper saw her drifting against the dawn, her black hair doubly black,
her forearms bare to the elbow, her short skirt showing her feet and
ankles. A kind of rough terrace garden, half grass, half paved path, ran
along the front of the house. There were rose-beds in the grass, and the
two old yews rose blackly above the parapet of the terrace wall. Nance
was on the furze-land beyond, where the ground fell away toward the
south.

A brown cow came into view. It passed Nance, and, like a creature of
habit, followed a path that led to the yard. The girl had turned, and
was looking at the windows of Stonehanger. A flight of rough steps went
up to the terrace. She mounted them, and crossed the grass toward the
windows of the parlour.

Benham, kneeling there, unfastened the lattice and thrust it open. Nance
Durrell was quite close, and a kind of warmth went over her face. Her
eyes had the dewiness of the dawn.

"You are awake."

"The morning is worth it."

She rested her hands on the window-ledge, and looked in at him with
frank intentness.

"I'm sorry."

"Sorry!"

"You have had a bad night of it. I can see that. The arm has been
hinting you."

"A little."

"More than a little. Perhaps I did not bind it up tightly enough."

To Jasper Benham her compassion seemed very wonderful. What did it
matter to her that he had suffered.

"You could not have done more for me. To tell the truth, I am glad that
fellow shot me under the yew."

"How do you manage to be glad?"

"Well--otherwise, I should not have spent a night at Stonehanger, and
come by such a friend."

Her red mouth smiled at him, and her eyes were the eyes of a tease.

"If you set out to make all your friends by being shot at--or getting
hurt----!"

"I should not go as far as that--for most people."

He laughed, to carry off his rush of earnestness.

"You see, some things are worth bearing. I am not a fool. I say what I
mean."

Nance looked at him as though she were puzzled. She dropped her hands
from the window-ledge, but her eyes did not avoid Benham's.

"We have sent David off to Rush Heath. I must go and milk Jenny."

He was about to ask her to let him join her when he remembered the
locked door. The memory jarred the impulsive delight of the moment.
Nance had turned, and he saw her clear profile against the sky. He could
find nothing to say to her, and that short silence seemed the fatal
break between an enchanted dawn and the prosaic day.

Overhead the lattice of an attic window had been opened noiselessly, and
a man's head thrust out. He had been listening to Nance Durrell and
Jasper talking at the window below. Nor had the incident pleased him, to
judge by the stiff and cynical smile upon his face.

Jasper Benham was still kneeling on the couch when he heard footsteps in
the hall, and the sound of the key being turned cautiously in the lock.
The door opened, and Anthony Durrell's white head and thin, visionary
face appeared in the opening.

"Good morning, Mr. Benham."

Jasper had turned with a queer feeling of distaste.

"Good morning, sir."

Durrell moved in, glancing about the room, and rubbing his hands
together.

"I hope that you have had a passable night?"

"I am obliged by all your kindness."

"Do not speak of it, Mr. Benham. In half an hour we will bring you some
breakfast. My man has gone off to Rush Heath. If you will excuse me, I
will light the fire."

He disappeared, and returned with a bundle of wood, a lighted candle,
and some paper. Benham sat on the edge of the couch and watched him. He
had grown intensely curious about Mr. Anthony Durrell. The man seemed
part and parcel of Stonehanger, with his restless reserve and his
sidelong glances.

Durrell knelt down by the hearth.

"A scholar, Mr. Benham, has to do many things with his hands. We who are
wedded to knowledge have to serve as menials, not only as priests."

Jasper eyed him reflectively.

"You find Stonehanger a quiet place?"

Durrell glanced over his shoulder, and his pointed chin looked sharp and
forbidding.

"Exquisitely quiet, sir, for me and my books. And the rent is low, a
matter of consideration to a scholar. I have tried many places in my
time--towns, villages, watering-places. Pah! Distractions everywhere.
One of the most difficult things in the world, sir, is to get away from
noise and from fools."

He had lit the fire when Nance came in carrying a tray full of breakfast
things. Anthony Durrell looked at her with a morose hardening of the
face.

"Nance, I will set the table. Go and look after the milk and eggs."

He wanted Nance and Jasper Benham apart. The Chevalier de Rothan's hint
had been sufficient.

It was nine o'clock when Jack Bumpstead brought the light wagon into
Stonehanger yard, with two of Farmer Crowhurst's horses borrowed for the
morning. David Barfoot climbed out. The bottom of the wagon was littered
with straw.

When Jasper appeared in the yard, with Durrell walking beside him, Jack
Bumpstead joggled his hat, and grinned like a man who had had the best
of a bargain.

"Mornin', master; glad I be to see ye alive!"

They had helped Benham into the wagon when Nance came into the yard,
carrying a faded, chintz-covered cushion. Jack Bumpstead's blue eyes
fixed her with the true Sussex stare.

"You must take this cushion. You can put it under your head when you are
lying down."

She tossed it into the wagon, and Jasper caught a glimpse of her
father's sulky face.

"I'll take the cushion, and return it."

"It's not very new."

"A piece of rubbish, sir. Never waste a man's time sending it back to
Stonehanger."

"I may bring it back myself, some day; and this scarf, too."

Durrell looked at him with a grim twinkle.

"I am a bit of a character, Mr. Benham. When I am among my books I
sometimes stay among them for days. I have a prejudice against being
interrupted, nor can I promise you my company if you call."

It was a blunt hint, bluntly given. Durrell was not fool enough to
pretend that a young man would ride five miles to chop logic with a
scholar. Nor was Benham fool enough to miss the elder man's meaning.

Jack Bumpstead turned the horses, and the wagon jolted over the stones
of the yard. Benham leaned forward as he sat in the straw, and looked at
Nance over the lowered tail-board of the wagon. Her eyes seemed to
follow his, and she was smiling.

"Good-bye. I shall always be grateful."

He could say no more, because of the sour face of her father.

A dormer window projected from the northern slope of the roof of
Stonehanger, and at the window, whose dusty glass rendered anything
inside it invisible from without, stood the Chevalier de Rothan. He had
cleansed one diamond pane with the tip of a long forefinger, and was
looking down with cynical amusement at the scene in the yard. He watched
Nance Durrell and he watched Benham, and the ends of his mouth lifted
contemptuously.

"Good-day, Mr. Jasper Benham. It may be an unlucky chance that brought
you to Stonehanger. Well, we shall see!"

He took a silver snuff-box from his pocket, lifted the lid, and took
snuff with elaborate unction, flickering his fingers under his nose.

"If young fools get in a great man's way, they must suffer. Stuck like a
lark on a spit, eh! Be damned to you, my Sussex squireling! My pretty
Nance, too! I had my eyes on her long before you, my friend. You know
me, and yet you do not know me. You may know me better some day, not far
hence!"

The man Jerome rose from the edge of a truckle-bed, and came yawning to
the window.

"I wonder when the old philosopher will be able to smuggle us up some
breakfast. What's all the talk about, monsieur?"

"Jerome, you are a greedy animal. One seldom has a chance to talk to a
genius in this world. That is why I so often talk to myself."

"What's that? A wagon going out of the gate."

The Frenchman had spat upon the window, and was cleaning a peep-hole
with his thumb.

"Yes; taking a calf home. Do you like veal, Jerome? I have an idea that
the calf yonder will never make good beef!"



V


Parson Goffin and old Christopher Benham had dined together, and sat
facing each other on either side of the fire.

Kit Benham was past sixty, and had drunk himself into premature dotage.
A pursy, ponderous, florid man, he could do little more than sit in his
padded chair, smoke interminable pipes, and drink perpetual beer. He was
a gross man, who could hardly speak without uttering all manner of
quaint and ingenious oaths. Already his legs were swollen with dropsy,
and they were propped on a joint stool as he fumed and pulled at his
pipe.

"Four horses, Parson; four blazing, burning, heaven-forsaken beasts
pinched by eternally accursed, skunk-livered, black-mouthed thieves! My
lad shot in the arm, too, and abed, with old Blister of Battle running
up a bill! Tell me to be an addle-brained, pond-waterweed of a
Christian! Grrrh!"

The great thing about Parson Goffin was his gout. He was a knobbly man,
the colour of leather, and he always sat with his knees drawn up and his
bumpy feet tucked away under his chair as though he dreaded having them
trodden on. Goffin might have been in the habit of using Cayenne pepper
in place of snuff, for his nose looked so angry. Gout had made him
explosive, yet this explosiveness suited the neighbourhood. It threw him
into sympathy with his surroundings, and made him popular with the
hot-tongued squires and farmers. Goffin was the very man for a
grievance. He took it as a dog takes a rat, crunched it, shook it to and
fro, not indeed to kill, but out of sympathy for the aggrieved friend.

"They will catch the rogues, sir; catch them and hang them."

Kit Benham flourished his pipe.

"By old Nick's bones, Parson, that's just what they won't do. We are
driven clear crazy by these infernal French. All the oafs in the county
are standing and gaping all day at the sea. And all the flea-bitten
scoundrels in the county rob and do just as they please."

"Yes, sir; perhaps in this world, sir. But think how they will burn in
the next!"

"I should like to see it, Goffin, by all the lies of Ananias--I should
like to see it!"

"They'll all sizzle, sir--just like apples."

Christopher Benham expanded his nostrils.

"To smell 'm singeing! Dear heart--I'd be ready to go there myself,
surely! Thank God, sir, there is a hell."

"Thank God, sir, indeed. Think of all the thieves there ever were going
up in glorious black smoke."

"Don't, sir--don't--Goffin! The thought of it makes me too infernally
excited."

"Happy, you mean, sir. Hallo now, I hear wheels on the drive."

A green curricle had swept up past the cedars on the lawn, and drawn up
outside the house. Jack Bumpstead came running from somewhere, pulling
an eager forelock. A young woman with a rather sallow face, and a short,
upturned nose, threw Jack the reins. She had blue eyes that stared, and
a quick, masterful manner. A prim little bonnet caressed the neat plaits
of her reddish hair.

"Lucky there are any springs left to the carriage, Jack! These
by-roads!"

"Ah, miss, you oughtn't to take her off t' main road, sure-ly!"

"Squire Christopher in? And Master Jasper? Yes, I have heard all about
it, Jack--all, thank you."

"Parson Goffin be with the squire in the oak parlour."

"Oh, is he! I thought I saw flames coming out of the chimney!"

Into the oak parlour marched this brisk and urgent young woman with her
queer blending of piety and worldliness. Parson Goffin rose stiffly and
made her a formal bow. Mr. Christopher Benham pointed with his pipe stem
at the legs reposing on the stool.

"Laid up, see. Can't move. Goffin can do the bowing. Well, young woman,
you look too fat."

"Mr. Goffin, do you agree with my uncle?"

"I never interfere between relatives, Miss Benham."

"Oh, don't you! So Jasper has been getting into the wars. Four horses,
was it? Lucky that Devil Dick came back. I hear some people at
Stonehanger took pity on Jasper. Durrell or Darrell or Barrell or
something. Who are they?"

Christopher Benham looked at her irritably.

"Just like her mother; talks like a water-wheel. Don't ask me, girl, how
should I know? Ask the parson, he knows everybody's business."

Mr. Goffin grinned, and showed his tobacco-blackened teeth.

"Durrell is the name, Miss Benham. They are queer folk, I hear. The man
is a bookworm, deist, encyclopædist, atheist, anything you like. I
don't know much about them. No one does. This Durrell put it about that
he wanted to be left alone. He is."

Mr. Goffin took snuff and sneezed, turning his angry nose toward the
fire.

"Then it was the girl who picked Jasper out of the road?"

"The girl! Thunder and cabbages, the lad never told us that."

Kit Benham heaved with laughter.

"A girl, was there? Oh, the rogue! I know nothing about it. You had
better ask Jasper. May old Nick boil my marrow-bones----"

Rose Benham had her Methodist face--for the moment.

"Uncle Christopher, when will you learn to be clean in your speech?"

"What!"

"It is contemptible, at your age."

"Thunder and lightning, can't I swear in my own house? Here's Goffin,
too; he's a good judge of language. You go and see Jasper. He's in bed."

"I will."

She left Parson Goffin and her uncle staring at each other. Then Squire
Kit spluttered:

"If that girl hadn't got a thousand a year of her own, hang, draw, and
quarter me if I'd----"

"Ssh, sir; ssh! She is your brother's daughter."

"Bah, she's not! She's his cat-faced wife's cat-clawed daughter! They
killed poor Nat between 'em with their little goody books and their
snuffle."

Rose Benham had climbed the broad stairs, noticing a number of trivial
things, such as dust on the bannister rail, and cobwebs in some of the
corners. Jasper was lying asleep in the oak four-poster when his cousin
knocked at the door.

He woke out of the thick of a dream, to hear Rose's metallic voice
calling:

"Jasper, can I come in?"

They had been children together, but no such thing as false modesty
would have kept Rose Benham out of her cousin's room. She entered
breezily, without a fleck of colour on her cheeks, her blue eyes full of
a frank, intimate interest. Three years older than Jasper, she still
treated him as a boy.

"This is a nice affair! Getting shot when you are wanted to drill your
volunteers on the green of a Sunday. Not that I can call them anything
but a lot of waddling ducks. And you have had old Blister Doddington,
have you? I hope he was sober. And you are sure he has set your arm
properly?"

Her pale-blue eyes and her reddish hair seemed to tone with her brisk
self-confidence. Rose Benham knew what she expected of life, and she
meant life to satisfy her expectations. Whisking a rush-bottomed chair
from a corner, she sat down beside the bed, talking the whole time. She
was one of those women who overwhelm the world with words.

"Well, what an adventure! And how does it feel to be picked up out of
the road by a young woman? Yes, I have heard all about it."

She laughed her quick, harsh laugh.

"Don't look at me as if such things happened every day! You men, you
take everything for granted. And here am I dying to hear all about it.
Cousin Rose has a right to know, hasn't she?"

There was a subtle suggestion of ownership in the way she put out a hand
and smoothed the pillow. Jasper was not wholly the boy cousin to her. He
was the man she had determined to marry.

Jasper looked bothered. Rose had such a way of driving people into a
corner.

"There is nothing to tell. One of the rogues waited for me in the dark,
and shot me in Stonehanger Lane. They just helped me into the house, and
I spent the night there. Jack fetched me in the wagon yesterday
morning."

She grew caressing, and a caressing mood never suited her. She was too
thin, too hard about the eyes.

"Now, Jasper, you know----"

"What do you want me to tell you, Rose?"

"Why, everything. Dear lad, do you think it is nothing?"

"I'm not dead, or likely to be."

Their eyes met. There was something in Jasper's that repulsed the girl.
She stiffened, and withdrew her hand.

"You know, Jasper, these things sometimes come to us from above. They
are messages, divine warnings."

It was her doctrinal phase, and she had inherited it from her mother.
Jasper glanced at her uneasily, and then stared at the window. He had
never realised it so vividly before that Rose talked to him as though he
belonged to her.

"It pulls a man up, and makes him think."

"Yes; only men will put off the thinking. Though I don't believe you are
that sort of man, Jasper. You are steady, and sensible, and I know you
read your Bible."

Jasper turned restlessly on the pillow. Her cool way of discussing him
to himself, of approving and disapproving as though she had a kind of
authority, had always rather amused him. Whether some new intelligence
had come to him in the course of two days, he could not tell. One thing
he did know. He had discovered a sudden new significance in his cousin's
attitude toward himself.

"I'm afraid I'm a stupid fool, Rose. I still have a head from that bump
in the road."

"Poor Jasper!"

Her hand came out, and for the moment there was something very like
repulsion in Jasper's eyes.

"Now, I won't chatter any longer. Go to sleep. I will draw the curtains.
There, lad. And now I will go and have a talk with Uncle Christopher."

Said Squire Christopher to the parson when the green curricle had driven
off along the road across the paddock: "There's a hell-cat for you,
Goffin; preach at you or scratch your face--whichever you please. The
image of her dear mother. She means to marry lad Jasper."

The parson refilled his pipe.

"What have you to say to that, sir?"

"If Jasper cares to be caught, I shan't meddle. What's more, one woman's
very like another. I don't believe in a man marrying the woman he's in
love with."

"But, Mr. Benham--sir!"

"What! You don't see how it works? Why, sir, marry a woman you dislike
and you will always be in love with some charmer who won't nag your head
off. A man ought to go out loving as he goes out hunting; it's a sour,
dull sport in your own yard. Poor Nat was ruled by his wife. But
Jasper's got grit. Maybe he'd tame Miss Rose. And don't you see, Goffin,
there's something in a thousand a year and more to come! You don't
expect good looks and a sweet temper when you get so much cash."

As for the two people under discussion, Rose had driven off with a
tightly shut mouth and three lines of thought across her forehead, while
Jasper lay abed with a chafed and uneasy conscience. Generous men are
always inclined to be severe upon themselves, when some unforeseen clash
of the emotions makes them look at life very seriously. Jasper was
puzzled with regard to Rose, and angry with himself. Had he been blind,
and missed seeing things that had been very visible to others?

One thing he did know. He was haunted perpetually by the face and voice
of Nance Durrell.

As for Nance herself, the sun shone on her as she sat on the stone
parapet of the terrace garden at Stonehanger, and looked toward the sea.
Nance had developed a passion for gardening, and had adventurously set
herself to grow flowers in that wind-swept upland garden. She had made
old David dig her a broad border at the edge of the stone path, and she
had searched the overrun garden at the back of the house for stray
plants that had managed to survive the weeds. Old David had bought her a
few roots from some of the cottages at Rookhurst, and Nance had pansies,
sweetwilliams, pinks, foxgloves, lavender, and a few roses ready to
bloom in the coming summer. Several clumps of daffodils waved their
golden heads in the wind. A rake, a trowel, and a wooden trug lay on the
grass beside her. Her hands were brown with soil, and she sat and forgot
for a moment that such things as flowers existed.

She was thinking of Jasper Benham, and wondering how he did with his
broken arm. His brown face, square jaw, and steady blue eyes had seemed
very pleasant to her. Something in him had called to her own youth.

Her father's voice startled her from her reverie. He was looking out of
an upper window, the window of his study, the wind blowing his white
hair over his forehead.

"Nance."

"Yes, father."

"What are you idling there for, child?"

"I wasn't idling--I was thinking."

"Oh, and what may these most serious thoughts be?"

His morose and peering curiosity puzzled her, but she was quite frank in
her answering.

"I was wondering how Mr. Benham is?"

"Tssh--do you call that thinking! Go in and brew me some tea."



VI


Jasper Benham grew very restless those April days, though he moved in a
cool, green world, and saw the primroses starring the banks of the
paddock, and Squire Kit's Dutch tulips opening their cups of crimson and
gold. The "cuckoo's mate" had come, and called plaintively in the
oak-trees. The grass in the orchard was the colour of emeralds, and the
fruit-buds were opening against the blue.

Jasper was restless, adventurous, obstinate, and Surgeon Doddington
protested. He was a little, purplish man with a huge, bald head, who
talked very fast and spluttered as he talked. A wag had once watched
Surgeon Doddington with extreme attention for fully five minutes, and
then explained that he had been waiting to see him blow up.

"Stuff and nonsense, Mr. Benham, I'll not be responsible, not for a
moment, not for a moment. Ride that beast of a horse of yours, indeed!
Captain Curtiss can drill the men. Your arm's more important than the
way twenty bumpkins turn their toes out."

"You are not a patriot, Mr. Doddington!"

"Yes I am, sir--yes I am, sir; but I'm a surgeon, too, sir," and he
ended with a sizzle.

It was of no avail. Possibly Jasper needed an excuse, and meant to have
one at all costs. Sunday saw him on Devil Dick's back, his arm slung in
a red sash, bound for Battle town and the Sabbath parade.

There was quite a gay gathering on the green close to the Abbey gate.
The gentry were there, fresh from their pews in church; the "regulars"
quartered in the town were there; Captain Curtiss was there on his big
white horse. For with Napoleon's great army of invasion camped ready at
Boulogne, all Sussex was dotted with red-coats. Each town and townlet
had its gallant fellows ready with pikes and firelocks. There were the
camps at Brighton and at Eastbourne, and guns gaping everywhere, black
muzzles toward the sea. Red-coats were quartered at Hastings, Battle,
Pevensey, Hailsham, Lewes, Seaford, Worthing, Arundel, Chichester, and
at many places more. Hanoverians had held Bexhill. There were the
Yeomanry, the Sea Fencibles, the Fencible Cavalry, the Volunteer corps,
and in the west the Duke of Richmond's Volunteer Horse Artillery. All
eyes were on the Channel, and many people's hearts were in their mouths.

That April Sunday the volunteers of Battle town and the neighbouring
villages were drawn up on the green facing the Abbey gate. An old
sergeant of regulars with a lame leg and a peppery red face was limping
to and fro. Captain Curtiss sat silently superb upon his big white
horse. The gentry chatted and looked important. The lesser folk bunched
together in groups and enjoyed themselves in a stolid, staring way.

Near the old-timbered guest-house Rose Benham sat in her green curricle.
Dick Mumfit had drawn up his nag beside the curricle, and was showing
his teeth, which meant that he was making idiotic puns, and marching out
all the stale jokes that had lived a vagrant life for years in the
county of Sussex.

"'Tention. Shoulder arms."

Up went the muskets, one of them topped by a disreputable beaver hat.

"Damn 'ee, Sam Mepham, this be t' second time yuv scraped m' noddle wid
yer musket. Sergeant! He'll be for shootin' me, sure-ly!"

"Silence in the ranks!"

"He fetched her under m' jaw time afore."

"Silence! Lower that hat. Private Mepham, you're a dashed, flat-footed,
camel-backed clod, sir. D'yer hear? Now. Satan help me--did I say
'ground arms'? Of all the----! Now, what are ye all staring at?
Lieutenant Benham wid his arm in a sash? Hi, some one bring me a rattle,
to keep the poor babies to attention. Just look at the 'reg'lars.'
They're laughin' their belts undone."

Patriotism or no patriotism, every one appeared to be laughing save the
much-tried sergeant and the stately Curtiss on his white horse. Jasper
caught Rose Benham's eyes. She beckoned him to come to her.

"You wicked lad, how dare you be so rash----!"

"Well, I was sick of Rush Heath."

She challenged him with her shallow eyes.

"Now--I know why you came."

"Do you?"

"Yes; but I shall not confess. Me--oh, no. Wouldn't you like to let one
of the men hold your horse, and come and rest in the carriage. You won't
have to drill the boobies. Look at Jeremy Curtiss. All he has to do is
to look grand. Poor old cock-a-doodle-do, there, with the lame foot,
does everything."

Jasper was posed. He had no desire to place himself conspicuously beside
Cousin Rose.

"I can see better here. I want to see how the men handle their muskets."

"Oh you wicked deceiver. You want all the women to say: 'There's Jasper
Benham with his broken arm. Doesn't he look handsome?' I caught Kitty
Lavender--you know, the pretty, dark one--simply languishing at you just
now."

Jasper said: "Confound Kitty Lavender!"

Then some one intervened. A big bay horse drew up on the other side of
the curricle, and a man in black saluted Cousin Rose.

"All the sunshine to you, Mees Benham."

"Why, Chevalier, is it you? What a man for being here, there, and
everywhere. Jasper, you know the Chevalier de Rothan."

The two men stared at each other. They had met before in a casual way.

"Mr. Benham--a broken arm, I hear."

His hard, handsome, insolent face had a look of amused tolerance.

"I come to see your brave men drill. And to think that it is against my
France! Poor France. Some day I shall return to her. But picture my
château; a black shell in mourning. Yes; rightly in black."

He looked grave and melancholy. Rose's eyes wandered over him.

"Still in black, Chevalier?"

"Ah, mam'selle, did I not put on black the day our King was butchered? I
wear it still. I shall wear it till the white flag of the Bourbons
returns to France. No bastard, upstart emperor for me. I know that even
now I might return to France. Honour and pride keep me here, an exile,
among charming Englishwomen."

Jasper watched the man, and disliked him in the vague yet vigorous way
that one man may dislike another. De Rothan had the casual soaring air
that puts other men under his feet. He could be courteous, but there was
a taint about his courtesy. You could see the lines about mouth and
nostrils that muttered: "These boors of English!" Rose became even more
animated.

"I think you are a wonderful man, Chevalier. And do you really wish us
to conquer France?"

"Mam'selle, not to conquer, but to free her."

"There is a difference."

"I pray each day of my life that I may see King Louis at Versailles,
before I grow too old."

"Too old?"

"Ah, one is not the same at Court."

The sergeant's voice became the dominating sound for the moment.

"You tail-wagging lot of ducks! Stand up! Hup! Bay'nets? Dash me, I
wouldn't trust ye with a set of skewers. It 'ud be a bloody business.
Wanton damaging o' uniforms. Now we'll charge our pieces. Put some
pipe-clay into it."

And so it Went on, Captain Curtiss sitting his white horse like a great
soldier in a battle-picture, looking whole campaigns, and uttering never
a word.

When Jasper took leave of Rose, the Chevalier de Rothan was still in
attendance.

"Jasper--now--be careful. Do send us a word. Or come yourself in a few
days. I'll give Devil Dick lots of sugar."

"It is very good of you, Rose."

"Silly boy!"

Her eyes flashed at him as he turned his horse.

The Chevalier woke from a studied reverie.

"Mr. Benham, sir, I ride a little your way."

"You do?"

"I will take the charm of your company. Mees Benham, your most devoted
servant."

They had ridden no further than Battle church, grey in the midst of its
green grass and great elms, when De Rothan glanced significantly at
Jasper.

"Mr. Benham, sir, you are a most fortunate young man. A most exquisite
lady, your cousin. I offer you my felicitations."

"Sir?"

"Ah, you think me too forward. We French, sir, are less difficult, less
reticent. Now in France, Mr. Benham----"

"I don't know what you mean, Chevalier."

"Ah--my good young man!"

He shrugged, and smiled like a grandee.

"These Sussex villages delight me, Mr. Benham. Such red brick, such
maturity. They live in the landscape. I assure you I never tire of
riding everywhere, and seeing your sweet villages."

Jasper grunted, which was bad manners.

Before long they parted company. And to part company with the Chevalier
de Rothan was a considerable event. It justified, even glorified, a
whole day's existence.

"Mr. Benham, your very good friend. Au revoir, au revoir."

There was a queer glint in his eyes. It puzzled Jasper like the subtle
flash of a clever enemy's sword.

No sooner was he alone than De Rothan allowed himself to seem
desperately amused.

"What a world of fools it is! They have swallowed me as the whale
swallowed Jonah. 'Ah, Chevalier, sweet Chevalier!' How the tradesmen run
after a title."

There was as much Irish blood in him as there was French. In fact, his
great grandfather had been as boastful and swaggering a rogue as had
ever sailed from Ireland to use his wits and his tongue in France. The
Sussex folk knew him as the Chevalier de Rothan, aristocrat and
_émigré_, a wild partisan of the Bourbons, and a wearer of the white
cockade. He had taken the Brick House between the villages of Westfield
and Sedlescombe, ridden to hounds, entertained the notables, and served
them off plate marked with the De Rothan arms. The man seemed to have
money.

"Ah, gentlemen," he would say, "I was more fortunate than many of my
friends. I not only saved my head, but my plate and my jewels. It is
also something to have money in English companies. But I am poor. I make
what show I can."

And De Rothan was popular. He could be gay, quaint, and witty. He rode
here, there, and everywhere, a man who should have been mistrusted, and
yet was not. His French-Irish cleverness carried him along. He could
speak English perfectly when he chose, but for effect he played
picturesquely with the language, and out-Frenchified the vulgar notion
of a Frenchman when he was dealing with half-educated people. A little
quixotry was useful. He made much of his ostentation of wearing black,
and of his passionate devotion to the Royalist cause. Once he had been
seen to weep. He was ready to fight any man who had a good word for
Napoleon.

On the outbreak of the war, and especially when the scare of an invasion
gripped the country, the French exiles had been compelled to live a
certain distance from the sea-coast. But the Chevalier de Rothan had
planted himself boldly within four miles of the sea, and no one had
interfered with him. He was on excellent terms with the gentlemen who
wore the King's uniform, dined with them, betted with them, abused
Bonaparte with them, and was allowed to ride in and out of camps and
barracks very much as he pleased.

The Brick House lay in a lonely hollow where a stream wound through oak
woods, and narrow, secret meadows. A lane led to the house from a
by-road. It was a solid, Jacobean house with a brick-walled garden, a
big porch, and a stone horse-block at the gate. Two yews, clipped in the
shape of peacocks, grew on each side of the main path. De Rothan had
settled here with three French servants. He kept two horses, and devoted
himself to gardening. He was always ready to talk of his great garden
and his orangery in France.

When he returned that Sunday, he left his horse in the stable-yard, and
entered the house by the back door.

"Gaston--Gaston----!"

A short, square man appeared in the passage. He had a solid, thundery
face, the nose flattened, a black patch over one eye. A red handkerchief
tied round his head, and a belt with pistols stuck in it, would have
made him an admirable buccaneer.

"Monsieur?"

"I shall sleep lightly to-night, Gaston. Be ready if I should want you."

"I shall be ready."

"Good. I will dine immediately."

When he had dined De Rothan climbed the Jacobean staircase and passed
along a gallery to a room at the southern end of the house. It was a big
room with an undulating, oak-planked floor, great beams and struts
showing in the walls. There were books upon shelves, a reading-lamp and
writing-materials on an oak table, and a black wainscot chair with a red
cushion to soften the seat.

De Rothan locked the door, and then went to the fireplace where the
bricked chimney stood out in the room like a great oven. He took off his
coat and laid it on the chair, rolled up the right sleeve of his shirt,
and, stooping, thrust his arm well up into the chimney. He took out a
brick, laid it on the hearth, wiped the soot from his hand, and groped
again. This time he brought out a little metal case. He opened it, and
drew out a roll of papers.

Here, in cipher, were the results of his popularity, his wanderings to
and fro from village to village. The Chevalier was interested in farming
and in the breeding of cattle! Listed here were most of the larger farms
in the rapes of Pevensey and Hastings, with a rough estimate of the
stock, and of the corn that might be found in the barns. Here were maps,
elaborate in detail, showing every road and lane, and points that might
have military importance. The number of troops stationed in each town
was recorded, and the number of guns in the various forts and batteries
along the coast.

De Rothan glanced through these papers, making an alteration or an
addition here and there. He sat back in the chair, and smiled.

"Nelson fooled, and a day's fog in the Channel! So little--and yet so
much!"



VII


It was stormy weather. The golden-budded oaks shook their branches
against a hurrying grey sky. Primroses shivered on the banks, and cold
glimmers of wind-swept over the bent grass. A few early swallows skimmed
against the stiff south-wester. Everywhere the woods looked gloomy and
black.

Up at Stonehanger the furze rolled like a sea as Jasper and Devil Dick
climbed out of the valley. Jasper came slantwise up the hill, so that he
had a raking view of the terrace and the grey house with its bluff,
stern chimneys. The casements shook and glittered. One thin stream of
smoke was blown like a pennon from the nearest chimney.

Jasper saw a figure on the terrace, outlined against the sky. It stood
there visible between two clumps of thorn-trees, and tossed its arms as
though they were blown about by the wind. Its gestures were so wild and
passionate that Jasper drew in under the shelter of a furze-covered
bank, and watched the distant figure over the tops of the bushes.

It was Anthony Durrell. Benham could tell that by his thin, black figure
and white hair. The old man was like a mad poet in a frenzy, or a
prophet drunk with the spirit of prophecy. He strode up and down between
the thorn-trees, waving his arms, shaking his fists, pointing toward the
sea. The fragments of a voice were carried down to Jasper against the
blustering of the wind.

"The man's mad!"

He reconsidered the exclamation, out of respect to Nance.

"A bit queer in the head, perhaps! Too much hanging over books. I wonder
what he is shouting about? Just like Mad George, the Methodist!"

He rode on, drawing a little toward the left, so that the thorn-trees
were between him and Anthony Durrell. For Jasper had not ridden to
Stonehanger to waste time on a dry-as-dust scholar. He wanted to make
sure of seeing somebody before Anthony Durrell could interfere.

Jasper found a five-barred gate closing the stable-yard from the common.
The gate was padlocked, but Jasper put Devil Dick at it, and was over in
style. In fact, the horse nearly trampled on old David Barfoot, who
bobbed out suddenly from the door of an outbuilding.

"Where be ye a-coming to?"

"Hallo! Good-day to you, Mr. Barfoot. Is your mistress at home?"

David stared, and Benham remembered the old man's deafness. He felt in a
pocket, produced the red scarf, and also a silver crown.

He spoke slowly, showed David the scarf, and pointed to the house. David
displayed utter stupidity. He held out a brown paw for the scarf.

"No, you old fool! Do you think I have ridden five miles to hand this
over to you!"

He pointed toward the house, and then gave David the silver crown.

The man stared at it, scratched his chin, and then pocketed the money.
He threw up his hairy face suddenly, and shouted:

"It's Miss Nance you be wanting?"

"All right, all right, don't tell the whole county!" and he nodded.

"She be'unt in."

"Oh?"

"She be gone over yonder, down to the oak wood for primroses."

David was not such a cross-grained old fool, after all.

"You'd better go round by t' lane. It'll take ye out on t' common."

Jasper smiled at him, leapt Devil Dick over the gate again, struck round
by the grey wall of the garden at the back of the house, and found a gap
in the hedge leading through into the lane.

"I am in David's debt," thought he. "Mr. Durrell can play the windmill
yonder so long as he pleases."

The lane brought Jasper out on to the common where he could see the oak
wood as a brown and purplish mass beyond the tumbling green of the
wind-swept furze. Something red was moving along the edge of the wood
like a spark creeping along tinder. It was the red hood that covered
Nance's black curls.

Jasper thrilled on the edge of an adventure. He rode down the hill, and
met Nance in a winding grass-way between the furze bushes. She was
carrying a rush basket full of primroses, with a bunch of purple orchids
thrust into one corner.

"Mr. Benham!"

The exclamation was as obvious as Jasper's satisfaction at seeing her.

"David told me you were down in the wood."

"David! How did you make him understand."

"Oh, somehow. I have brought you back your scarf."

He dismounted, looped Devil Dick's bridle over his sound arm, and set
himself beside Nance. Her eyes sent a hovering glance over his face. An
immense seriousness seemed to possess him. His square jaw, firm mouth,
and blue eyes might, have belonged to a man who was about to lead a
forlorn hope. Yet the whole truth of it was that he had been attacked by
violent and absurd shyness.

"How is the arm?"

"Mending. Surgeon Doddington admired the way you had bound it up."

"Did he?"

"Yes. By the way, I have forgotten that cushion. I must bring it back
some other time."

He glanced at Nance, and the frank flash of laughter in her eyes helped
him to climb out of the slough of his own shy seriousness.

"It sounds very simple, doesn't it?"

"What?"

"To make a cushion an excuse."

"An excuse for what?"

They looked at each other again, and laughed, with the incipient mystery
of the thing creeping into their blood. The wind blew the
golden-flowered furze against the grey sky. Even this stormy day seemed
glorious.

"I wanted to come to Stonehanger."

"Did you! Well, why not?"

"Yes, why not! And just for the same reason I'm going to call
you--Nance."

She looked straight before her with a sudden self-conscious stiffening
of the face. It was as though some strange new thought had touched her,
and startled her into introspective silence.

"Is this your horse--Devil Dick?"

"Yes."

"And the other horses? Were the thieves caught?"

"No. They got clean away. It is a rogue's country."

"What a shame!"

She looked past Benham toward the sea where faint white smudges showed
up against the greyness of the horizon. They were the sails of ships in
the Channel. The boom of a distant gun came to them on the wind.

Nance stood at gaze.

"Is anything happening out there?"

"Only a signal-gun from somewhere."

"I wonder if the French will ever come?"

"I wonder!"

They moved on again toward Stonehanger, Nance looking at Jasper a little
shyly.

"You are a soldier, are you not?"

"A lieutenant of volunteers. Nearly all the gentry are serving in one
way or another."

"You wore a soldier's red-coat that night. If the French land it will be
a terrible thing for us all."

"It may be more terrible for the French."

"But Napoleon! Who have we to put against him? And they say the French
are such ruffians; think of having them quartered on us, and doing just
as they please. I sometimes start awake at night and think I hear the
sound of guns."

"Do you?"

"Stonehanger is such a windy old place. It is the sound of the wind in
the chimneys."

Jasper looked at her gravely.

"I can promise you and your father an early warning should the French
land. All the country folk will be hurried away inland with the cattle
and the corn."

"I don't think I should be afraid when the danger actually came."

"No, I know you wouldn't."

"But it is the waiting, a tense feeling in the air like there is before
a thunderstorm."

They came in sight of the terrace of Stonehanger. Anthony Durrell was
still there, pacing up and down, and waving his arms. Nance watched him
a moment, and then glanced at Jasper.

"Father has his restless moods."

"The times worry him?"

"No, I don't think it is that. He just stares when I speak of Napoleon
and the French, as though I were telling him some absurd tale. He often
walks up and down the terrace and makes long speeches in Greek or in
Latin. I think the words are to him what music is to other people."

Jasper's presence did not seem to trouble her. She took the path that
ran along the foot of the terrace, and Benham had no choice but to
follow her. He was too honest a man to think of shirking Anthony
Durrell. The scholar was standing by one of the yew-trees, one arm
raised, head thrown back, when he caught sight of Nance and Benham. He
remained thus for a moment, mouth open, eyes set in a stare. Then his
arm fell abruptly, and an irritable frown wiped the finer fervour from
his face.

Jasper raised his hat to the old man.

"Good day to you, Mr. Durrell."

"Good day to you, sir."

His face seemed to narrow with sharp severity, and with scorn. He stared
at Jasper as an eagle might eye a jay.

"I rode over to return the scarf Miss Durrell lent me."

"You might as well have kept the rubbish, Mr. Benham. Nance, I have been
waiting for you. There are several papers of notes to be copied into the
manuscript book."

Nance looked at him questioningly.

"Perhaps--Mr. Benham----"

"Mr. Benham is waiting to be off. We must not keep him. It will rain in
half an hour; the wind is dropping."

Nance went up the steps to the terrace, and turned to glance,
half-humourously, at Jasper.

"It is one of father's whims," her eyes said to him.

Jasper mounted his horse. He was angry, and a little puzzled.

"Mr. Durrell, sir, I need hardly speak to you of the danger that
threatens all of us. As a friend I can promise you an early warning, and
a place in our wagons if the French should land."

The elder man stared, and seemed to breathe through scornful nostrils.

"Mr. Benham, I am obliged to you. But I have always managed my own
affairs. I wish you good day."

He turned and followed Nance who was walking toward the house. Jasper
watched him, and saw his narrow, black figure disappear round the grey
angle of the house. Nor was he in the sweetest of tempers as he rode on
through the waving furze.

The wind dropped somewhat toward nightfall, and howled less in the
Stonehanger chimneys. Nance went to bed early, her face troubled and a
little sad. Her father had been morose, reticent, and strange, and she
had caught him watching her from his chair beside the fire.

It was near midnight when Anthony Durrell put down the book he was
reading, listened a moment, and then went to the porch door. He rapped
on it gently with his knuckles. The rap was answered from without.

Durrell opened the door, and the Chevalier de Rothan stepped into the
hall.

"Well, sir, any news?"

"Only that young Benham has been here."

"The devil! There will be trouble between me and that young man."



VIII


Anthony Durrell had brought the candle from the parlour. That stately
person De Rothan lowered his dignity to the cautious level of drawing
off his boots before following Durrell up the stairs.

Nance's room was at the western end of the long upper gallery. De Rothan
and the scholar had to pass the door of the girl's room, for the
stairhead lay close to it. They were within three steps of the landing
when Durrell heard the lifting of a latch.

Instantly he blew out the candle, and, reaching back in the darkness,
thrust De Rothan gently backward.

"Is that you, father?"

Nance had opened her door an inch or two, but no light showed.

"Yes, child. Some one must have left the window open at the end of the
gallery. The draught has blown out my candle."

"I thought I heard voices, and the sound of some one moving."

"Rubbish! You ought to be asleep. I was reciting Virgil to myself. Go to
bed, child."

"Shall I get you a light?"

"No, no--go to bed. I know the house as well in the dark as I do in the
daylight. I can go downstairs if necessary, and get a light at the
fire."

"Good night, father."

"Good night, child."

Nance's door closed, and the two men passed along the gallery, Durrell
holding De Rothan by the arm. The scholar's study was at the eastern end
of the house. There were three rooms between it and Nance's, all of them
empty and unfurnished, the keys rusting in the locks.

Durrell opened the door of his study, and led De Rothan in.

"What possessed the girl----?"

"Lucky you blew out the light. It would have been uncommonly awkward.
Explanations--to women--always are awkward."

They spoke in whispers, and Durrell closed the door.

"I have a tinder-box on my table."

"Good."

There was the sound of some one moving cautiously about the room, and
the thud of books falling to the floor. The flint and steel rang against
each other, and sparks dropped on to the scorched linen in the
tinder-box. A minute passed before Durrell got one of the sulphur
matches alight. He shaded it with his hand, and carried the flame to the
candle.

"That's better, Durrell. What a howling, wind-swept hell this house of
yours is! I suppose Miss Nance will play us no tricks? She suspects
nothing?"

"Nothing."

"Wakefulness! Shall we put it down to Mr. Benham?"

Anthony Durrell's room was crowded with books. A truckle-bed stood in
one corner, looking meagre, thin, and austere. A mahogany washstand and
a Dutch high-boy were squeezed in between the bookcases. The brown
volumes possessed the place. They were laid like stepping-stones upon
the carpetless floor, massed like buttresses against the walls, even
stacked beneath the bed and table. Black curtains were drawn across the
window, and hung by two straps from the narrow sill was a seaman's
telescope.

The Chevalier caught his toe against a huge brown rock of a book.

"Pardon, fat fellow!--Have you read them all, Durrell? Books, books,
books! Heaven help us! What did a man ever get out of a book? Has any
book ever helped me to swagger, handle a sword, spend money, live
gallantly, love a woman? Books, sir, are for the poltroons. They are the
broken meats thrown to the wretches who stand outside the gate of life
and beg."

Durrell gave one of his grim looks.

"It is strange that such a chatterbox should be trusted with such
secrets."

"Good--good for you.--What's the time?"

He pulled out a watch and scanned it by the light of the candle.

"Psst, Durrell; we are due to show our first flash in five minutes.
Where's the lamp? Hurry, hurry!"

Durrell went to a cupboard in the wall, and brought out a brass lamp
fitted with an Argand burner. He set it on the table, lit it, and turned
the wick up cautiously.

"Will they be out to-night? It's rough."

"So much the better. Jerome is no fair-weather smuggler. You had better
put two or three of your precious books under the lamp. I will work the
curtain."

Durrell busied himself with the lamp, and De Rothan walked to the
window. He kept his watch in one hand, and held the bottom of one of the
black curtains with the other.

There was a short silence. Then De Rothan glanced sharply at the
scholar.

"Ready?"

"Yes."

De Rothan drew the curtain aside, and left the window uncovered for
about twenty seconds.

"Jerome will have been on the lookout for that. We must wait half an
hour for the next. No one is likely to pick up our signals when a window
happens to be lighted for twenty seconds at intervals of half an hour."

"A mere casual flash of light. I have let people know that I work late
into the night."

De Rothan looked round for a chair, and found a rush-bottomed stool by
one of the bookcases.

"So Master Benham has been here? Dissolute young dog."

Anthony Durrell lifted a scornful head.

"Dissolute?"

"One of the most profligate young rogues in the county. I hear all the
gossip. There's hardly a pretty wench--well, you know, Durrell. Engaged
to marry his cousin, too!"

"Poor young woman."

"She is no fool. Has a thousand a year of her own, and a mouth like a
man-trap. She will lead Mr. Benham a godly, straight-up-and-down life.
Meanwhile the youngster must not be allowed to hang round here."

Durrell picked up a book, glanced at it, and then threw it back upon the
table. His austere face had a kind of hard pride.

"A scholar need not be an owl, De Rothan."

"My good sir, did I suggest it? But sweet Nance has a lonely life here.
Not much youth comes her way. And these young rakes, Durrell, have an
honest, stage-hero way with them."

"I shall see to Mr. Benham."

"You may need me, sir. Faith, it seems strange that I should be here in
this house once a week, and Miss Nance know nothing of it. Look you,
Durrell, I'm an old friend of yours; I might pay a few open and friendly
calls. I have a fatherly way with young women."

Durrell looked at him ironically. De Rothan met his eyes, and laughed.

"You think I might be as bad as young Benham? Tssh! Nance is a girl for
a man to marry, and to think himself a lucky dog. I tell you, Durrell, I
will pay a state call next week. Come now; we must keep an eye on the
time. Jerome should have news for us. I have a packet of cipher to give
him."

Anthony Durrell appeared restless and preoccupied. He began sorting and
arranging some of the books that were piled against the wall. De Rothan
watched him with just the faintest glimmer of contempt. This fanatic,
filled with visions of a regenerated world state, was something of an
enigma to the Frenchman. Durrell was a man of Miltonic dreams, austere,
fervid, morose. In Bonaparte he saw a foredestined Angel of Wrath who
should smite the crowns from the heads of tyrants. His work done, the
man Napoleon would disappear. Liberty would stand among the peoples,
holding her fiery sword aloft, her mouth full of prophetic and noble
words. The world would become a new world. Kings and princelings would
cease to strut and bully. The golden age of brotherhood and equality was
at hand. Anthony Durrell believed all this, and yearned so fervently for
its consummation that he was ready to whisper with spies in a corner.
For himself he desired nothing but the right to live, and speak and
write as he pleased. This disinterestedness of his made De Rothan
despise him a little. The Chevalier saw visions, but they were the
visions of a man who valued such material things as titles, and orders,
palaces, estates, the pride and pomp of power. Durrell's fanaticism was
useful to him. As for these broad English lands, he might find himself
choosing which he should own and enjoy. The earth for the
people--indeed! De Rothan knew better. He had no intention of sitting
down on the same bench with half a score born fools.

De Rothan glanced at his watch, and returned to the window.

"It is time for the second signal."

The black curtain did its work once more.

"Cover up the lamp--now, Durrell. I will see if I can catch Jerome's
answer."

Durrell carried the lamp to the cupboard, turned the wick low, and shut
the door. De Rothan had opened the lattice, and was looking out into the
night, the wind blowing in and tossing the black curtains behind him.

He spoke in a whisper.

"He's yonder."

"At sea?"

"I caught the two flashes. Jerome will land when we show him a third
light. This smuggling game is accursedly useful."

"A means to an end."

"It makes half the county our dupes. Think of it, sir, all these greedy,
spirit-swindling fools helping us to bring in the French bayonets."

Both men stood at the window and stared out into the windy darkness.
Intent upon watching the black horizon they had not heard the soft,
gliding tread of bare feet along the gallery. Nance had been standing
for some minutes outside her father's door, a dim, white figure that
faltered on the edge of a discovery.

Once she had raised her hand to knock, but the sound of that other voice
had paralysed her. Who was the man who talked to her father? Why was he
there? How had he come into the house? The voice seemed vaguely
familiar. She had heard it before, but she could not remember where.

Perplexed, and a little afraid, she crept back to her room, closed the
door gently, and, slipping back into bed, drew the clothes up over her
knees. For a while she sat there in the darkness, listening. The wind
blustered in the chimneys, and to Nance the grey house had become eerie
and cold. Questions that she could not answer importuned her in the
darkness. Her father was concealing something from her, and the thought
hurt her and filled her with vague unrest.

Presently she lay down, and drew the clothes over, for she was beginning
to shiver with cold. As for sleep, it eluded her. She lay there in the
darkness, listening, till the old house became full of a hundred
imaginary sounds.


At Rush Heath Mr. Christopher Benham snored in his great Dutch chair
before the fire. Parson Goffin had talked the squire to sleep, and was
still cocking his long clay pipe alertly and holding forth to Jasper
Benham. His nose seemed to glow more angrily when he was in the heat of
an argument, or venting a grievance. He would sit forward with his feet
tucked under his chair, and emphasise each point with prodding movements
of the stem of his pipe.

"I tell you, sir, the hangman is not kept busy enough in England.
Freethinkers, atheists,--what! I'd string up the whole lot! They should
have begun with Tom Paine, sir, and all scoundrels of that colour."

Jasper was stifling yawns, and glancing at the clock.

"Liberty indeed! Faugh, license, that's what liberty means. Right of
Man! Bosh, sir,--bosh. The right of the pig to be swinish! There are men
within ten miles of us who need hanging. Traitors, blasphemous
scoundrels. Take that man Durrell, now, of Stonehanger."

Jasper straightened in his chair.

"Durrell----?"

"A Jacobin, sir, or I'm no parson. Tainted with all the sins of the
Revolution. The justices ought to order the house to be surprised and
searched. I warrant they would find seditious stuff enough at
Stonehanger."

"What makes you think that, Parson?"

Goffin looked shrewdly along the stem of his pipe.

"Have I nose for a fox, sir! Not a few seditious pamphlets have come out
of Stonehanger House. I'd have that man in gaol, and his daughter too."

"Nonsense, Goffin. Why, what harm can a girl do?"

"Harm, sir, harm! Have you read your Bible,--or your history?"

"You mean to say that Durrell may be a spy in the French service?"

"I do, sir, I do. And the girl is as bad as her father."

"It's a lie, Goffin, a damned lie."

"Sir, you are the son of your father."

The parson chuckled.

"A hard head, and a soft heart. No offence, Master Jasper. But facts are
facts."

The clock struck eleven, and Jasper proceeded to send Mr. Goffin home
with his lantern, and to get his father to bed. Squire Kit had to be
carried by the servants to his room on the ground floor. He would groan
and curse all the while Jack Bumpstead was undressing him, for Jack
acted as valet as well as groom. He would blow all the time while his
master was swearing, much to Squire Christopher's indignation.

"Jack, you mud-faced, cockle-headed calf, do ye think you're rubbing
down a horse? Don't blow, I say! You make enough draught to give a man a
chill."

These matters attended to, Jasper went to his own room, a frown on his
face and anger within him.

"Nance Durrell a spy's daughter!"

He refused to believe such a thing. Parson Goffin had been in his cups.



IX


Jasper woke very early, just as the day was breaking. A thrush was
singing on the topmost spires of one of the cedars. The woods beyond the
paddock thrilled with the orisons of the birds.

Jasper left his bed, opened the lattice wide, and took in the dawn. A
mysterious ecstasy was in the air. A hundred bird voices were calling,
and, with the dew upon the grass, the world was still half asleep. There
were little golden rifts in the eastern sky. Here and there a cloud
nearer the zenith would burst suddenly into flame.

Jasper's heart was stirred in him. The mystery of the dawn seemed for
him alone. Not a soul was stirring. The earth belonged to him and to the
birds.

He could use his arm now a little, and he dressed with the haste of a
boy eager for a plunge in some still pool. The old house itself seemed
full of secrecy, and quiet charm. He went out noiselessly, though the
hinges of the stable door filled the court-yard with their creakings.
Devil Dick was alert as a dog. Jasper saddled and bridled him, and rode
out.

"Which way shall I go?"

The hypocrite. His heart laughed joyously at its own guile.

"She will not be up at this hour. Yes, but they are early folk. Even a
glimpse of her! Why, Jasper, my man, you have seen her only twice."

Parson Goffin's bibulous scepticism staggered like a dreary toper across
the stealthy joy of the morning. Jasper touched Devil Dick with his
switch.

"Out--old crow!"

He put his hand on the place where Nance's red scarf lay folded. And
immediately some perverse suggestion gave him the picture of Rose
Benham.

"Faith! I never knew the woman was so plain. Jasper Benham, you are a
beast, sir. But her eyes, and that tart talkative mouth. Dick, my lad,
gallop; for God's sake, let's gallop."

They swung through a green world, with the gold of the dawn above the
soft blues and greys of the horizon. Rabbits scuttled here and there.
Blackbirds sung deep-throated, and skimmed along the hedgerows. The
golden buds of the oaks were turning to green spray. Ash-trees,
black-tipped, stood straight and stiff in the thickets. The bloom was
waiting on the May trees, and blue-bells coloured the woods.

Jasper saw Stonehanger Common dark against the dawn. His heart beat to
the rhythm of Devil Dick's hoofs. Nance might be standing and looking in
her mirror, and Jasper envied the mirror the reflection of her eyes.

He came to the furze lands and had a glimpse of the sea. The
yellow-flowered furze was very still with grey gossamer upon it. Here
and there brown earth showed where rabbits had been scratching.

Two hundred yards away a plover rose, crying plaintively, and circling
on heavy wings. Some one was down yonder among the furze. Jasper drew in
and stood in the stirrups. A black shape seemed to dodge down suddenly
behind a bank.

"Some gipsy."

He loitered a moment, and then rode on, not troubling to look behind
him. The furze swayed slightly as though something were pushing through
it. A man's head appeared for an instant, like the head of a swimmer
seen above the crest of a wave. The muzzle of a pistol was raised,
pointed, and held meaningly. But the man thought better of it.

"Too great a risk. Some fool of a labourer may be about. And I might
have missed him."

He dropped back amid the furze.

Jasper rode on, ignorant of the fact that death had threatened him. The
sunlight struck the windows of Stonehanger. One of the lattices opened,
and a white arm showed for a moment.

Jasper turned into the lane, passed the yew-tree where the horse-thief
had shot at him, pulled up at the gate, and left Devil Dick there with
the bridle over a post. Jasper went in through the gate, and was given a
choice of paths in the dark wilderness of the shrubbery. The path that
he chose brought him into the stable-yard and face to face with a
red-brown cow that was steering for the stable door.

The cow stopped to stare, and then walked on. Jasper took off his hat to
her.

"Good morning, madam."

And it was Nance who caught the salutation.

She had appeared in a side passage between two grass-grown walls, a
hazel stick in her hand, her hair tied up with ribbons, a red petticoat
showing her ankles. Frank astonishment was the mood of the moment. A
girl, surprised at such an hour, may look a sloven, but Nance seemed
part of the fresh life of the morning.

For an instant she looked anxious.

"You! Have you brought bad news?"

"No. An early ride, nothing more."

"I thought the French must have landed."

"I have not heard of it. The other day, you know, I forgot to give you
that scarf."

Her face and eyes lit up with amusement.

"Oh, that scarf! It seems to lie heavily upon your conscience!"

"It does."

"Leave it--or keep it."

"Then I'll keep it."

"As you like."

They stood and looked at each other, trembling upon the edge of laughter
that was part of the exquisite joy of the morning. Nance's eyes looked
dewy, her mouth alluring. She was the figure of May.

"Do you often visit your friends so early?"

"Sometimes."

"You must often catch them before they are up."

"I saw your window open as I came up the hill."

"Did you?"

"The end one toward the west. I woke early. Do you know how a spring
morning gets into one's blood? Devil Dick wanted a gallop and so did I."

The horse's, and his own, impulses had carried him up to Stonehanger.
That was where youth, and the joy of it, led. The knowledge of it came
to Nance like wind from over the hills. It seemed to beat about her with
sudden emotion, making a strange, mysterious stir in all the ways of her
lonely life.

"I have to milk Jenny."

"Jenny and I said good morning to each other."

"One has to do so many things in the country. I made David teach me."

"May I come and watch?"

"If you like."

"Jenny won't object?"

"You had better ask her."

"It would be more polite!"

Ironically serious he walked into the stable and took off his hat to the
cow.

"Madam, may I be present at the ceremony?"

Jenny turned a slow head and stared with solemn, violet eyes. Then she
gave a flick of the tail.

"Jenny is agreeable. We shall be friends."

Stool and milk-pail stood in the stall where the early sunlight streamed
through the doorway and fell upon the yellow straw. Nance set her stool
and sat down with one cheek against Jenny's flank. The white milk
frothed into the pail, the cow standing placid and trustful under the
girl's hands.

Jasper Benham leant against the door-post, content to look at Nance as a
man may look at a girl.

"Do you find it lonely here?"

"Lonely? Well--sometimes. Father and I have always had a lonely life.
I'm used to it. Though I don't say that I might not be
discontented--if----"

She glanced up and smiled.

"If----"

"If--I--had ever known gayer people. A girl likes to enjoy things just
as much as a man does. I love a new dress."

"I don't know that I'm not proud of a new coat! Do you ever go to
Hastings, or Eastbourne, or Brighton?"

"Hardly ever. We lived at Hastings for a while, in rooms under the
cliff. I used to like the sea and the fishing-boats, and the people. But
the house--! It was detestable. One long squabble with the woman, who
was always cheating us."

"Yes, they are beasts. I had a season at Tunbridge Wells with the
squire. It made me quarrelsome. Are you fond of the country?"

"I love it. I love finding the birds in their nests and watching
everything. There is so much to watch. But then--the winter----!"

"The dull days. That is why we hunt and shoot and play cards, and why
some of us drink too much. Can you ride?"

"A very little."

"I should like to teach you to ride."

"Should you! But I have no horse."

"I think of buying a quiet nag. I could come over and give you lessons.
I know you could ride like a witch."

Her eyes looked up at him.

"How do you know that?"

"Well, I just know it. You do things--so cleanly--with your hands. One
can always tell a bungler."

The milking was at an end, and Nance lifted the pail aside, and set the
stool in a corner.

"Let me carry the pail for you?"

"It is quite light. Would you like to see my new garden?"

"I should."

"I must carry this in, and see to the fire. You must stay and take
breakfast with us."

"That's good of you."

"Go round to the terrace. I'll join you there soon."

Nance ran up to her room, slipped into a simple white gown flowered with
pink roses, and did her hair, drawing it back in two black waves from
her forehead. Then she went to her father's room, and knocked, the gay
mood of the moment overshadowed suddenly by the memory of the night when
she had heard the voice of the stranger in that room. The incident might
have proved utterly trivial, and Nance had waited for something to
explain it. She had held her tongue, and asked no questions, but Anthony
Durrell had offered her no confidences. His silence troubled Nance. It
seemed that there might be something in his life that he did not desire
her to know.

"Father----"

"Yes, child."

"Mr. Benham has ridden over."

"What?"

"Mr. Benham has ridden over. May I ask him to stay to breakfast?"

There was the sound of a chair being moved. Then Anthony Durrell's voice
asked, "Where is Mr. Benham?"

"On the terrace."

"Keep him till I come. I have something to say to Mr. Benham."

"You're not cross with him, father?"

"Only fools and little people are cross, child. I shall not be ten
minutes."

Nance went down, trying to reassure herself, and feeling that it was a
very innocent thing that she should be glad of this young man's coming.
She found Jasper standing by one of the yew-trees, looking out toward
the sea. She saw by his eyes how the flowered gown became her.

"What a view you have here."

"Isn't it splendid. I have told father you are here. He says that he
will be down in ten minutes."

"I am glad you have told him. I want to get to know your father."

"Yes, but that's so difficult."

Her face fell, and she looked grave. It was sufficient for Jasper to
realise that Mr. Anthony Durrell had a perplexing personality. His
austerity was the austerity of a fanatic. As for courtesy, it seemed to
be absent. Nor did he appear to have any sympathy for this lonely,
dark-eyed child.

"Your father leads a hard life."

"Yes. Often he is up half the night, reading. You should see his books.
Sometimes I hate books. It has been like that since mother died."

Jasper looked at her with secret compassion.

"When was that?"

"Twelve years ago. Father has never been the same since then."

"No----"

"I can remember him laughing and making jokes and tossing me up in his
arms. He grew so much older, as though something had died in him. He
became more taken up with his books."

Throat, mouth, and eyes were tragic for an instant, and Jasper felt a
yearning to be very tender and gentle with this girl. He would have
liked to put his hands upon her shoulders, look in her eyes, and say
"Nance, I know you are lonely--very often."

She smiled suddenly, and looked up at him with a flash of courage.

"We always think our own troubles so important.--I must go and get the
breakfast ready. Father will be here in a minute."

Jasper watched her go, and then turned again toward the sea. The spring
morning was no longer filled with the sheer joy of living. It had a
sadness, an afterwards, a thinking voice beneath all the rhapsodies of
its awakened birds.

"Mr. Benham----"

Jasper turned with a sharp throw-back of the head. He saw Anthony
Durrell crossing the terrace toward him. The man's face was set like a
hard and narrow stone. The lips looked tucked away, the nose pinched and
thin.

"Good morning, sir."

"Mr. Benham, I have something of interest to show you. It is a thing
that is often met with, but it is not always treated with due respect.
Will you be so good as to follow me."

He stalked round the house into the shrubbery. Jasper puzzled, wondering
whether Durrell had some rare herb, beetle, or bird to show him.
Eccentricity challenges all manner of conjectures. A man may be as rude
and sinister as he pleases if his force of character justifies these
peculiarities.

Jasper found himself standing in the lane with Anthony Durrell. Devil
Dick eyed them restlessly and scraped the ground with a forefoot.
Durrell raised a hand, touched Jasper's shoulder, and pointed to the
gate.

"You see that, sir?"

"Yes."

"It is a gate, is it not? I am not aware that I have asked you to see
the inside of it. You understand me, I hope. Sometimes one has to speak
plainly. Good morning."

He gave Jasper one look, re-entered the gate, closed it, and walked off
under the hollies. Jasper stood like a rebuked schoolboy. He was too
astonished at first by Durrell's incomprehensible rudeness to feel the
anger that was rising in him. It rose none the less, with a fine head of
indignation.

"What the devil--! Am I not gentleman enough----?"

He mounted Devil Dick in a rage.

"I have a mind to flout the old fool. There would be a scene. And Nance?
Confound it, these things need thinking out coolly. I'm too hot in the
head. I don't want to give Nance pain."



X


So often a man believes what he wishes to believe, and Anthony Durrell
was no less prejudiced in this respect than the most ignorant of his
neighbours. Jasper Benham's coming to Stonehanger threatened all manner
of complications, and was a menace to Durrell's schemings. De Rothan's
lies were exceedingly opportune and suggestive. They had worked upon
Durrell's austere and Puritanical nature, and his severity never doubted
its devotion. This young man was a danger, not only to Nance, but to all
his secret understanding with the French.

Durrell returned to the house and found Nance busy in the parlour. She
had spread a new cloth and brought out the best china. Her father, alive
to these details now that they were of some significance, noticed her
rose-flowered gown and an old pearl necklace she was wearing.

"That is not stuff for the day's work, Nance."

"What, father?"

"That dress. Go and change it."

"But, father, breakfast is ready, and Mr. Benham----"

"Mr. Benham has gone, child."

"Gone?"

"Yes. There will be no setting of caps this morning."

Nance flushed with surprise and resentment, for to youth sarcasm is the
most hateful of all the methods of coercion, especially when it is petty
and unjust.

"You should not speak to me like that, father."

"What? Am I to choose my own words to please a foolish child? I shall
have more to say to you on this matter presently."

Nance was humiliated, hurt, and angry. To generous and sensitive natures
cynicism seems a vulgar, shallow thing, like a coarse lout mocking at
what he does not understand. Nance went to her room and changed her
flowered gown for an old stuff dress. Her father had begun breakfast
when she returned. He had a book open beside his plate, and he seemed
absorbed in it, and disinclined to notice the girl.

Nance watched him, and her pride rose in revolt. Her father had spoken
vulgar words, and thrown a contemptible accusation in her face. What
shame was there in her discovering pleasure in the pleasure with which
she inspired a man? She liked Jasper Benham, trusted him, and felt that
her instincts were not at fault. Was her life so full of sympathy that
she should be forbidden to make friends?

Yet for the while she said nothing to Anthony Durrell. His face was the
colour of the pages of his book. And for once Nance noticed how narrow,
thin, and harsh he looked.

She could not help remembering the night when he had brought some
strange man secretly to the house, and the thought of his secretiveness
and his dry reserve made her impatient. If he was to be tyrannical and
unsympathetic, had she not a right to be trusted? She was living this
lonely life for his sake, and yet when youth came to share with her the
glamour of a spring morning, he raised forbidding hands.

Nance looked at her father, and felt compelled to speak to him.

"Why did you send Mr. Benham away?"

Durrell pushed the book aside.

"Do not catch at conclusions, child."

Nance was not to be put aside so easily.

"Then, why did he go?"

"Possibly because of something I said to him."

"What did you say to him?"

"Nance, I am not minded to be cross-questioned by my child."

She flushed, and showed a frank impatience.

"Am I to have no friends? What harm is there? You know, father, it is
dangerous, sometimes, to try and smother all that is in us."

Durrell glanced at her sharply. He was man enough to be struck by the
undeniable truth that challenged him out of the mouth of this young
girl.

"Nance, what I do I do because it is right."

"But, have I no right to know?"

His face hardened.

"Very well, you shall know. I sent Mr. Benham away because he is not the
man I would admit into my house."

"But why?"

"Nance, you have seen very little of the world of men. This young man is
of bad repute. He is without honour, without morality."

Nance sat very straight in her chair, her hands moving restlessly in her
lap.

"You mean to say, father----?"

"This Jasper Benham is a young man who lives a bad life. He is engaged
to marry his cousin, a Miss Benham. That has not prevented him from
dishonouring----"

Nance had gone very white. Her eyes were the eyes of one who recoils
from something with sudden disgust.

"Father!"

"I tell you this for your own good, child. What do you know of Mr.
Jasper Benham? Nothing save that he seemed grateful to you--because you
were good to him, that he has a plausible tongue and an assumption of
honesty."

She sat rigid, staring at the opposite wall.

"Who told you this?"

"Does that alter the truth? I will not have this young man in my house.
He shall work no treachery here."

Nance was dumb. Something seemed to have been taken from life. The
breath of the morning was tainted.

Durrell looked at her, not unkindly.

"Now you can understand me, child. I have seen something of the world. I
do not want you to suffer pain."

Nance tried to finish her meal, but she had no heart for it, and soon
left the table. She wanted to be alone, to set her little world in
order. Something had jarred it into momentary confusion. Yet surely it
was foolish that she should care at all.

Nance went to her room and saw the flowered gown lying across a chair.
The sight of it woke a rush of anger in her. Was he that kind of man?
Had he thought her a vain fool who would dance to his piping?

A voice within her cried out in denial:

"An hour ago you trusted him! Are these things true?"

A second voice replied:

"Even if they are true, what does it matter to you? You have seen the
man only three times."

She put the dress away, and looked at herself haughtily in the mirror.
What manner of woman was she to be so moved by a breath of scandal? If
true--well--there was an end of it. She would neither bend her head to
listen, nor open her mouth to speak. She had enough pride to carry her
past such an incident that had been enlarged by her own loneliness, and
touched with the delight of youth and of spring.

Nance had work to keep her busy, though old David Barfoot took the heavy
jobs, and washed the crockery, and scrubbed the floors. At the midday
meal Nance and her father hardly spoke. She meant to spend the afternoon
in her piece of garden upon the terrace, planting out a few seedlings
and plucking up assertive weeds. David had promised to come round with
his scythe and cut the grass that was growing rank and long.

But though her hands were busy, Nance could not win her thoughts away
from the revelation of the morning. She felt sore, mistrustful,
incredulous. What did she know of Jasper Benham? Was it true that he was
pledged to marry his cousin? She, Nance, had spoken of friendliness.
Perhaps he had thought of nothing but friendliness? Her heart told her
that it was not so.

Anthony Durrell came out with a book in his hand, and began to pace up
and down the terrace. Sometimes he would break out into declamation,
waving the book, and throwing his head back like an orator sending words
to a distance.

Nance planted her seedlings one by one, kneeling on an old sack, her
head bowed over the brown soil.

"Salve, Domine. How go the elegiacs?"

Nance looked up with a start. It was another voice, not her father's,
that had spoken, and the voice was the voice she had heard that night in
her father's room.



XI


Nance glanced over her shoulder as she knelt. A man had appeared round
the corner of the house and was walking toward her along the stone-paved
path. He was a tall man, dressed in black, with roguish, sinister eyes,
an arrogant mouth, and a haughty way of carrying his head and shoulders.

Anthony Durrell turned and seemed nonplussed for the moment.

"It is you, Chevalier----"

De Rothan was a magnificent fool when a pretty woman held the stage. He
gave Nance one of his French-Irish bows, hat over his heart, the heels
of his shoes together. De Rothan had the reddish, raddled skin, and the
angry blue eyes of the Irishman. The refinements were French, the
cleverness, the subtlety, the love of intrigue.

"Mr. Durrell, present a poor exile to your daughter."

Nance had risen from her piece of sacking. Her hands were stained with
soil, and stooping had flushed her face. The stranger's magnificent
manners seemed out of place. She believed that the man was quizzing her.

Durrell closed his book with a snap, courteous under compulsion.

"Nance, this is the Chevalier de Rothan; an old friend of mine. I knew
him in France many years ago."

De Rothan laughed, with his eyes on Nance.

"Mees Durrell, your father would make me out an old man! But it is not
so. I can run and leap against any lad of twenty."

There are some men whose vanity cannot be controlled when they are
brought into the presence of women. De Rothan was such a man. He was the
peacock on the instant, strutting, swaggering, not content unless he
outshone all other men.

"Though an exile, the English women have almost made me forget my
France. Why is it, Mees Durrell, that the English women have such
beautiful skins? Roses and milk, roses and milk."

Nance said nothing. The man's voice had driven her into a confusion of
conjectures. If he were an old friend of her father's, how was it she
had never heard of him before? And why all this midnight mystery, the
stealthy coming by night?

She realised that both De Rothan and her father were watching her. It
was imperative that she should speak to him, or seem like a _gauche_
child.

"I am glad to see an old friend of my father's."

"Mees Durrell, will you make me old!"

"I don't think you are very young!"

He laughed and bowed.

"Mam'selle, your father is the cleverest of men. But to have such a
daughter! That was a stroke of genius."

Nance smiled, but there was no pleasure in her smile. She supposed these
were French manners, but they made her feel foolish and ill at ease.

"I am afraid father has never spoken to me of you."

She noticed that the men exchanged glances. Durrell intervened.

"Nance, child, the Chevalier will take tea with us."

"Yes, father."

She understood the hint and was glad to go. There was something puzzling
and unwholesome about the man.

De Rothan followed her with his eyes.

"Faith, sir, the child is charming, and so innocent."

Durrell was not pleased.

"Do not try your airs and graces here, my friend."

"Psst--I am perfectly sincere. I pay homage to beauty----"

"Curtail it. Shall we walk a little way over the common?"

He glanced at the windows of the house, crossed the terrace and
descended the steps. De Rothan followed him, staring with a certain
whimsical contempt at Durrell's back.

"Has the young squire been here again?"

"This very morning--at six o'clock."

"Youth is in a hurry!"

"I have put a bridle upon his eagerness. I sent him packing. And Nance
knows."

"Knows what?"

"That young Benham is a reprobate, and a loose liver."

"The devil she does! You told her?"

"Certainly. I did not mean the friendship to develop."

De Rothan looked half grave and half amused.

"Well, you have given me your news without miserliness. I return you
news of my own. Villeneuve has got out of Toulon."

"What!"

"And has given Nelson the slip."

Durrell's face shone with sudden exultation.

"Man, is it true?"

"True as news can be. But listen to this. He has picked up some of the
Spaniards, driven Orde's squadron out of the way, and is at sea. All
England is in a sweat, and cursing. They know nothing. They quake in the
dark."

"Yes--but Nelson?"

"Listen. This would be worth money in England. Villeneuve sails for the
West Indies. Don't breathe it. He cuts himself loose, see--disappears.
The English are left at blindman's-buff. Then the West Indies are
harried. Nelson is lured thither. Back bolts Villeneuve, drives the
blockading fleet from Brest, joins our ships there, and sails up the
Channel with close on forty sail of the line. The straits are ours.
Napoleon rushes his grenadiers across. After that--the deluge!"

Durrell stood and stared towards the sea with a look of exultation.

"And we shall help to bring in liberty."

De Rothan sneered behind the visionary's back.

"We shall show them where and how to strike. This house and hill of
yours, Durrell, will be the first point they will make safe. There will
be trenches and batteries here. The Emperor will stand upon your
terrace, sir, with all the gorgeous gentlemen of his staff. As for me, I
shall be the light-heeled Mercury. I know where the cattle and corn are
to be found. I know the powder-mills, the best wells, every road and
by-road. I shall be with the cavalry. God--these raw, red-coated
bumpkins! How we shall sabre them!"

Durrell was like a man who had heard that his great enemy was to be
overwhelmed with ruin and shame. England had made him suffer, and,
fanatic and dreamer that he was, his enthusiasm did not lack a spice of
vengeance. He wanted to see England suffer in turn, to see her purged of
the poison of privilege, of the aristocrats, the lordlings, and the rich
commoners whom he hated.

His mood came near to gaiety, if an austere and fanatical excitement can
be called gay. He forgave De Rothan his vanity, and went in holding the
arch-spy's arm as a man holds the arm of his dearest friend. De Rothan
had twinkles of cynical amusement in his eyes. What did a bookworm and a
dreamer expect from Napoleon and the French? He would be left to chant
rhapsodies in a corner, and to shout "Liberty! Liberty!" provided that
he did not turn round and shout it to the English.

De Rothan took advantage of Durrell's good humour, and prepared to enjoy
himself with Nance. The girl's silence and reserve piqued him. He loved
conquests, and would boast that no woman could withstand him.

His gallantry and his oglings worried Nance. She disliked the expression
of his quarrelsome blue eyes. He was too free, too familiar to please
her, nor was she in a mood for coquetry. Her opinion of De Rothan was
suggested by the fact that she had not changed her old stuff dress.

"Ah, Mees Nance, your hands play with the cups and the sugar and the
milk as though you played the harpsichord. Have you music here? No? Your
father should buy you a harpsichord. It would show off your pretty
fingers."

"I should not be able to play it."

"No? Why, by the honour of Louis, I would teach you myself. So many of
us exiles have become music-masters. Durrell, my good friend, buy your
daughter a harpsichord, and I will teach her to play and to sing."

Durrell gave them one of his austere smiles. He was happy, exultant, and
saw nothing sinister in De Rothan's playfulness.

"All in good time--all in good time. Nance has not had all that she
might have had."

"What, sir! And she has so much already! Most of the women would think
she had too much."

He bowed to Nance.

"One may not drink to beauty--in tea. The sparkling wine of France! I
imagine that I drink it to you, Mees Nance."

The girl was silent and irresponsive. Perhaps De Rothan felt challenged;
perhaps she pleased him more than he had expected. Before the meal was
over some of the froth had been blown from his fooling. The man was more
than half in earnest. The expression of his eyes changed. They betrayed
a subtle, gloating, admiration that is seen at times in the eyes of men.

De Rothan's leave-taking was half insolent, half tender. It had always
been his way to treat women with audacity. He attacked them with the
bold ferocity of his self-confidence.

"Mees Nance, this is the first day of spring. I kiss your hands. I
felicitate your father. Never will he produce another such poem."

His bold eyes thrust his admiration into her face. Durrell was still
living in dreams.

"Must you go, my friend? Well, well, now that you are in these parts, we
shall see you more often."

"Sir, could I help it? The sun shines at Stonehanger."

Nance was silent and thoughtful when De Rothan had gone. She cleared the
tea things away, while Anthony Durrell sat on the couch by the window
and filled the bowl of a long clay pipe.

"Who is that man, father?"

"De Rothan? An exile, a French aristocrat. He waits for the return of
King Louis."

Durrell showed the Jesuitical spirit in his belief that the end
justified the means.

"Has he been long in Sussex?"

"No, not very long. Otherwise you would have seen him before."

"Where does he live?"

"He has rented an old house away yonder over the ridge?"

It was on Nance's tongue to speak of that night when she had heard De
Rothan's voice in her father's room. But some impulse drove the words
back. She went put with the tray, leaving her father to dream impossible
dreams of an impossible future.

She was thinking of Jasper Benham, nor was it very marvellous that
Jasper could keep her in countenance in the matter of thinking. He had
ridden home in no pleasant temper, puzzled and challenged by Anthony
Durrell's blunt prejudice against him. Nor could Jasper help remembering
Parson Goffin's insinuations. Durrell might not want strangers at
Stonehanger. And yet it seemed bad policy to be so frankly churlish.

At Rush Heath Jasper found half-a-score red-coats drinking beer in the
stable-yard. Jack Bumpstead was watering their horses, and joining in
the gossip that flitted about the pewter pots.

"Capt'n Jennison be in t' parlour, Master Jasper."

And Jasper found Captain Jennison comfortably seated at breakfast,
making himself wholly at home in Squire Kit's chair.

He was a grim-mouthed, swarthy little man, with massive limbs and a big
chest. His temper was abrupt and dangerous.

"Morning to you, Benham. Time's precious, sir. Excuse me if I open my
mouth to eat and to talk. I have important orders, sir, but Captain
Curtiss was not to be found. God knows what the man has done with
himself!"

Jasper drew a chair to the table, and helped himself to cold meat-pie.

"I am at your service, captain."

"The fact is, sir, that Villeneuve has got out of Toulon. Where Nelson
is, only the devil knows. Mischief is brewing, and we are most damnably
in the dark. They say that in London men have faces as long as
lamp-posts. We are to be on the alert, sir. I have been sent out to warn
all the volunteer officers to have their men ready for any emergency."

"Then there is a chance of the French getting across?"

"A confoundedly good chance, sir, and I can't say I have much faith in
our row of dove-cots and their pop-guns. We must have every man ready
who can carry a musket. Whip up all your men, billet 'em in Battle,
somewhere handy--here, if you like. Have your wagons ready. We are
waiting in the dark. Villeneuve may be coming up the Channel for all we
know."

Jasper had the grave face of a man who took his duties very seriously.

"It shall be done, Captain Jennison. I am to act for Captain Curtiss?"

"Good Lord, sir, yes. That gentleman will be shaving himself when the
French cavalry are galloping past Tunbridge."

Captain Jennison gathered his men and rode on, while Jasper sent Jack
Bumpstead to re-saddle Devil Dick, and went to spend five minutes with
his father. He was fond of the fiery, blasphemous old curmudgeon, and
Squire Kit was proud of Jasper, and very generous in his way. He was the
sort of man who cursed because it had become a habit with him, and ill
health had not sweetened his temper.

"Well, Jasper, well, lad----?"

"Captain Jennison has been here, father. It is likely that the French
may get across."

"The French! Rot their teeth! Let 'em come, sir. What are we in such a
pest of a fear of the French for? We'll give 'em something to remember.
Let 'em come, I say."

Jasper was at the door and ready to mount when a green curricle came
swinging up the road, with Rose Benham's plain face looking out from a
big straw bonnet.

Jasper smothered a gust of impatience. Rose threw the reins to the
groom, and descended with an air of eager concern.

"Jasper, what is the news? I have heard all sorts of rumours."

"It seems likely that the French will get across."

"The wretches!"

"We have orders to bring our men together. I am off to whip them in."

A gloved hand came out, and touched Jasper's sleeve.

"O, Jasper, what will happen? I can't help being afraid."

Rose was not at her best when she was sentimental.

"Every one will be warned. You will have to go inland."

"I was not thinking of myself, Jasper. I shall be praying to God for you
and our friends. But why should I be sent away? Women may be of use."

"It may not come to that, Rose."

Her hand still touched his sleeve, and her display of tenderness
irritated him. He could not return it, and his mouth felt stiff.

"How grave you look. Does Uncle Kit know?"

"Yes."

"Poor, dear old man. I might go and comfort him."

"I shouldn't, Rose."

For Squire Kit was deep in one long, blasphemous soliloquy.

There was a short, constrained silence, Jasper avoiding his cousin's
eyes.

"Now, I know I am keeping you. Duty calls. But, O Jasper, it is
hard----"

"The French are not here yet."

"How brave and calm you look."

She had tried very hard to make the man kiss her, but Jasper's face was
obstinate and cold.



XII


A labourer came running up to Rush Heath House about eleven o'clock that
night. He hammered at the yard-door, and bawled at the servants'
windows.

"The beacon be burning, the beacon be burning."

The men of Jasper's volunteer company were quartered at Rush Heath, and
red-coats came tumbling out of barns, stable, and kitchen. The maids
could be heard screaming in their attics, till Jack Bumpstead went up to
reassure them and to tell them to dress. The men had crowded to the high
field above the orchard, and were looking toward the sea.

"Beachy Head--that's her."

"Where's Captain Jasper?"

"It be the French, sure."

Jasper had been roused. He came up to the high field, and saw the
burning beacon like a huge star, low down upon the black horizon. The
flames were flinging their message through the night. It meant that the
French had landed, or were preparing to land.

The whole household, save Squire Kit, were in the high field above the
orchard. The women were there, awed and frightened, and huddling close
for comfort.

"Oh, dear! Oh, dear! They'll be cutting our throats."

"Ye'll fight, lads, won't 'e? Don't let 'em terrify ye."

"O, Bob, lad, I be sure you'll get a bullet in your heart."

Jasper told the women to be quiet, and called his sergeant to him.
Captain Curtiss was still an absentee. Gossip said that he had a love
affair in London.

"That's Beachy Head, Cochrane."

"It is, sir."

"Fairlight should be lighting up. The signal will go in to Flimwell and
Crowborough. Have the men had a meal?"

"They have, sir."

Jasper reflected a moment, with confused figures and a confused murmur
of voices about him in the darkness. Some one had brought a lantern, but
it was lost in the crowd.

Squire Christopher had utterly refused to desert the house.

"What! run away from a lot of beggarly French! Damn 'em, I'm a
gentleman; I don't put my King on a chopping-block. I stay here, Jasper.
If they come into my bedroom, sir, they'll hear how an English gentleman
can swear."

Jasper had decided that Jack Bumpstead should be left to look after his
father. The maids, the cottagers, and their children were to be packed
into wagons and driven away inland.

"Jack, saddle Devil Dick. Farmer Lavender promised to come up and see
after the wagons. Let the bullocks take the red wagon. The blue wagon
and the horses must not leave here before dawn. Remember that--not
before dawn. If any one comes bringing my gold ring, they are to have
places in the blue wagon."

"Sure, Master Jasper."

"Sergeant Cochrane!"

"Sir?"

"In an hour, you will march your men off on the Hastings road. I shall
rejoin you here, or else pick you up on the road. That's clear?"

The sergeant saluted.

"Clear, sir."

Jasper rode out toward Stonehanger.

"Durrell be hanged," he said to himself, "some one ought to warn them."

It was a darkish night, and the woods made the night darker. The beacon
at Beachy Head showed its ominous yellow eye whenever Jasper was on high
ground, and looked back over his right shoulder. Fairlight Down was
invisible, but he believed that he could detect a faint glow in the
eastern sky. Fairlight beacon should be well ablaze. Far hills would
catch the signal, and blaze it on into the darkness.

Stonehanger Hill appeared as a dim outline looming up against an
overcast sky. Jasper could see no light, in the house. He had to follow
the lane, since the path over the common was too uncertain by night. The
familiar yew-tree saluted him with its shadow. He left Devil Dick
fastened to the gate that Anthony Durrell had slammed so unceremoniously
in his face.

Jasper made his way round to the front of the house. From the terrace he
seemed to look right away to the distant headland where the yellow
beacon blazed between sea and sky. A light breeze played through the
straggling thorns, and a lattice that was open creaked and rattled
against its hook.

There was not a light to be seen in the house. Jasper looked for Nance's
window, and found that it was the one with the open lattice. He stood
looking up at it a moment, and then groped in one of the flower beds for
a few small stones. Stepping back across the grass he took aim at the
window, lobbing the stones up softly so as not to break the glass.

Pebble after pebble rattled against the panes. Jasper stood and
listened. Nothing happened. He picked up more stones, and tossed them up
harder, more than one entering the window and rattling on the floor
within.

Something white flickered behind the glass, and a face appeared at the
window.

"Nance--Nance."

"Who is it?"

"Jasper Benham. The beacon has been fired on Beachy Head. You can see it
from your window."

She stood at gaze, holding her hair back with one hand.

"I thought you might be asleep and I rode over to warn you. It means
that the French are coming."

Nance remained silent. Roused out of sleep to stare at that great yellow
eye out yonder, her consciousness was confused for the moment, nor did
the man's presence below her window help her toward tranquillity. The
things that her father had told her concerning him were as vivid as the
burning beacon. She felt numb and inarticulate, constrained to speak yet
knowing not what to say.

"It was good of you to think of us."

Her voice seemed to come from a distance.

"I could not help coming."

"Oh."

"I have to join my men. There is room in one of our wagons for you and
your father. I have an hour to spare. I can take you to Rush Heath."

A strange and obstinate contrariness seized her. She had a sense of a
dull and undeserved pain at the heart.

"Father will not trouble----"

"He must."

"He is not afraid."

"Is he asleep?"

"I don't know."

"For God's sake, go and wake him. You must not be left here."

"It is quite useless, Mr. Benham. I know that father will not leave the
house."

Her voice fell coldly on Jasper out of the darkness. It was not the
voice he knew.

"Nance----"

"Please don't call me Nance."

It was as though she emptied her displeasure upon him. The rebuff was
too real to be ignored.

"I shall have ridden ten miles when I ought to be with my men."

"I did not ask you to come."

Jasper was human, nor was he one of those soft fools who grovel.

"Nance, I did not come for this. What has turned you against me?"

"What do you mean?"

"Confound it, didn't your father slam the gate in my face! I'm a
man--not a dog to be hallooed off down the road!"

The passion in his voice moved her more than he imagined.

"Please don't talk like this. Father----"

"Well, what has your father against me?"

"Why will you make it so difficult?"

"Difficult! It is a new thing for a Benham to have a door slammed in his
face. Confound it. This is sheer nonsense. You must come to Rush Heath.
Every one is being sent inland. These devils of French----"

He saw her arm come out. The hook of the lattice grated. She was closing
the window.

"Nance----"

The lattice clattered to, and he was left to his own emotions.

Jasper's astonishment struck tragic attitudes. These people had been
kind to him that night when he had been shot in the arm. What had made
them change toward him? What had old Durrell told the girl that she
should treat him so unreasonably?

Parson Goffin's accusation recurred to him.

"Impossible. The parson's a gossiping toper!"

Jasper stared up at the closed window, frowning and trying to put these
detestable thoughts away.

"Either some one has been telling lies, or----"

He stood stiffly alert, like a sentinel who has heard a suspicious sound
in the darkness. Some one was moving below the terrace. Footsteps
shuffled on the rough stone steps. Jasper turned very slowly, but could
see nothing.

"Libertas--libertas!"

Jasper's muscles quivered and hardened like the muscles of a horse that
is struck with a whip. It was Anthony Durrell's voice, but Jasper could
not see him.

Away yonder shone the beacon on Beachy Head. For the moment it was a
clear and brilliantly yellow mass, the stone wall of the terrace showing
under it as a black line. Suddenly it was obscured. A black figure
interposed itself, a figure that stretched out its arms as a great bird
expands its wings.

"Libertas--libertas! The destroyer comes. He shall winnow out the chaff
to the four winds. Hail, Napoleon, man of destiny!"

Jasper stood stiff as a stone post. Durrell's black figure loomed across
his consciousness. And suddenly Jasper understood. The man was a
traitor, a spy!

He had a sense of smothering at the heart. Anger, shame, bewilderment
had hold of him. He was thinking of Nance, and all that the closing of
that window signified.

An impulse of anger drove him toward the figure outlined against the
beacon. Some other influence drove him back. He turned and began to move
away, sliding his feet cautiously over the grass.

He threw one glance at Nance's window.

"A spy, and the child of a spy!"

Then he remembered the little wicket gate that led into the passage
opening into the stable-yard. Jasper turned to look at Durrell, and once
more stood tied to the spot.

A second figure had joined the first. It was pointing with outstretched
arm toward the sea.

A rush of anger and bitterness carried Jasper away. He fled from
Stonehanger, cursing it and himself.

In two minutes he was galloping Devil Dick down the lane.

"In the pay of the French! But Nance----? I'll not believe it!"



XIII


Strong language prevailed next day, and the eloquence of disgust.
Mounted men had gone galloping along the roads and lanes, overtaking
farm wagons laden with people and household gear, and stopping at inns
to drink and spread the news.

"A false alarm. The French never showed their noses out of Boulogne."

"Then who fired the beacon?"

Angry-faced farmers asked each other this question outside the village
inns after they had returned their teams and rumbled back the way they
had come. Only fools and red-coats saw the humour of the thing.
Respectable citizens were angry. Shopkeepers who had sat up all night
behind locked doors were ironical and grieved. Women embraced their
children and scolded their husbands in the exuberance of their relief.
The whole community, like a man who has been scared out of his dignity
by boys playing "ghost" at night, flew into a rage, and tried to cover
the unseemliness of its panic by a display of valiant indignation.

A big dragoon mounted on a bay horse was emptying a pewter pot outside
the principal inn at Hurstmonceux. The dragoon's face looked fat and
round and lazy under his heavy helmet. A fair crowd had gathered about
him. Beer and admiration are equally cheap.

"How did that thur bonfire get alight?"

"Go along with you trying to tap a King's trooper."

The dragoon winked at a group of women. He was a fat, lusty, cheerful
dog, and the women giggled and were flattered.

"The sergeant knows."

"Just look at his wicked eye."

"I like a chap to be red and healthy. They do say the French be the
colour o' tallow."

"Now, sergeant, we were that terrified!"

"Sure--you'll be for telling----"

"Well, ladies, if old men will nip a little to keep out the cold! It all
came of old Daddy Tonks having a bottle of smuggled rum on him."

"What, he set her alight while he was merry?"

"That's it. Half Eastbourne went panting up to the Head when the beacon
started burning. What d'ye think they found? Old Daddy Tonks dancing
round the fire like mad and shouting that he was burning them as was
damned. The language! Some one knocked the old man's pins from under him
with the butt-end of a musket. And here were we sent galloping after all
the poor sheep as had stampeded, and all the death and glory boys
holding each other up for fear o' fainting with joy."

The people grew confidential, crowding close about the dragoon's horse.

"Do ye think t' French ull cross, sergeant?"

"They do say as Nelson 'as lost hisself."

"My ol' sow's just had a fine fam'ly. 'Taint no sense. What be a body to
do!"

"It terrifies ye from sowing seeds. I ain't going to grow peas for
Johnny Crappo to pick!"

The dragoon gazed profoundly at the bottom of the pot.

"Bone manure may be cheap--French bones, hee-hee!"

"Give me m'own mixen."

"Who wants the Bonypart!"

"Some of our fellows, too, thrown in."

The dragoon looked round scornfully.

"If there was a man here," he said, "he'd stand a King's soldier another
mug of beer."

The trooper trotted eastward toward Ashburnham, and encountered a green
curricle at the meeting of four ways. The occupant hailed him, and the
dragoon was urbane and gallant.

"A false alarm, miss. The beacon-keeper got in liquor and set the
beacon-light. We are cantering round to quiet the poor things."

Rose thought by his fat smile that his officers had chosen wisely. There
was nothing savouring of famine and sudden death about the trooper.

"Can you tell me if the Eastbourne road is clear?"

"You may overtake some of the wagons, miss, but they'll pull aside for
such as you."

And the green curricle whirled on.

Meanwhile Jasper Benham was at Hastings in the battery at the east end
of the parade. He had left his men bivouacked in a field by Halton
barracks, and had spent the night with a number of roaring,
wine-drinking officers who had waited for the crisis in the large room
of an inn in High Street. The morning was still and sunny, and to judge
by the number of people who had gathered on the sea-front, the
Hastingers had not deserted the town at the first flash of the alarm.
There was a goodly gathering on the Castle Hill, staring out to sea.
Younger women, who had not forgotten to put on gay prints and muslins,
kept to the parade by the east battery, in order to be reassured by the
red-coated gentlemen who were laughing and joking among the guns. Green
hills, red coats, blue sea, brown roofs were spread before the people
who climbed the east and west hills. There were more red coats to be
seen about the three-gun battery at White Rock. Signals were being
passed along the coast, from Fairlight Down to Galley Hill, Wall End
Pevensey, Beachy Head, and so on westward.

Jasper, leaning against a gun, stared hard at nothing in particular with
the savage intentness of a man plagued with doubts. He was sick of the
sound of the voice of his own conscience that talked so obviously about
duty and honour, and loyalty to one's King. He ought to be reporting his
suspicions to the officer commanding the troops in the neighbourhood. A
dozen troopers ought to be riding up to Stonehanger, and old Durrell
laid by the heels and his house searched.

But Jasper's decision faltered, and he fell to temporising and to making
excuses. Was he sure of his facts? Had he trusted to mere sinister
coincidences and to suspicions? He realised that if he denounced Anthony
Durrell as a French spy, the burden of proof would rest on his own
shoulders. He would have to hurt Nance; that was what bothered him. He
could not forget the touch of her hands that night. She had fired all
the mysteries of sense and spirit. How could he throw shame and ignominy
in her face?

A corporal of volunteers was leading Devil Dick up and down the parade.
Jasper roused himself, and marched out of the battery with a casual nod
to his brother officers. The volunteer companies had been ordered back
to their country quarters. The presence of the men near their own homes
would restore confidence, and help to smother panic.

"Corporal Jenner."

"Sir?"

"Go up to Halton and tell Sergeant Cochrane to march the men back to
Battle."

"Yes, sir."

"The men will parade on the green at seven o'clock."

"Yes, sir."

"I shall be there."

Jasper mounted Devil Dick and rode westward toward Bexhill. He was in a
restless mood, driven to keep step with his own urgent thoughts. The
happenings of the night were like so many thorns spread in the path of
his pilgrimage. The gloom of an inevitable choice lay over him.

He rode across the great green Level of Pevensey where kingcups were all
golden along the waterways, and the larks hovered and sang. Countryfolk
and men on horseback were gathered at Castle End, but Jasper did not
turn aside. The grey, shimmering downs swelled before him against the
blue of the sky. Yonder rose Beachy Head, its beacon a heap of ashes. An
insane hatred of the headland leapt into Jasper's heart. It was as
though love had been martyred there, and the ashes scattered over the
seas.

Devil Dick carried Jasper into Eastbourne, urged thither by a vague
restlessness rather than by any desire to get anywhere in particular.
The town had soon recovered from the night's scare, and being a gay
place it laughed and made fun of the whole affair. Eastbourne had a
certain fashionable reputation, and by the Sea Houses where the London
coach started, and where the great circular redoubt had been thrown up,
idlers enjoyed the sunshine and aired their little genteel vanities as
though there were no such thing as war.

Jasper rode Devil Dick to the edge of this little world of
valetudinarianism, gossip, and dissipation. Blue sea and sky and the
grey gloom of Beachy Head formed the background, while the space between
the houses and the redoubt was stippled over with the little coloured
figures that idled to and fro. Here were leering old men, foppishly
dressed, yet unable to hide their tainted bodies behind the craft of
valet and tailor. There were women to keep these old men in countenance,
mature, sly, scandalous old women who still triumphed, and rouged, and
tattled. It was a quick-witted, gay, cynical crowd, vicious according to
the conceptions of the moralists, but having the laugh of the moralists
in the matter of enjoyment.

Jasper drew rein, the serious gloom of youthful romanticism refusing to
mingle with this mature frivolity. He had turned Devil Dick, and was
walking the horse away from the Sea Houses and the redoubt when he heard
some one calling him by name.

"Meester Benham, Meester Benham."

Jasper became aware of a group close on his left, one tall and stately
cypress in the midst of a smother of flowering shrubs. The cypress bowed
and swept a hat. The flowering shrubs exhaled perfumes, and delighted
the eyes with colour.

It was the Chevalier de Rothan, and with him four or five gay ladies in
Empire gowns and bonnets, very seductive, very merry, very frail. They
were classic in more than the mere incidents of dress. One had black
hair, huge dark "orbs," and a melancholy mouth. Another was a little,
red-haired woman, wonderfully dainty, with china-blue eyes, and every
feminine impertinence for the provoking of men. They were looking at
Jasper with the eyes of connoisseurs. A somewhat elderly charmer had
levelled an ebony-handled lorgnette.

De Rothan had a way of enveloping people and entangling their activities
in the net of his magnificent manners.

"Meester Benham, our friends were in ecstasy over your horse. I thought
I knew both the horse and the rider. It is a splendid animal, ladies,
and splendidly ridden, eh?"

He included them all in one sweeping gesture.

"Mr. Benham, let me present you to my friends. Mrs. Juno, Mrs. Venus,
Mrs. Impertinence, Mrs. Pallas. We are very young, sir, although so
ancient. I myself am Mr. Paris of Troy."

They laughed, and looked with friendly interest at Jasper, who had
responded with a rather perfunctory bow.

"Mr. Benham looks disappointed about something," said the little
red-haired woman with a provocative glance.

"Mars cheated of a battle, eh! Meester Benham, pardon me, but I have
been delighted by your droll people."

"Oh!"

"A little, old man drinks too much--goddesses, forgive me--and a whole
county is in consternation. You call the French excitable, sir, but, by
St. Louis, you run us close. I was disappointed in the stolidity of the
English."

Jasper suspected the presence of malicious raillery. De Rothan's figure
filled his consciousness. He felt ready to quarrel with the man and
quite ready to forget the ladies.

"What did you expect, sir?"

"Less scuffling into clothes, and the pulling on of stockings inside
out. Little things--but significant."

"We were prompt in getting the people away."

"Prompt! Excellent word! Dear goddesses, your good countrymen were
prompt at running away."

He gave Jasper an exasperatingly roguish look.

"I have heard of no running away. There seem plenty of people in
Eastbourne."

"The panic was soon put out here, Meester Benham. But I rode fifteen
miles before I came to Eastbourne this morning. You should have seen the
roads, sir. People running away with their pans and kettles and
cash-boxes on their backs. It was like the rout of an army."

"They had been ordered to go inland. The French would have found the
stem stuff ready for them, even if they had survived the _mal de mer._"

"You are facetious, Meester Benham."

"I echo you, Chevalier."

"It is my privilege to amuse the ladies."

"We have often amused ourselves at the expense of the French."

De Rothan drew himself up dramatically.

"Meester Benham, I do not permit myself or others to pass beyond mere
jesting words."

"Very good, sir, then keep clear of the facts. You have thrashed us, and
we have thrashed you. Though I think we can count three Blenheims to one
Fontenoy."

De Rothan made a gesture as though he would lay a hand on a sword.

"I do not quarrel, Meester Benham, when ladies are present. Insult me
some other day."

"With pleasure," said Jasper, and rode on in a black rage.

He had not gone more than a hundred yards when two smart horses drawing
a green curricle came into view. A whip was held slantingly at a
professional angle. The sea-breeze played with the reddish curls under
the big bonnet.

Jasper blasphemed under his breath. Cousin Rose was the very last
creature he desired to meet that morning.

She drew up, with a heightened colour and a shallow glitter of the eyes.
The woman had dash, and a certain audacity in her methods of attack.

"You see, Jasper, I had not run away. What a reprieve for us all. We
should thank God from our hearts."

She eyed him steadily, noticing his morose, inward look.

"The responsibility has been heavy on you, lad. Do you know I prayed for
you last night. I felt that you were not alone. I was with you--in the
spirit."

"You are always very good, Rose."

"Am I? I think we always understood each other, Jasper, even when we
were children."



XIV


Rose Benham's sentimentality was part of the guile of the huntress.
Ordinarily she was a hard and very shrewd young woman, capable of
managing most men and horses, and sincere enough when her egotistical
piety was on the prowl. She knew that there were other women who desired
to marry Jasper Benham. Her determination to marry him herself was made
up of the lust to possess, and the desire to defeat rivals.

"Jasper, you will see me back to Beech Hill."

She was on the edge of an appealing simper, and detestable as most plain
and hard young women are when they ape passions that they do not
possess. Rose went about such matters as though she were selling pots
and pans in a shop. Cleverness cannot take the place of instinct. That
is why clever people are often such wearisome fools.

"Do you want to go back at once?"

They had driven and ridden a little way along the Sea Road, and Miss
Benham was looking with some of her provincial scorn at the gay folk who
idled there. To a certain type of woman all fashionable people are
profligates. Most women have a secret desire to dazzle and to devastate.
It is the utter inability of the majority to do anything of the kind
that gives such a feline viciousness to their morality.

"I do not think that there is much to see in Eastbourne, Jasper. What
absurd creatures there are here. Look at that thing yonder, like a
lettuce tied up at the top with bass."

"Shall we turn back?"

"Such women always make me cross. As if men were worth all the trouble!"

Courtesy, not necessity, put Jasper in the position of outrider. Rose
was perfectly capable of driving alone across England, but when a
thin-natured woman tries to be melting, she muddles the mingling of the
wine and honey.

"I have a little basket under the seat, Jasper. Cold chicken and a
bottle of wine. We can put up the horses at some farm, and make a meal
under a tree."

Such feasting in Arcady was wholly outside Jasper's mood.

"Oh, yes, we could do that."

The tiredness of his voice piqued her.

"I believe you are sorry that the French did not come. I know; you have
uncorked your courage and it has gone flat."

Jasper left her to think what she pleased.

They found a farm-house set back in a little meadow, and a big
chestnut-tree made them a green pavilion. The horses were left in the
care of a lad who bit his thumb-nail and stared.

Jasper's attitude was one of impatient reserve. Every thought that came
into his mind unrolled itself from the one word "if." If another face
had been inside that bonnet. If other hands----! He had to sit there and
listen to Rose Benham's thin suggestions, when love had become almost a
ferocity, a tormented thing that was ready to break out into violence.

"There is only one glass, Jasper."

Her playful coyness made him feel evil.

"It doesn't matter."

When he drank he was careful to avoid the place that Rose's lips had
touched. She noticed it, and her eyes registered the impression.

Her sentimental gaiety was like the buzzing of gnats in the sunshine. It
intensified that other richer reality, that passion that had become akin
to pain. Rose, too, had a way of asking direct questions, as
exasperating a trick as pretending to tread on the toes of a gouty old
man.

"You don't look very gay, Jasper. Are you sorry the French did not
land?"

"Yes, I am."

"What a desperate mood! You ought to be in love."

This did not make matters flow any more pleasantly. Rose's face began to
assume its set, Sabbath expression.

"I think you are very dull. I know men like to talk about themselves.
You don't seem to find even yourself interesting."

"I'm not in a mood to talk. The fact is, I was up all night, and drank
rather too much sherry."

"How silly you men are. You never seem to think of the to-morrow."

They packed up the basket, left the shade of the chestnut-tree, and
travelled on. Rose looked somewhat grim, and Jasper was struck by a
sudden amazing likeness to her mother. She appeared to have grown
thinner, and her plainness cried out at him. Yet Rose, without knowing
it, was to have a very subtle and delicate revenge. She was to be the
cause of pain and secret reproaches and a little world of
misunderstanding, for half the troubles of life come from people being
at cross-purposes and refusing to speak out.

Though the road ran within two miles of Stonehanger, Jasper had no
thought of a possible meeting with Nance Durrell. But meet her they did
where the road ran through the oak woods in Buckhurst Hollow.

An oak wood in May is one of the most splendid of sights, with the golds
and greens of the young foliage giving the effect of reflected sunlight.
The lush freshness of the woods enters into the soul of a young man's
dreams. Birds sing and the cuckoo calls from mysterious distances. The
blue of the wild hyacinths brings visions of chaplets of flowers woven
about the dark hair of some young girl.

A stream ran through Buckhurst Wood, crossing the road where a big
beech-tree stood on a knoll that was covered with blue-bells. The moist
murmur of the running water seemed part of the dewiness of the green and
secret thickets.

Under the shade of the beech-tree sat Nance Durrell, a rush basket
thrown beside her, her chin resting in the palms of her two hands. She
looked intense, passionately preoccupied, her brown eyes staring into
the mysterious distances of the wood. Her mouth was grave, and a little
sad.

She glanced round with a certain impatient shyness when the green
curricle appeared upon the road. For the moment she looked at Rose
Benham and did not notice Jasper. Her thoughts had been disturbed, and
waited for the disturbers to pass.

Then she recognised Jasper. Her self-consciousness became a thing of the
vivid and inevitable present. It was not possible for her to shirk the
clamour of her emotions.

Jasper reddened like a boy. He faltered, and then let the two horses and
the curricle splash through the shallow water.

Nance had gone very white, with the whiteness of pride that resists. Why
did the man thrust himself into her life? She hardened herself against
him, and tried to find the impress of the repulsive things she had heard
of him upon his face.

"Have you heard the news----?"

Her eyes were two shadowy circles of reticent distrust.

"What news?"

"It was a false alarm last night. The beacon was fired by mistake."

She looked at him and was silent, and her very silence was resistant.
Benham had a whole flood of fierce doubts and yearnings urging him
forward against her reserve.

"Nance, why did you shut your window on me last night?"

"What right had you to come?"

She soared into haughtiness, and the knoll under the beech-tree became
inaccessible.

"I had a man's right."

"And what is that?"

The curricle had drawn up some fifty yards beyond the ford, and a face
in a yellow bonnet looked back at them with surprised intentness.

Nance rose. There was something tantalising and repressive about her
movements. Few things can surpass the bleak and uncompromising pride of
a young girl.

"Your friend is waiting for you."

"It is my cousin, Rose Benham. She----"

"I do not wish to keep her waiting."

Jasper's manhood raged within him. Primitive emotions and the more
complex things of the heart made a confused turmoil. He rebelled against
her tacit and unexplained antagonism.

"Nance, I must know what has made you change so suddenly."

She had half turned, and she looked back at him from beyond the finality
of a dismissal.

"Your cousin is waiting."

"Heaven confound my cousin! What has she to do----"

The silent, backward look of her eyes rebuffed him.

"Nance--listen. I must know why you have changed. You have changed----"

"It is courteous of you to claim it."

She was ready to show that she resented his assumption of a past
sympathy.

"Damnation! You must have reasons. Is it your father?"

"It may be. I am not here to be cross-questioned."

"After you shut your window, I saw him on the terrace last night."

His passion drove him toward aggression. The girl remained stone-cold.

"Was he?"

"Yes."

"Well, what of that?"

"He had another man with him."

"Most likely it was old David."

Jasper had come to the very citadel of her reserve. To press further
would mean the giving of a final and forlorn assault. Her whole attitude
seemed to him to be a beating back of inopportune and dangerous
curiosity.

"Shall I say that there are things that you do not wish me to know?"

"What do you mean?"

She stood to attack in turn, alert, and a little haughty.

"Mr. Durrell may have reason for not wishing me to come to Stonehanger."

"You suspect that?"

"You drive me to it."

Her face flushed under her dark hair.

"You are bold to press so far. Are you so sure of yourself? My father
has reasons. You might not thank me for telling you them."

"I should thank you--from my heart."

"Not if you have any sense of--pride. Miss Benham must think this
conduct of yours as curious as it appears to me."

She turned her back on him, and walked away into the thick of the wood.
Jasper could not follow her there without leaving his horse, and Nance
knew it. He did not attempt to follow her, but sat staring half vacantly
into the green depths, a man staggered in the full stride of his
impetuous sincerity.

It cost Jasper something of an effort to ride on and overtake the green
curricle. Rose Benham's sharp profile had a very exasperating effect on
him. There was something dangerously watchful about her eyes.

They made an elaborate show of ignoring the events of the last five
minutes. Jasper might have hung behind to talk to a farm bailiff, to
judge by the way they treated the matter.

But Rose's shrewd brain was busy enough behind the forced facility of
her chattering. She felt that it was not only absurd, but impolitic to
ignore the incident. It had to be touched on lightly and without
prejudice.

"You haven't yet told me the name of your friend, Jasper."

"What friend?"

"Why, the damsel among the blue-bells, stupid. You know--I felt horribly
guilty. It occurred to me that I had put myself in the way of being an
awkward third."

"That was Miss Nance Durrell."

Cousin Rose appeared immensely excited.

"Jasper--the heroine of your night adventure! Think of that now! I
thought she would have been prettier. You ought to have made us known to
each other. I might have driven her home in the curricle."

Jasper glanced at Rose mistrustfully. Nance had driven him into a world
of cross-purposes and suspicions.

"Miss Durrell goes very much her own way."

"Proud, is she?"

"Call it that if you like."

"O, Jasper, Jasper, if only you would let me teach you a little about
women."

The cynical yet motherly touch was excellent. Rose could be masterly,
directly a little malice gave her practical shrewdness an opportunity.
She could preach to a man, if she could not make love to him.

"What do you know about women, Rose?"

"La, now, listen to the lad! Jasper, half you men are nothing but great
big boys. You think we are so much finer, and purer, and sweeter than
you are, until we poor women show the true human stuff in us, and then
you make a frightful to-do, and turn into cynics. Don't we want the men
sometimes, just as much as the men want the women? And don't we plan and
scheme to get them, playing all sorts of tricks with pride and coldness
and smiles and relentings. Don't start away, Jasper, with thinking each
girl a sweet fool of an angel."

He was caught by her words, and was angry with himself for being
influenced.

"Sometimes people are what we wish them to be."

"Yes, especially if they are clever. The girl realises that. She puts on
the clothes and the airs that please the man."

"You are a little cynic, Rose."

"Not a bit of it. I'm honest. I don't cover things up."

They said no more on the matter, but Rose had learnt something that made
the lips of her soul curl maliciously.

"Always the pretty face!" she thought. "Fools! And we plain women have
to look on, while a man squanders himself on a thing with soft eyes and
an artful mouth. I'm plain, but am I going to be ousted by some
treacle-and-honey chit with eyes like blackberries? This nonsense----!"

Rose had a sense of her limitations. That is what made her bitter.



XV


Nance made her way through Buckhurst Wood, pushing aside the fresh green
hazel boughs till she reached a ride that ran eastward under the
overhanging branches of the oaks. It was a woodland gallery hung with
arras of green and gold, the sunlight streaming in through innumerable
windows. The rank grass about the hazel stubs was threaded with wild
flowers. Patches of blue sky showed between the golden branches of the
oaks.

Nance was both angry and perplexed, an astonishment to herself in the
contradictory discontent that mocked her pride. She had not pitied
Jasper Benham when they had been face to face. She had resented his
pertinacity. It had been easier to believe that he was playing the part
that he had played with other women.

Yet something within her spoke up for Jasper now that he could not
defend himself in person. Nance had had but a glimpse of Rose Benham,
but it had been enough to challenge her dislike. She was sorry for the
man, having an instinctive foreknowledge of how such a woman would shape
in the middle ways of life. Yet Nance caught herself up in the thick of
these thoughts, and refused to be lured into possible justifications.
Nance was a little hard, as girls are apt to be. She liked her beliefs
and convictions carved in ivory, immutable and flawless. There were so
many things she did not know, so many things she did not understand. She
believed in a kind of superhuman honour that could never change, never
be bent into the making of crooked excuses.

But she did feel bitter and lonely, in spite of her pride. Something had
been awakened in her that spring, a richness of thought and of feeling,
a going-out of her spirit toward mystery and joy. She remembered days
when she had thought of this man with a swift, shy thrill of tenderness.
There had seemed a strength about him, a brave, brown-faced kindness
that had compelled her to muse and to remember. That was why she felt
bitter and resentful. She would smile peevishly over the thought of the
red scarf and the cunning use he had made of it. Now and again she had
found herself doubting the truth of her father's words, but she could
find no reason for his wishing to mislead her. The smart of the thing
remained, the raw consciousness that this man had been treating her as
one adventure in a succession of adventures. She resented this bitterly.
It was the one emotion that had made her determine to thrust the whole
affair out of her life.

Nance made her way homeward by a number of familiar lanes and
field-paths, for she had wandered extensively since Anthony Durrell had
taken Stonehanger. It was when she was following the path that led from
the direction of Rookhurst over Stonehanger Common, that De Rothan
overtook her and dismounted to walk at her side. He had seen the girl's
figure moving along the field-paths as he had ridden along the road.

"My homage to you, Mees Nance. It may be that I shall find your father
at Stonehanger. I hope the beacon-fire did not keep you awake last
night."

He walked along beside her with an air of fascinating frankness. He had
found it serve with women. As for Nance, she was so near home that it
did not seem worth while to question De Rothan's company.

"We saw the beacon burning."

"And you were very frightened, eh?"

"No, not very."

"You should have seen the country people! Frightened sheep! I fear that
if the French had landed the English red-coats would have followed the
women."

Nance had none of her father's political discontent. She had her British
beliefs and convictions, and wore her patriotism in her bosom.

"English soldiers do not run away, Chevalier."

"Eh! Assuredly--I ask your pardon. One's own soldiers never run away;
they are forced to retreat in the face of overwhelming numbers. We all
know that."

The man puzzled her. Usually she could get clear impressions of people,
but De Rothan's was a figure that flickered and changed. His vanity and
his grand air were definite details, yet they seemed to her like clothes
worn at a masked ball. De Rothan was a cynic and an adventurer, a mature
and very flexible man of the world. Nothing was absolutely right or
absolutely wrong to him. A certain intenseness made Nance incapable of
understanding the multifarious selfishnesses that go to the making of
such a man.

Anthony Durrell was walking the terrace when these two reached
Stonehanger. De Rothan had said, "I give myself the pleasure of seeing
your father." He was out of the saddle, and making a great business of
offering to hand Nance up the steps.

She was not a gallant's woman, nor did she desire to be touched by De
Rothan. Her instincts were fastidious in such matters.

He smiled at her roguishly.

"What a proud young gentlewoman. But you have the right. Beauty is
privileged. Pride in a plain woman is like fine wine in a pewter pot."

Her aloofness pleased him. He followed her up the steps, scanning her
figure, and noticing the comely way her neck curved where it rose from
between her shoulders.

"Mr. Durrell, your daughter is a very great lady. She is too proud to
touch my fingers."

He laughed and swaggered, and it was in his swagger that the vulgar
blood of the Irish adventurer showed itself. Durrell had a sullen,
preoccupied look. He had been disappointed of great events.

"Where have you been, Nance?"

"For a ramble."

"Ah."

His eyes searched her face, and Nance caught a questioning distrust.
Youth resents suspiciousness. That momentary glance was seized on and
remembered.

"You will stay and drink tea with us, Chevalier."

"I am to be persuaded, sir, I assure you."

"Nance, get the things ready, child."

She answered perfunctorily and passed on toward the house.

De Rothan returned to his horse that was standing quietly at the bottom
of the terrace steps.

"Show me the way to your stable, Durrell."

"You know it."

"I don't, sir, so long as there are eyes about. Besides----"

Durrell joined him, and they walked round by the field gate into the
yard. David Barfoot met them, and Durrell signed him to take De Rothan's
horse.

They turned into the shrubbery, and took to pacing one of the wild,
overgrown paths. Laurels and hollies hedged them in, and arched out the
sunlight. The thick canopy of leaves had smothered the grass and weeds.
The soil was black and bare under the dark stems of the laurels.

De Rothan appeared cynically merry. He talked to Durrell about the
happenings of the previous night.

"The whole countryside broke away like sheep. What? You are
disappointed? No, no, the scare was of value. It showed how jumpy and
unsteady these stolid folk are. They tell me that the troops were out of
hand in several places. Whole companies made off and had to be chased
and brought back by cavalry. It's a fact, sir, a fact."

Durrell showed a morose surface.

"It may have done them good."

"Steadied them, eh, helped them to get used to it? Bah! I should like to
see a beacon fired by mistake every other night. The country's courage
would be in tatters. Troops--raw troops--are not improved by being
worried and fretted."

"I was too happy last night. I thought the time had come."

De Rothan looked at him intently.

"You are on edge, sir, too much on edge."

"No, no; I long for the great change."

A hand-bell rang, and the two men returned to the house. Nance had set
tea in the Gothic parlour. De Rothan was floridly officious in arranging
a chair for her.

"You should have been at Eastbourne this morning, Mees Nance. A crowd of
gay people, all in the best of tempers from being saved from invasion.
They had all got ready to run away in their best clothes. Do you ever
take your daughter to the watering-places, Mr. Anthony?"

Durrell grunted, and gloomed over his tea.

"I don't."

"You dislike gay people."

"I detest them."

"Ah--ah, and they are always saying that my poor France is so gay. Why
should not one be gay, sir, why should we pull long faces? The good God
did not mean us to be miserable. What do you think, Mees Nance?"

His deference bowed her into the conversation.

"Sometimes one can not be gay, Chevalier."

"Not always, not always. But then, when a woman is young and adorable!
Cloudy days; beauty all silver and grey, charm, subtlety. Now, come--do
you not love fine clothes?"

She smiled.

"As much as women always love them."

"There, that is honest. I would not give a fig for a woman who hadn't a
little vanity."

Durrell struck in, jerking his shoulders irritably.

"There is enough nonsense in a girl's head, De Rothan, without stuffing
any more into it."

"My dear friend, I disagree with you. There are gentlewomen and
gentlewomen. Parents, too, are often the blindest of wiseacres. Now if I
were in your place, Mr. Anthony----"

"But you are not, sir. Let us keep to impersonal matters."

De Rothan threw a whimsical and conspiring look at Nance.

"Impersonal matters! As if life could go on with all our desires
carefully tied up in silk handkerchiefs and put away in cupboards. Mr.
Durrell, you are one of the most learned of men, but----"

He shrugged his shoulders expressively and looked sympathetically at
Nance.

"Well, to be impersonal. I saw all kinds of your good English people
strutting to and fro on the parade. You look so good, you English, that
a well-dressed woman seems scandalous. You are such barbarians. Some one
wears a new sort of hat, and all your raw louts and lasses are giggling
and nudging with elbows. Some of you try to be fashionable and also
pious. I am thinking of Mees Rose Benham, who was there in her curricle.
Doubtless, Mees Nance, you have made the lady's acquaintance?"

"No."

"A character--a character. She had Mr. Benham, her cousin, hanging on
her eyebrows. They are to be married soon, they say. A case of when
Greek meets Greek. Mees Benham is a plain young woman, but she is one
who provokes. Impudence, eh, is that what you call it? A turned-up
button of a nose, sharp mouth, naughty eyes. Such women sting some of us
into passion. Mr. Benham is in the toils."

He talked lightly, easily, observing Nance without betraying his
curiosity. Durrell moved uneasily in his chair, and looked irritably
austere.

"You need not talk of Mr. Benham here, Chevalier."

De Rothan glanced at him with pretended surprise.

"A young man with a bad reputation."

"Sir, I beg your pardon. I know the man is a little riotous; it is an
impersonal matter, surely? Madam, his cousin, will take care of his
morals."

For the rest of his stay De Rothan was very gallant to Nance, talking to
her and at her with an air of admiring deference. No man could be more
picturesquely charming than De Rothan. He had the mellowness of long
experience, and could ape the chivalrous and dignified tenderness of an
old beau.

"Turn the young thing's head, eh! She's confoundedly alluring. Durrell's
a fool."

Nance longed to be away. She escaped when her father went to the
mantel-shelf for his pipe, and fled away to her room.

It had been flashed upon her mind that De Rothan was the friend who had
told her father these things concerning Jasper Benham. Anthony Durrell
saw so few people, and there appeared to be a curious intimacy between
these two.

She stood and looked at herself in the glass as though she were
questioning her own reflection.

Why were De Rothan and her father friends? Had De Rothan brought these
vile tales to Stonehanger? If he was responsible for them, did that
alter her impressions?

Yes, but she herself had seen Jasper with his cousin. That part of it
seemed true.

And yet she distrusted De Rothan greatly.



XVI


Meanwhile Jasper Benham was at the end of his patience, and a creature
of moods and savage bewilderment. Nance's strange hostility had not
helped him toward decision. He was too much in love with the girl to
seek to be revenged upon her because there was something that he could
not understand. Even supposing that Anthony Durrell was a French spy,
and that Nance knew it and wished to safeguard her father, what had she
to fear from him; what reason had she for treating him with suspicion?

Well, what was to be done?

Jasper had spent two morose, vacillating days, and the moral quandary
seemed all the deeper. What a scolding shrew was this thing called Duty!
He was to denounce Durrell, was he--send red-coats to turn Stonehanger
upside down, and lose, perhaps forever, his chance of Nance! No, Duty be
cursed; he would do no such thing. If this clumsy meddling were the only
means that Duty could suggest, he would throw Duty aside and stand by
his own more magnanimous instincts.

Jasper was riding Devil Dick over Rush Heath farm when he came
cheek-by-jowl with this decision. Restlessness had set him in the
saddle, and it was still early in the afternoon when he found himself
looking over a thorn hedge into a big turnip field that sloped southward
toward the edge of a wood. A solitary, lean, brown figure showed up
against the green of the young growth, a figure that moved its arms with
the monotonous action of a man hoeing.

Jasper rode through the gateway into the turnip field and remained
watching the man with the hoe. The labourer drew near with his back
turned, chopping away sedulously at the young weeds. Jasper knew him for
Tom Stook of Bramble End, an odd hand who was taken on by the Benhams'
bailiff when there was a press of work, or hay and corn to be gathered
in.

Tom Stook was a very tall man with great bony limbs that seemed loosely
slung at the joint sockets. He had a hawk's beak of a nose, a little
tufted beard at the chin, and deep-set, cautious eyes. He kept on
hoeing, as though he had not so much as glimpsed Jasper out of the
corner of an eye.

"Well, Tom, Webster has found you a job, has he?"

Stook straightened his back, drew in his hoe, leant upon it, and
regarded Jasper with a sort of cautious respect.

"Mornin', Master Jasper."

"Weeds bad?"

"Pretty tarrifyin'. Be'unt so bad down yon end."

Now Tom Stook was one of the most garrulous of rogues when gossip did
not press too tenderly upon such personal matters as poaching and
smuggling. He was a bit of a ruffian, sly, shrewd, and immensely strong.
Folk had tales to tell about him and his lonely hovel of a cottage down
by Bramble End.

Tom Stook hoed and talked, wagging his tuft of a beard, and throwing
queer, spying glances at Jasper.

"No more beacons afire, sir?"

"Not yet, Tom."

"That did tarrify the folk. I seed ut begin a'glimmering just afore
midnight."

"You keep late hours, Tom."

"I doan't knows as I do."

He hoed on in silence for some moments.

"T 'rabbits be tarrible thick down our way. They'd be for eatin' all the
green stuff, if I didn't snare 'em. Maybe I keeps late hours now and
agen. A man sees some funny things of a night, surely."

"What sort of things, Tom?"

"Lights, and men wid dark lanterns. Smugglers and Frenchies."

"Oh, come, Tom!"

"Sure, I be tellin' the truth."

"Where do you see the lights?"

"Up yonder, at Stonehanger. It be'unt no sort of a light, but a sort of
a glare fur the while you count ten. I doan't say nothing to nobody. We
be'unt none of us so tarrible honest, Master Jasper, as we can pull
other folks' clothes off their beds. But I've seed strange men go over
Stonehanger Common at midnight."

Jasper kept a grave and rather sceptical face.

"When you go out rabbiting, Tom?"

Stook grunted.

"I doan't know nothing 'bout that."

"Nor do I, Tom. If the men didn't have a few rabbits, we shouldn't have
any crops."

"Sure, Master Jasper, I always said you be a young man o' sense."

"The squire likes his punch, Tom. We don't ask too many questions in
Sussex. I'll wager we have stuff in our cellar that never paid duty."

Stook went on hoeing methodically.

"Do y' know that thur furriner, sir? That black chap as rides about on a
black horse?"

"Who do you mean, Tom?"

"Frenchy gentleman."

"Do you mean the Chevalier de Rothan?"

"It may be him, Master Jasper. I've seed the man I mean up at
Stonehanger."

"The devil you have!"

"I've seed him come over t' common just afore daylight. You know t' old
quarry 'twixt Bramble End and Stonehanger?"

"Yes."

"I've knowed him leave his nag thur all night. I've seed him, too, with
Durrell's girl."

"What d' you mean, Tom?"

"No harm, master. Why, I seed 'em two days ago going over t' common. I
was down under yonder cutting a bit o' furze to thatch m' wood lodge
with."

"What day was it--Tuesday?"

"It ud be Tuesday."

Jasper sat and stared across the turnip field with the level stare of
grim preoccupation. Tom Stook's lean figure had faced about, and was
receding, with rhythmical strokes of the hoe.

"Have you told any one about this, Tom?"

"Sure, no, I ain't, Master Jasper. I be'unt one for tongue-wagging 'bout
other folks's business. Guess, though, I've been puzzled. I be'unt no
baby."

"No."

"I knows t' lads, and t' rabbit runs, and t' warrens."

"I reckon you do, Tom. But Stonehanger? Mr. Durrell's not hiding the
stuff, is he?"

"That be what mizzles me."

"He isn't one of the gang?"

Tom grew reticent of a sudden.

"Don't you be for askin' me, Master Jasper."

"Well, about the foreigner. Are you sure you know him?"

"Maybe I be wrong, master."

"He and Durrell are something of a size."

"That be true."

"I'm glad you've told me this, Tom. You'll find half a side of bacon
waiting to be given away up at the Hall."

Tom jogged his hat.

"Thank ye, Master Jasper. I doan't drop no words into t' old women's
laps. I keep t' spigot in, sir, 'cept when a gentleman o' sense be
about."

Jasper turned Devil Dick and rode out of the field in a very different
temper from that in which he had entered it.

Hot blood is jealous blood, and Jasper was no bloodless saint. Tom Stook
had sprung a surprise on him, and let fly with a blunderbuss into the
thick of Jasper's perplexities. He had owned to a healthy if casual
hatred of De Rothan, but personal, prejudiced hatred is a very different
thing from vague antagonism. Good lovers are good haters, and Jasper was
hating De Rothan at full gallop.

"Seems to me Stonehanger is a nest of spies! Deuce take it, how did we
miss knowing De Rothan for a rogue! He and the girl are friends, are
they? Oh, my innocent, sweet child! Oh, you besotted fool, Jasper
Benham. Have it out with them, have it out."

Jasper rode straight for Stonehanger in about as black a temper as a man
can boast. He had no very definite ideas as to what he meant to do.
Feeling violent, savage, and very much befooled, he just rode toward
Stonehanger, letting the impulse of his jealousy urge him thither.

The track he chose came from the south over the common, leaving Bramble
End lying half a mile to the south-east. Jasper passed the quarry where
Tom Stook said that De Rothan had sometimes left his horse. Jasper
peered into it, and found the quarry a mere pit full of broom and
brambles, its entrance half choked by a big elder-tree. But there were
trampled places here and there, and a rough path that led out on to the
common.

Any one approaching Stonehanger from the south had all but the roof and
chimneys of the house hidden from him by a heave of the ground. Then one
came into full and sudden view of the place with its grey terrace and
wind-blown trees. Such a passion as jealousy often provokes the
opposites of a man's normal nature, and Benham developed a spirit of
wariness and cunning. He dismounted as soon as he saw the chimneys of
the house, found a spot amid the furze where he could fasten Devil Dick
to the tough stem of a furze-bush, and went on foot.

The windows and terrace rose into view, with the wind-blown yews and
thorns, and then the stretch of grassland immediately below the terrace.
It was here that Jasper dodged down behind the furze like a stalker
sighting a stag. The lines of his face grew hard and keen. He took off
his hat, and, thrusting it into the furze, made a sort of loophole
between the boughs through which he could watch Stonehanger unobserved.

A man was walking to and fro on the grassland below the terrace,
flourishing a stick as though he were trying the suppleness of his wrist
for sword-play. Sometimes he would pause and draw imaginary patterns on
the ground with the point of the stick. Or he would stride as if
measuring the ground, look about him critically, and scan the
surrounding country. There appeared to be some purpose in this pacing to
and fro. The man might have been an engineer surveying the ground for
the throwing up of earthworks and the placing of guns.

The man was De Rothan. Jasper knew him by his height, by his black
clothes, and his haughty, swaggering walk. Only De Rothan could have
flourished a stick with such gusto.

Jasper looked grim.

"Hallo, so it's you, is it! Tom Stook was right. What the devil do you
think you are doing marching about up there?"

He watched De Rothan jealously, thoughtfully.

"Measuring the ground? Trenches and redoubts? By George, that's it! Why
did I never think of that before? Stonehanger would make one of the
strongest positions for ten miles round. A landing party might seize it
and hold on----. Hallo!"

He was all eyes for the moment, for another figure had appeared upon the
terrace. Jasper could see only the head and shoulders behind the low
wall. It was Nance Durrell, a white sun-bonnet covering her black hair.

He saw her come to the edge of the terrace and look over. The white
strings of her sun-bonnet were over her shoulders. She rested her hands
on the parapet and watched De Rothan pacing to and fro below.

Jasper became for the moment the most violent of cynics. A sense of his
own ineptitude tormented him. He believed that he understood all that
was happening up yonder.

De Rothan turned and caught sight of Nance. He gave her a magnificent
bow, sweeping hat and stick with splendid expressiveness. As for Benham,
the toe of his boot alone could have expressed his emotions.

"Coxcomb--dog of a spy!"

They were talking together up yonder, and Jasper could hear the faint
sound of their voices. Nance appeared to lean forward over the parapet
with an intimate friendliness that did not ease Jasper's jealousy.

De Rothan approached the steps. He mounted them, turned to the right and
sat himself down on the parapet within a yard of Nance. He laid his hat
beside him and tapped one of the coping stones with his stick. Nance did
not edge away. She perched herself facing him. It was evident that they
were talking together.

Jasper imagined all manner of intimate confidences passing between them.
Confound De Rothan, he seemed on excellent terms with the girl! No doubt
that was why the Frenchman had looked him over with such amused
insolence when they had met.

Jasper knelt awhile behind the furze, gripping his coat collar with one
hand, and staring hard at the green gorse. He was ready to believe that
De Rothan was Nance's lover, and a passion of repulsion held him for the
moment. The anger in his blood was a cold and ugly anger. A man feels
the more bitter when he has reason to despise himself.

Then a thought struck him.

"Yes, by George! That's it! I'll make sure of the man. Tom Stook shall
have a look at him."

He started up, and, keeping his body bent, made his way back toward his
horse.

"I'll make sure that Monsieur de Rothan is Tom Stook's man. Then, by
George! I'll call him to account."



XVII


In half an hour Jasper Benham was back in the turnip field on the Rush
Heath land where Tom Stook was still wielding his hoe.

"Tom, can you trot four miles at a stretch?"

"Lord, sur, what for?"

Jasper told him as much as he could tell such a man as Tom Stook.

"I'd take you up behind me, but you're such a big fellow, Tom. Leave
your hoe in the hedge, and hold on to my stirrup. I'll tell you more as
we go along."

And so they set out for Stonehanger.

They went by way of Bramble End, Jasper leaving Devil Dick tethered in
Stook's little cow-lodge. Rogue Tom had come by a pretty shrewd notion
of what Jasper Benham expected of him. He took the lead as they made
their way over the common.

"No nag in t' old quarry, sir?"

"No."

"T' crossways at Dudden's Oak, that be the spot, then, Master Jasper."

"Sure?"

"Mounseer has to cross t' ridge. Let him take what track he will, he'll
come to t' crossways at Dudden's Oak, unless he goes by t' woods and
ditches."

Jasper agreed. Stook was a fox who knew the country.

They skirted the upper part of the common, and took a farm track that
led to the crossways at Dudden's Oak. The old tree, a huge shell with
its boughs half dead, stood in the centre of a triangular piece of
grass. There was a wood between two of the converging roads, and Jasper
laid Tom Stook in ambush in this wood.

"You'll get your glimpse of the gentleman, Tom, if he comes this way."

"I'd be glad to get a sound o' t' furriner's voice."

"You'd know him by the voice?"

"I've heard him speak in t' dark. If I see him and sound him I'll know
'em all for t' same man."

Jasper leaned against the trunk of the old oak with his face toward the
two ways that led south-east and south-west. De Rothan might come by
either road. Nor had Jasper been there fifteen minutes before he saw a
mounted man appear far down under the oak boughs on the Rookhurst track.
It was De Rothan himself, jogging along at a comfortable trot, yet
sitting very straight and stiff in the saddle, like some grand seigneur
riding over his estate. Jasper waited for him on the green point of
grass between the two roads. He had seen Tom Stook's brown face thrust
itself momentarily between the hazel boughs like the face of a satyr. He
was on the alert.

De Rothan recognised Jasper when he was within thirty yards of Dudden's
Oak. A slight knitting of the brows betrayed his impatience. But he came
on with all the fine and unembarrassed confidence of a grandee.

Jasper stood forward with a sweep of the hat.

"I must ask you to stop, sir."

De Rothan pulled up, and gave Jasper a stiff bow. He was high in the
stirrups of his dignity, and ready to play the grand monarch.

"Good day to you, Meester Benham."

"Good day to you, Chevalier. Will you be so good as to tell me whence
you come, and where you are going?"

De Rothan looked haughty.

"Indeed, sir, by what right do you ask these questions?"

"By a right that it is not yours to question. I am a King's officer and
we have our orders. You will be so good as to answer me."

"I take it as a reflection on my honour."

"Take it as you please. We have to supervise the comings and goings,
even of our guests."

"Meester Benham, do you suggest----?"

"I ask you to answer my question."

"Your way of asking it is insolent."

"I stand by my orders. We are neither of us here to question them."

De Rothan appeared to do some rapid thinking. Then he gave an irritable
shrug of the shoulders.

"I suppose an exile has to suffer suspicion. If you would know it, sir,
I have been riding to exercise myself and my horse. I rode from my house
to Stonehanger Common; I ride back again to my house. Is that what you
require?"

"I take your answer at its value, sir. You may pass on."

De Rothan looked at Jasper as though he were half-minded to ride him
down. He appeared to swallow something. He was a man who preferred to
make very sure of success before he struck.

"I am deeply beholden to you, Meester Benham, for your serene patronage.
There are things that we do not forget."

"Remember them when you please, Chevalier."

"I choose my own time, Meester Benham. I do not chastise insolence until
the occasion suits me."

Jasper gave him a vicious smile.

"Do not postpone it too long, sir. We do not live so very far apart.
Good day to you."

De Rothan rode on.

Then Tom Stook's brown face appeared. It was one broad grin.

"T' same furriner--all over. I've seen him meet t' smuggling
Frenchy--Jerome. That be him, Master Jasper."

"Well, he's a liar, Tom."

"Liar! All Frenchies be liars. Good for you, Master Jasper."

Jasper sent Tom Stook home with a silver crown in his pocket, and rode
back alone to Rush Heath. He wanted to worry this matter out, to think
out his plans for dealing with Durrell and De Rothan. Jasper had no
desire to drag the whole neighbourhood into the adventure. In a way it
was his own affair, and he meant to carry it on his own shoulders. His
motives and emotions were jumbled together. The one outstanding fact was
his determination to break De Rothan. He would outwit the man, corner
him, fight him, if need be, and get up early one morning to see him
hanged. It was a question of duty; and it was not. Jasper loved and
hated. These things are sufficient without a man dragging in duty and
religion, and trying to cover up the essential and elemental passions
with sentimental affectations, and platitudes about patriotism.

Jasper had been away from Rush Heath since the morning. Jack Bumpstead
was not to be found, and Jasper, going in to stable Devil Dick, found a
strange nag in one of the stalls. Old Mrs. Ditch, the housekeeper, met
him in the passage, her grey curls very much in order, and a ribbon in
her cap.

"La, Master Jasper, Mr. Winter came two hours ago. I had dinner kept
back awhile. There be some cold victuals laid out for you."

"What--Mr. Jeremy?"

Mrs. Ditch looked coy. Mr. Jeremy was a gentleman who forever caused a
tender fluttering among all sorts and conditions of women.

Jasper made for the dining-room. In the Chippendale arm-chair by the
window sat a shortish, thickset, hard-headed man in black, smoking a
long pipe, and looking out on life with steel-black, whimsical eyes. He
had one of those Roman heads, with harsh strong features, power in every
line, and a cynical kindliness about the mouth.

"Why, Jeremy----!"

"Jeremy it is, lad. Come over and kiss me."

They laughed, and came together to grip hands with the impulsiveness of
two men who have learned to love each other as men can.

"What are you doing down here?"

"Filling a chair and a bed."

"Good, by George! It's a year since we've seen you. Where's Squire Kit?
Have you seen him?"

Jeremy settled the tobacco in the bowl of his pipe with the end of his
little finger.

"Having a nap upstairs, Jasper. Curse me, lad, it's good to see you.
Brown and lusty, eh, though you had a broken arm in the spring. What,
Jack Bumpstead's no gossip. And how's that old blackguard, Goffin? I've
brought him down a pound of snuff."

Jeremy Winter had been a gentleman of many adventures, and his
picturesque career had culminated in the founding of a fencing school in
a quiet street near St. James's. Jeremy and Jasper's mother had been
cousins, and for twenty years Mr. Winter had descended at spasmodic
intervals upon Rush Heath, never with much money in his pocket, but with
plenty of audacity and cheerfulness in his eyes. He would have tales to
tell of Canada, or the East Indies, or of service in the Austrian army,
or of bronzed and ragged adventures in Spain. There was something
lovable about the man. He was tough, capable, humorous, warm-hearted, a
master of the small sword and the sabre, imperturbable and smiling in
the face of odds.

Jasper sat himself down at the table with a resentful and freshly
remembered hunger. Jeremy Winter's coming struck him as the most welcome
of coincidences. One could tell things to Jeremy that a man would not
tell to any other living creature.

They talked hard, touching on a dozen familiar memories, and filling in
the gaps between the now and the then. Jeremy had made a success of his
fencing school, but as he put it--"London's a sort of howling wilderness
just now. Every blessed soul seems to have gone off somewhere into the
country to help to drill bumpkins, and stand ready for the French. I
shut up the school for a month. There were only a few raw youngsters to
teach."

When Jasper had dined they strolled out into the garden with the
elbow-to-elbow air of men well pleased to be together. Jeremy had taught
Jasper to fence as a boy. He had taken some pride in the lad, for their
temperaments were much alike. Jasper had much of the elder man's nerve
and courage and imperturbable toughness.

"Well, lad, how's the sword-arm?"

"Out of practice. I have an idea, Jeremy, that you are the very man I
want."

"What, getting ready for a quarrel--woman--and all that?"

"More than that. I'll tell you."

In the long walk Bob the gardener had thrown down half a dozen hazel
fagots, for sticking the rows of sweet peas. Jeremy brought out a knife,
chose two hazel boughs, sliced off the twigs and shaped them to the
length of two foils.

"Let's try you, Jasper."

They stood in the grass walk and fenced together, the sunlight shining
on the brown hazel stocks and on their intent faces. Jeremy Winter was
extraordinarily quick and supple for a man of fifty. He had the wrist of
a blacksmith and the cunning of a player on the spinet. Jasper was slow
and out of practice. Jeremy touched him five times in as many minutes.

"Stiff. Is the business serious?"

They began to pace up and down the grass walk while Jasper told Jeremy
Winter the truth about Stonehanger. Jeremy was a good listener, shrewd,
attentive, and ready to compare new facts with the gleanings of a very
varied experience. He was an easy man to confide in, because he was so
full of a sage understanding. Jeremy had led a picturesque and rather
dissipated life between the twenties and forties, and it is the man who
has been a man who is of most use to his brother men.

"So you fell in love with the girl, lad. What! I'm old dog enough to
know that! Heaven help me, it happened to me every month when I was a
youngster. But I was only in love--once--you know; the great splash; and
she left me to drown."

"That's all done with, Jeremy."

"Twenty years ago, sir."

"No, I mean my small incident. It was just an inclination; no more than
that."

Jeremy regarded him with an affectionate twinkle.

"Just so--just so."

"I have got to pull this nest of spies to pieces. The girl mustn't blame
me. I've got to do my duty."

"Duty! You be very careful of that word, Jasper. It's a fool's word. I
don't trust men who talk about their duty. Why not send a file of
soldiers in?"

Jasper stared at the chimneys of the house that rose against the stately
gloom of the cedars.

"I have a mind to carry the thing through myself."

"Out of consideration for the lady!"

"No. This Frenchman and I have a score to settle."

Jeremy stroked a firm and shiny chin.

"Who is he? An _émigré?_"

"Pretends to be. He calls himself the Chevalier de Rothan."

"What?"

"De Rothan."

Jeremy said something under his breath.

"Tall, dark rogue, is he, with the airs of a grandee, drooping tip to
his nose, wears black, and talks about St. Louis?"

"That's the man! Do you know him, Jeremy?"

Winter looked thoughtful.

"I've met him in London."

"Where?"

"At my school. He came in to fence; Jack Sidebotham brought him. He was
all over my best men."

They paused, and looked each other in the eyes.

"Jasper, the fellow is one of the best swordsmen in the country. I had a
turn with him."

He smiled a grim little smile.

"Vanity, that's his weak point, too much flourish. I had him pinked,
but--"

Jasper threw up his chin.

"All right, Jeremy. I'd tackle him--curse him!--even if he were a better
man than you."

"You wait a bit, my lad."

"You had better call me a coward!"

Jeremy laid a hand on Jasper's shoulder.

"Stop that. Do you think I don't love you, lad? Do you think I want to
have you run through by a swaggering blackguard like De Rothan? He's a
good shot, too, mind you. You wait a bit, till we have had a week with
the foils."

As men they knew each other, and Jasper was touched.

"I'm a hot-headed fool, Jeremy. I'll do what you wish."



XVIII


Had Jasper Benham been able to see into Nance's heart he would have felt
a man's pity for her, that richer tenderness that dissolves away the
pettier and more selfish thoughts.

For Nance was very lonely, and perplexed amid her loneliness. Things had
happened that had troubled her beyond measure. In the first place, she
had overheard some talk that had passed between De Rothan and her
father, a few, disjointed sentences, nothing more, and yet the words had
caught her ear and set her musing upon their meaning. Moreover, De
Rothan himself had become suddenly and ominously real. He had swaggered
out of a vague and questionable past into an urgent and audacious
present. He had kissed her hand, and he had tried to touch her with the
touch of a lover.

A woman can judge a man by his eyes, and his way of looking. The
Frenchman was infinitely courteous, but he had no reverence. His
admiration was a complacent and self-confident emotion. It bent, half
patronisingly, and touched what it admired, as though a woman's charm
was a mere flower to be plucked and held to the nostrils.

De Rothan had made Nance's spirit creep. She had become suddenly afraid
of him, and shy of being alone.

Queerly enough her loneliness and her craving for comradeship and
sympathy found her thoughts turning toward Jasper Benham. It was a pure
impulse and it surprised her new self-consciousness. There seemed
something inevitable about it, something that claimed spontaneous
justification. Nance found herself questioning the meaning of this
impulse. If she distrusted one man and felt drawn toward the other, did
not this spiritual phenomenon suggest some deep and instinctive truth?
It contradicted the things that she had been told about Jasper. If he
was a bad man why should she think of him now that she needed help?

It was in a mood of doubt and unrest that she idled round her terrace
garden, looking at the faces of the pansies, pulling up weeds, and
putting a stick here and there to a head-heavy flower. The sound of
footsteps made her start self-consciously. A figure of Time came
striding over the grass--old David Barfoot--scythe on shoulder, a brown
straw hat shading his lean, tanned face.

Nance smiled at the old man, a smile of relief. There had been rain in
the night, and the moist grass was ripe for scything. It would cling to
the edge of the blade and make the work easier.

"I like the grass short, David."

He had a way of hearing Nance's words as he heard no one else's.

"I'll shave it close; trust me."

He carried the stone in a queer little leather case fastened to his belt
at the back. Getting an edge was a great business. The stone rang along
the blade of the scythe. Presently he began to mow with steady, purring
strokes, and the swinging movement of his arms and shoulders was not
without a kind of grace.

Nance sat herself on the terrace and watched him. There was something
restful in the level, swinging rhythm.

David was not a talkative man, but he had his moments of illumined
loquacity.

"Fine weather for the crops. They'll be making hay afore the end o'
June. Maybe the French won't tarrify us at all."

Nance had the look of a contented listener. It was pure coincidence that
sent David drifting toward matters that were vital to her needs. He
began to talk about his relatives and their affairs, which were mostly
of a sordid, poverty-stricken, and child-bearing order.

"Maybe you've heard speak of my sister, Sue Barton. Thirteen brats, and
her man down with t' ague. Bad times, too. I don't say as the gentry
can't be kind."

"Thirteen children, David!"

He stopped to sharpen his scythe.

"Pig's meal, they be glad to get it! Jim sick, and Sue expectin' as
usual. It was lucky for Jim Barton as he had worked on and off for t'
Benhams. They be good gentlefolk, t' Benhams, though t' old squire has
the mouth of hell on him."

Nance said "Oh!"--a non-committal exclamation.

"Master Jasper, he be a good young gentleman."

"The Mr. Benham who was shot in the lane?"

"Sure. There be gentry and gentry. Some of 'em doan't care; some of 'em
gives for what they gets. Master Jasper's a soft heart, but he be'unt no
fool, neither. A tough gentleman when a man be a rogue and a beggar."

Nance had a moment's perplexity. Then she said:

"I have heard bad things about Mr. Benham, David."

She spoke softly, but David was watching her mouth. He picked up the
words and answered them.

"Have ye now! Well, I've heard different. Be man, woman, or child sick
down Rush Heath way, the young squire he be for knowing about it. Better
than the parson, he be. Not pious-like; can do his cussing. Clean about
t' wenches, too. Though I shouldn't be saying such a thing afore you,
Miss Nance."

Nance reddened, not wholly because of David's words.

"You appear to know a great deal about Mr. Benham, David."

"Sure--we knows this and that in t' country. I likes a fine, upstanding
gentleman. I wishes him good luck in the shoes of his father."

"Is it true that Mr. Benham is to marry his cousin, David?"

"She? You be meaning Miss Benham o' Beech Hill?"

"I don't know."

"Sure, Mr. Benham be'unt no fool! Marry she! 'Tain't no sense."

"Well, it isn't our business, is it, David?"

The old man grunted. He was thinking of things that it was not his
business to utter.

But his words had had their effect on Nance. For days she had been
striving against a growing sense of resentment. Doubt and mental
suffering have some kinship to physical pain; they torment the mind
until it breaks out into passionate rebellion. Nance left David to his
scything and went straight into the house. She knew that her father was
in his study, and her very doubts drove her to demand some answer to the
questions that were troubling her heart. Durrell's secretiveness, De
Rothan's mysterious presence about the place, the slandering of Jasper
Benham, all these things combined to form a distorting glass that threw
the reflections of life back at her with perplexing vagueness.

Nance climbed the stairs slowly, stiffening her courage against this
colloquy with her father. The house seemed very still as she passed down
the long brown gallery and knocked at her father's door.

"Yes?"

"May I come in, father?"

"Yes, come in."

He was wrapped in an old dressing-gown, and sitting at his table, books
open before him, a quill in his hand. It might have been some austere
Milton inditing polemics against the Church of Rome.

Durrell had the look of a preoccupied man who suffered interruption
grudgingly.

"Well, what is it?"

She closed the door.

"I want to speak to you, father."

He frowned, and laid his pen in the trough of an open book.

"What is it? About the food--or the pots and pans?"

"No. It is about things that have been worrying me."

"Things--things? How loosely you express yourself!"

His impatience stiffened her courage.

"This Chevalier De Rothan--why does he come to the house?"

Durrell leaned back in his chair, pushing his feet out under the table.

"What has that to do with you, Nance?"

"I want to know why you have him to the house."

"Indeed!"

"I don't like him. I don't trust him. I have a kind of feeling that we
are in his power."

Durrell looked at her with frowning intentness.

"Little fool!"

She flushed, sensitively.

"Father, I feel that things are happening here about which you have
suffered me to know nothing. It is wrong to me, unfair----"

"Tssh! Don't let us have this nonsense, this tragedy queening."

"Can you swear that----"

"Nance, you are a fool. Am I to be catechised by a silly girl! Stuff and
nonsense!"

"Then why does this man come here in the middle of the night? Why does
he spend hours with you, here, in this room? Oh, I may know more than
you think, father. One cannot help having ears and eyes."

"Girl--what do you mean?"

"I have a right to know----"

"Right? You talk to me about your rights!"

Durrell was a quick-tempered and a scornful man, but Nance had never
seen him look so evil.

"Let me tell you, Nance, that I am not a man who thinks it necessary to
explain things to a child."

"But you explained away Jasper Benham's character--to me."

He pushed his chair back violently, and rose.

"I told you some truths for your own good."

"Did the man De Rothan tell you these things?"

"Silence!"

"I have a right----"

"Silence, I say!"

Durrell's face had lost all scholarly repose and refinement. It was
harsh, flushed, and threatening.

"Go to your room, girl. Never let me have more of this interference."

"I am not a child any longer. If you drive me to it, father, I shall
rebel----"

He broke out in a way that amazed her, with a scolding fury that threw
aside all self-control. Durrell was not capable of the blind, physical
violence of the ordinary male, and his unreasoning wrath ran into a
torrent of outrageous taunts and sarcasms. We are the creatures of
savage littlenesses in our rages, those nerve-storms that rise out of
nothing, and end in nothing.

Durrell's fury of words had a numbing effect upon the girl. She stood
mute, staring, astonished by the unreasoning violence of the man who had
given his life to accumulating wisdom out of books. Then she drew back
toward the door, opened it, and escaped.

She went to her own room, realising in a numb way that her father had
spoken words to her that could never be forgotten. The very violence of
his anger had been an outrage, its arbitrariness an answer to her
suspicions.

Then she heard De Rothan's voice on the terrace below. He was talking to
David Barfoot, but David would never consent to understand him.

The voice sent a shiver of repulsion through Nance. She turned and
locked the door.

"Mees Nance, Mees Nance, where is the sunlight?"

He was calling up at her window, and she hated him for not being another
man.

Durrell's footsteps came down the gallery, and he joined De Rothan on
the terrace. The Frenchman could have done with other company, but he
was drawn sharply toward sterner issues.

Durrell took him into one of the dark paths through the shrubbery.

"The girl has begun to suspect us."

"What, sweet Nance?"

"She challenged me to a confession, as though I owe any confession to a
child!"

"And you scolded her! You men of letters lose your tempers as badly as
tipplers at an inn. Poor Nance; you scorched her with that infernal
tongue of yours."

Durrell gave him a sneering look.

"You need not pity the girl. She seems to hate the very sound of your
name."

"Come, come, that is promising."

"You had better hold away from her."

De Rothan laughed.

"Mr. Benham, too, suspects us. I have decided how to deal with that
gentleman. But sweet Nance hates me! That is good news."

"What do you mean, sir?"

"Do you see your daughter, Durrell, as one of the beauties of Napoleon's
court? It is not impossible, sir, not impossible. Where hate is, there
love shall be gathered in."



XIX


Bob, the gardener, scything grass in the Rush Heath garden, saw Jasper
and Mr. Jeremy Winter come out of the house while the dew still lay upon
the grass. Jasper had a pair of foils under his arm. The two gentlemen
stripped off their coats in the long walk, rolled up their shirt-sleeves
and began to fence. They were at it for an hour or more in short, sharp
bursts, Jeremy pulling the younger man up from time to time, and making
him repeat some series of parries and passes. The clinking of the foils
made a thin and constant tingle of sound, broken now and again by
Jeremy's deep and imperturbable voice. There was no blood in the battle,
but the great poppies in the borders were the colour of blood.

Jeremy was not ill-pleased with these practise bouts.

"You will soon have a quick point again. The man behind the sword's the
thing. Nerve, and a devilish sharp eye."

"You will warrant me sound in a week, Jeremy?"

"Not far off, not far off. Don't forget the pistols, though. And look
you, lad, the game is to play up to the vanity of a man like De Rothan.
Fencing's a subtle art. 'Tain't all wrist and sinew. There's mind in it,
personality, soul. It's a picking to bits of human nature. You don't
fight a man's sword alone, but his grit, or his conceit, and his damned
flourishes."

"You are a cunning master, Jeremy."

"Why, confound me, half life is acting. Act when you fight, lad. I could
play a man like De Rothan the veriest clown's game, make him think me a
bungler, and run him through before he had the sense to take me
seriously. That's what fighting should be, brain as well as beef."

They went in to breakfast, a silent meal so far as Jasper was concerned.
Jeremy Winter watched him with affectionate amusement. A man of fifty
renews his youth in seeing a young man in love.

"I have it, Jeremy!"

"What, lad?"

"An idea."

It did not unfold itself, for there was a sudden violent hammering on
the floor of the room above. Mr. Christopher Benham was using the heel
of his shoe to attract attention.

"Hallo, the squire's awake."

"I'll go up and see what he wants. I say, Jeremy, not a word about
this."

"Not a word. He'd curse me out of the country for egging you on to take
risks."

"Besides, there's Rose. You remember Rose?"

Jeremy drew in his lips.

"Remember her, by gad! We always quarrelled, Rose and I. So he wants you
to marry her?"

"I don't know. Rose can twist him round her finger. I don't want her
meddling in my affairs."

"The less a woman knows the better."

Jasper spent the morning practising with his pistols in the little
meadow by Ten Acre Wood. He chose the meadow because it was a mile or
more from the house, and the oaks of the wood smothered the reports of
the pistol. He did not wish the sound to come to Mr. Christopher's ears,
for he was in an intensely irritable state, and very feeble. The most
trivial thing would send him into a gouty rage, and his rages left him
breathless and inarticulate.

After dinner Jasper ordered Jack Bumpstead to saddle Devil Dick. Jeremy
Winter stood smoking a pipe in the porch, and watched him mount and ride
out.

Jasper headed straight toward Stonehanger. His face had a set and very
determined look. He was out on a grave business, and on his guard
against sentiment and romance.

It was still and sultry, and there was a fog at sea. Grey haze covered
the hills, and the long grass in the fields hardly so much as stirred.
Stonehanger Common lay in the full, thundery glare of the afternoon
sunlight. Warm, dry perfumes rose from it, and the gorse looked a dusty
green. Jasper followed the lane, and, pushing Devil Dick through a gap
in the hedge, approached Stonehanger from the western side. His plan of
campaign promised to adapt itself to the identity of the person who
chanced to meet the first attack.

As it happened, he came upon David Barfoot by the gate that led into the
rough meadow where Jenny the cow was turned out to grass. The
coincidence faced Jasper with two alternatives. He made a sign to David,
and the old man came and stood by Devil Dick's right shoulder.

"Is Miss Nance at home?"

David watched Jasper's lips.

"She be out, Master Benham."

"And Mr. Durrell?"

"Would you be wanting to see him?"

David's sceptical sincerity stirred Jasper's inclinations. He discovered
a very human desire to set eyes on Nance. Durrell! Barfoot was right.
Anthony Durrell could go to the devil.

He was surprised to find David Barfoot so ready to help him.

"Do you know where she is?"

"She be gone down t' sea lane."

"Straight on?"

"Sure."

"I might meet her if I rode on down the lane." Barfoot grinned
approvingly.

"I'm telling ye," he said.

The lane went winding down between furze-clad banks, a green way
powdered with wild flowers. About half a mile from Stonehanger House the
lane broadened out into a kind of grassy stream that meandered as it
pleased. Jasper reined in on a piece of rising ground, and scanned the
land ahead of him. Two furlongs to the south stood a group of may-trees.
They were smothered in blossom, and their massed floweriness made them
look like a great heap of white wool or of snow.

Jasper caught sight of a figure moving on the outskirts of these trees,
a figure that loitered, and reached up to break off the flowering
sprays. He had ridden to Stonehanger convinced that he could hold
himself well in hand and that he could talk to Nance as dispassionately
as he would have talked to his cowman's grandmother. But when he saw
that figure down by the may-trees, Jasper knew why he hated De Rothan,
and why he was trying to compromise with Nance.

He rode on, rather slowly, stiffening his upper lip as though he were in
for a life-and-death tussle and not for a scene with a mere girl. Jasper
had planned out what he would say, and how he would say it. He had
stalked up and down the Rush Heath rose-walk, putting his emotions in
order, and choosing his texts.

Something spoiled all that. It was his own sincerity, and the face and
figure of the girl leaning through the foliage of a may-tree, and
looking at him with widely opened eyes. This particular tree grew
hollowed out on the inside, its lower branches lying like so many ledges
with bands of shadow in between them. The long grass was all white and
gold with buttercups and moon-faced daisies.

Jasper lifted his hat.

"David Barfoot told me I might find you down the lane."

His sudden appearing had thrown Nance's thoughts into confusion. She had
been thinking about him, and he had startled the intimate inwardness of
her thoughts. She was too conscious of their last meeting and the way
she had rebuffed him.

She came out from amid the may boughs with a troubled shadowiness of the
eyes. A sheaf of the white blossom lay in the hollow of her left arm.
Perplexity is apt to simulate coldness and pride. She looked cold and
white and upon the defensive.

The silence irked them both. They took refuge in vague superficialities.

"Fine trees, these. They looked like a pile of snow in the distance."

"Yes. I love the smell of may blossom."

"Scents carry one back to all sorts of memories."

"I know. I always like a bowl of wild flowers in my room."

"Are you going back to Stonehanger?"

She threw a quick and watchful look at him.

"Yes."

"Then I will turn back with you."

She seemed uneasy and perplexed. The half-scared look in her dark eyes
touched him. What was she afraid of, and why did she glance at him in
that queer, disturbing way? He began to relent, to lose himself in the
world of her presence.

"You know that--my father----"

"I know that he does not want me at Stonehanger."

He dismounted, and set himself at her side.

"Then, if you know that----"

"Yes, but if you forbid a thing, it drives a man to do it. Besides----"

He found himself looking into her eyes, searching them with sudden
impetuous passion. She glanced away, reddening, the bunch of may blossom
crushed against her bosom. A thorn pricked her arm, but it was part of
the pain of her perplexity.

She seemed to cast about for words.

"We lead such a lonely life, and father does not like strangers."

"Is that why you were so hard on me?"

"When?"

"Oh, you remember."

He was driving her into a corner, and it was impossible for him not to
see her too palpable distress. It both troubled and angered him,
pointing toward two possible explanations.

"You remember the night you rescued me out of the lane?"

"Yes."

"Well, you were very good to me--then. What made all this difference?"

"Father does not like strangers."

"But is that enough to make you treat a man as though----"

She broke in upon him, white and hurried.

"Mr. Benham, don't----"

"Nance, why won't you tell me the reason?"

"I can't."

"I'll take it well. It might help something pretty serious that I have
to say to you."

She gave him a startled look, as though suspecting some other method of
attack.

"You are so masterful!"

"No, no. You won't help me--whereas I have ridden over to help you."

"What do you mean?"

"Tell me what made you treat me as you did."

She lifted her chin, and showed him a clear and obstinate profile.

"No, I will not."

"You won't help me!"

"If you have come to strike bargains----"

"Nance, you drive a man into being angry."

"What right have you to be angry?"

"My own right."

"Who gave it you?"

"A man seizes it. Do you think I don't hold myself as good as that
French fellow De Rothan?"

She paused, and looked at him half-warningly.

"You try to seize too much. The Chevalier de Rothan is my father's
friend. I----"

"You----"

"I have nothing more to say."

"I have. It is what I came for. And it concerns your good friend De
Rothan."

She flashed her eyes at him, mistaking his grim sarcasm. They were on
the edge of a quarrel, and very near to those bitter words that rise to
the lips of passion.


[Illustration]


"I think that you and I are better apart."

"As you please. But I have not had my say--yet."

"Oh, you are unbearable!"

"One is not thanked for telling the truth. I came here to warn you that
the whole business is discovered."

She swung round and faced him, holding up an impatient and restive head.

"Do all men talk behind each other's backs? What are you hinting at?"

Jasper looked at her stubbornly.

"How much do you know, Nance? By George, you look innocent enough!"

"What do you mean?"

"The Chevalier de Rothan is a French spy."

"Mr. Benham!"

"You have said that your father is his friend."

"Oh!"

"I will not use the word 'spy' when speaking of your father."



XX


Nothing could have more clearly proved Nance Durrell's innocence than
the indignation that leapt up in her like a white flame out of a fire.
It was the anger of youth, swift, generous, and impulsive.

"You call Anthony Durrell a spy!"

"I called De Rothan a spy."

"How do you know? How do you know?"

He was more busy with her face and gestures than with her words. It was
a wonderful love-play to him, with its quick kindlings, its red,
passionate lips, its eyes that flashed out melodramatic scorn. The very
way she breathed, and held her head, was sheer revelation.

The sincerity of her anger challenged him.

"How dared you come to me with this tale?"

"Because it is true."

"How do you know?"

"I have seen and heard things."

"Well, then, you, too, are something of a spy."

"I could not help seeing and hearing what I did. I am not the only man
who has suspected your father of French sympathies. As for De Rothan, we
ought to have known him for a rogue. We English are such easy-going
fools."

She walked on, head in air, eyes looking into the distance.

"I will not believe it."

"I am sorry."

"Oh, don't talk of sorrow!"

"Nance, do you think I came here to taunt and bully you?"

"Perhaps----"

"What the devil do you think I came for?"

She shrugged her shoulders.

"To be rough--and quarrelsome?"

She was falling a little from the serenity of her indignation. Her anger
had been a thing of the moment, and now that it was passing she knew
that she had suspected her father, and her own suspicions went out to
clasp hands with Jasper's accusations.

She looked slantwise at him, and a glimpse of his clean-cut mouth and
steady eyes made her think of a strength and courage that waited. Of a
sudden she felt desperately helpless, and desperately lonely. Why were
they at cross-purposes, and quarrelling like boy and girl? It would be
better if she spoke out.

"Well, what are you going to do? You seem so sure about it all. I
suppose you will denounce us?"

"You knew nothing about it, Nance."

"You think that?"

His eyes studied hers.

"You are not made to tell lies. Are you going to let me help you?"

"Am I to accept all this on your authority?"

He nodded with an air of grave and imperturbable magnanimity.

"I believe, Nance, that you knew nothing. But have you never been
brought to wonder what your father's life was, and what the Frenchman De
Rothan meant to him?"

She looked at the ground before her, intent and thoughtful.

"Things have happened that have troubled me."

"Your father is not a man to talk."

"No. There have been things that I could not understand. Oh, it is
hard!"

"I know."

Jasper's eyes softened. He stroked Devil Dick's neck as the horse walked
quietly beside him.

"Nance?"

"Well, what now?"

Her voice was forlorn, and a little impatient.

"I understand why your father did not want me at Stonehanger."

"Oh, but then----"

She caught herself up, and reddened.

"Go on."

"He gave me a reason."

"Tell it me."

"Won't you let me keep it to myself? I don't know that I believe it any
longer."

Jasper had a flare of understanding.

"Oh--that! It was about my cousin, Rose Benham?"

"Yes and no."

"What, more than that?"

"Don't ask me any more."

She glanced at him half pleadingly, and his square jaw and strong,
confident head showed up convincingly against a cloud of slander.

"I don't think I believe it. Don't ask me to say more."

He gave her a full, frank look.

"Have it so, Nance. I'm here in my own shoes, a free man, with nothing
to hide under my coat. But I'll tell you one thing: I have a good,
fierce grudge against De Rothan."

Her face expressed the searching of her thoughts.

"Because he is a spy? Or has he offended you?"

"Because I hate the man."

"Then you are not--not disinterested?"

He smiled grimly.

"Nance, I'm not."

She hid her eyes under black lashes, and her lips trembled perceptibly.

"But I must trust some one."

"Trust me."

"Yes, but----"

He bent toward her with intense earnestness.

"Nance--listen. I believe in my heart that your father is in very great
danger. Spy he may not be; it is a low word and should not live near
you. But he is a Revolutionist, a Jacobin, a sympathiser with the
French. God knows what he hopes to get out of Napoleon! This fellow De
Rothan is the danger. The country's mad and scared; they'd show no
pity."

She was white and serious and a little frightened.

"Oh, I know--I know! But father----!"

"I know the kind of man he is, an enthusiast, ready to be martyred.
There are people who suspect him, but I don't think a living soul knows
as much of the affair as I do."

Nance's eyes were supplicating and eager.

"Yes--but can you help me?"

"We must rid Stonehanger of this fellow De Rothan."

"But how?"

"That will be my business."

"But it may be dangerous for you."

"Confound it, who cares! You've got to trust me, Nance, and by Heaven,
I'll not fail you."

Her face and eyes warmed to him. His strength and confidence were giving
her comfort.

"What strange creatures we are! A few minutes ago, I almost hated you,
because you forced things on me; but now I feel that I must have your
help."

"That is what I came to offer you. I have nothing to complain of."

They had been following the lane back to Stonehanger, when Nance, who
seemed more restlessly alert than Jasper, saw a man on horseback appear
between the furze-clad banks. He was a hundred yards away, but Nance
knew him for De Rothan. She touched Jasper's arm.

"Look!"

"De Rothan?"

Her eyes met his with a new meaning. She was putting her trust in him,
waiting to be guided by what he would say and do.

"Nance, pretend to be angry with me."

"Must I?"

"It was not so very difficult a little while ago."

She gave him a glimmering of the eyes.

"Must I be very proud?"

"Yes, freeze me for being too forward, or scorch me with scorn!"

A woman loves humour and some degree of subtlety in a man. Nance looked
at De Rothan, and then turned to her dissembling.

"I wish you would not vex me with your attentions--I mean presence"--she
blushed into a moment's laughter--"I very much resent it."

"If my company is displeasing to you----"

"It is--most displeasing."

"Well, then, why did you lead me on?"

"How dare you suggest such a thing."

"Do you mean to say that you have not encouraged me?"

"Your insolence is unbearable."

Jasper had raised his voice, and she echoed him with fine spirit. They
made quite a pretty quarrel of it, Nance playing the part of beauty
affronted, Jasper very much the rude and aggressive male. They hushed
the affair, and smothered an intense desire to laugh. De Rothan was
within a few yards of them. His saluting of Nance was a royal function;
his glance at Benham a kingly threat.

"Mees Durrell, may I have the felicity to think that I am at your
service?"

"O, Chevalier----"

"You go to the deuce," said Jasper under his breath.

De Rothan looked him over with cool scorn.

"Meester Benham, I think your presence here is unnecessary. I will
conduct Mees Durrell back to Stonehanger."

"Please, if you will, Chevalier. This gentleman----"

"Mees Nance, I am full of understanding."

He bowed in the saddle to Jasper, and blessed him with a serene sneer.

"Meester Benham, I must ask you to relieve us of your presence."

Even though he was fooling the man, Jasper felt savage.

"What business is it of yours, sir?"

"I stand for courtesy--and chivalry, Meester Benham."

"Puss in Boots! I shall want a word with you, sir."

"I shall be at your service, when I have escorted Mees Durrell home."

"Good. In the lane?"

"Wherever you please."

Jasper caught Nance's eyes. She gave him a quick and secret smile as De
Rothan dismounted to put himself at her side. They went off together up
the lane, leaving Jasper standing beside Devil Dick. He watched them
with curious and contradictory emotions, and a hatred of De Rothan that
was not to be appeased by the thought that he had the man in a tight
corner.

His eyes fixed themselves finally upon Nance, and he discovered infinite
delight in watching her slim figure moving between the green banks of
the lane. Everything about her was adorable, her anger, her perplexity,
her slow drifting toward trust in him. That glint of mischief in her
eyes! And how she had taken up the game with De Rothan! What a change in
the course of an hour! He had ridden out in a puritanical mood and here
he was ready to go down and kiss those two small feet.

Jasper smiled to himself and moved on up the lane. The gateway of
Stonehanger appeared under the dark shade of the hollies and laurels.
Nance was just passing through it, De Rothan standing hat in hand and
holding the gate open. There was something infinitely offensive to
Jasper in the bending of the man's figure toward Nance. He remembered
how he had felt when he had seen them together on the terrace. Things
had changed in a sense since then, but his grudge remained against the
Frenchman.

De Rothan waited for him, a supercilious and flaunting figure that
looked very tall in the shadow of the shrubs. He resembled a victorious
captain waiting with arrogance for a beaten enemy to deliver up his
sword. Jasper felt a stinging lust to smite burning in his right arm.

They met with frank enmity.

"You wish to speak to me, Meester Benham. I, too, have words to say. Let
us lead our horses down the lane."

They walked on side by side, leading their horses by the bridles. De
Rothan's nostrils were dilated, his eyes full of an angry glare. Jasper
looked dogged.

"I must advise you to mend your manners, Meester Benham. I am a
gentleman of France."

"Thanks, sir, thanks."

"In the future you will not thrust yourself upon Mees Durrell."

"Why not?"

"Because she does not desire it."

"Did she tell you so?"

"And because I forbid it."

"That hardly convinces me."

A common instinct made both men leave their horses standing and face
each other in the lane. The days of the wearing of the small sword had
passed. But men who are angry can quarrel without swords.

"So you have my orders, Meester Benham."

"I return them. On second thoughts I feel inclined to throw you and them
into the nearest ditch."

"Sir!"

"Frenchmen can fight only with their cooking-spits."

In a flash De Rothan struck at Jasper's face with his open hand. The
blow was caught, and the wrist seized with the grip of a man who was
savagely angry. Jasper twisted De Rothan's arm, a schoolboy's trick, and
De Rothan, with a snarl of pain, was driven to twist about so that his
back was toward Jasper. The sinews cracked about the shoulder-joint,
while Jasper tilted the Frenchman's hat over his nose.

"How does it please you, monsieur?"

"Dog!"

Jasper flung De Rothan's arm aside. The Frenchman swung round, and they
were at each other like a couple of dogs. De Rothan was the taller man,
but Benham was thickly built and very powerful about the loins and
shoulders. Moreover, he had been the rough-and-tumble champion at a
country school. He had De Rothan round the middle, and crumpled him
backward as though he were a sheaf of corn.

The Frenchman beat a fist in Jasper's face, and for the moment Jasper
crushed him in his arms for the grim joy of feeling the cracking of De
Rothan's ribs. Then he half lifted and half hustled him to the side of
the lane.

The ditch was not a deep one and it was dry, but that was no saving of
De Rothan's dignity. He emerged, dusty and speckled with spittle-blight,
a man furious with physical shame.

"I do not fight like a ploughboy. You shall hear from me."

He felt his wrenched shoulder, and recovered some of his haughtiness.

"You have strained my shoulder-joint."

"Rest it for a few days, or months."

"Your insolence may cost you dear."

"I shall be at your service whenever you choose to fight."

He gave De Rothan a steady stare, and then climbed into the saddle.

"The fat's in the fire," he thought, as he rode off down the lane,
"but--God! it was good crushing that fellow's ribs."

De Rothan's face was a study in malignant cynicism as he brushed his
clothes and picked up his hat.

"Very well, very well, Mr. Benham; to-morrow, or the next day, I shall
kill you. There shall be no mistake about that."



XXI


Grimly elated, Jasper rode back to Rush Heath. The day had given him far
more than he had dared to desire. He had thrashed his man and made a
second conquest of Nance Durrell's confidence. His jealousy had
dispersed like a thunder-cloud, leaving a clear and adventurous sky.

At Rush Heath he found Jeremy Winter and Cousin Rose in the thick of a
quarrel. Rose had driven over from Beech Hill, ostensibly to sit at
Squire Kit's bedside, and treat him to some of her frank and pious
opinions.

"Uncle Christopher, you shall listen to good words. It fills me with
pity, to hear an old man curse and blaspheme."

Mr. Benham had leaned against his pillows and glared at her with a man's
disgust. She had talked on and on, and though he had shut his eyes and
pretended to snore, she had not been turned from thrusting her piety
upon him. It had ended in Squire Kit hammering the floor with the stick
he kept on the bed, and Jeremy had arrived to rescue him.

"Jeremy, I say,--Jeremy----"

Winter had understood things at a glance. He had hooked up her arm, and
walked her off by main force, and that was why they were quarrelling in
the oak parlour.

"I wonder you don't keep away from here, Mr. Winter. You never do any
good to Uncle Christopher and Jasper."

Jeremy was the imperturbable fencer whose laughing eyes and sage,
sardonic mouth always filled Rose with anger. Her attacks amused him,
and Rose Benham insisted upon being taken very seriously.

"So you think I have debased the whole household; Jasper, too, eh?"

"You have always been an irreligious man. You would have led poor father
into all sorts of foolishness if we had not prevented it."

"Poor man!"

"I hate your flippancy."

"What a world it is! I have seen my share of it, and upon my soul there
is nothing to touch English piety. And there is no one who knows so much
about everything as a good back-country English gentlewoman. I suppose
she has it all straight from the Almighty."

Rose sat very straight and stiff in her chair.

"That's right, Mr. Jeremy Winter, be blasphemous. At your age----"

"At my age, Miss Benham, you will be a very old woman. As it is, the
women still fall in love with me."

"Oh, you wretched old reprobate."

Jeremy went off into huge yet quiet laughter, and it was in the midst of
it that Jasper entered with the steady, gleaming eyes of a man who had
desires to satisfy and enemies to grapple.

"Hallo!"

He had one glimpse of Rose's stiff and implacable face.

"What have you been doing, Jerry?"

"I? Nothing, sir, nothing. But Miss Benham will have it that I am a
disgusting old reprobate and not fit to be in this house."

His smile exasperated Rose. It was so good-tempered, so sly, so
unanswerable.

"You ought to know Jeremy Winter by this time, Rose."

"Thank you. I know a little, and that has always been too much."

"Oh, come now!"

She felt that he was on Winter's side, the man's side, and it angered
her.

"You men are all alike. You love old ruffians who tipple and tell bad
stories."

"Now, how on earth do you come at that, Miss Benham? Keyholes, eh?"

"Mr. Winter, should I listen to your voice through a keyhole!"

Both men laughed, and Rose stood up. She looked thinner and
sharper-featured when she was angry.

"Jasper, tell your man to bring my horses round."

And she whirled away from Rush Heath in a dust cloud of indignation. The
cat in her knew and feared the dog in Jeremy.

Jasper rejoined Winter in the parlour. Jeremy was lighting his pipe, and
looking humorously down his nose.

"Are you going to marry your cousin?"

"What, marry Rose!"

"You be careful, young man; she'll ask you the question and have your
immortal soul in her reticule before you can say 'gammon'."

"I don't think she will, Jerry."

"That's good. You seem most deucedly pleased with yourself. What is it?"

Jasper went to the wine-cupboard and brought out a decanter and two
long-stemmed glasses.

"Drink her health, Jerry."

"Miss Benham's?"

"Don't be a tease. Her health, and God bless her. By George, I have had
my money out of De Rothan."

"How?"

"I landed him in a ditch. Do you know what it feels like to crush a
man's ribs in, Jerry? It's a gorgeous feeling. I gather there will be a
fight."

Winter looked serious.

"You may have thrown him all right, lad, but----"

"I have looked him in the eyes, Jeremy, and I can match him. Besides, I
am going through with it--for the sake of Nance Durrell."

"O you youngsters! I've done it myself, too. Run your chest up against a
sword-point because a girl glimmers her eyes. Tell me about it."

And Jasper told him.

Jeremy sat for a while in thought.

"Why don't you pounce on the man? Have him arrested. It would save a lot
of trouble."

"I want to keep Durrell out of it. You see, Jerry, if I work this
through quietly, it will save no end of a mess."

"Will it?"

"Yes."

"You seem cocksure."

"Haven't I got my devil back these few days with the foils? And look
you, Jerry, do you remember fighting when you were in love?"

"I do."

"Were you beaten?"

"No."

"It makes you grim, quick as lightning, cool as cold steel. That's how
it works with me."

Jeremy nodded his head sagely.

"Well," said he, "we'll spend the next two days fighting each other. And
you bang away with your pistols. How do they carry?"

"I can hit a card five times out of six at twenty paces."

"I've got twice the nerve since I've seen her to-day."

"Confound you, I used to be just the same."

In the cool of the evening these two spent an hour in fencing together
on the lawn by the cedars. The great black shadows of the trees lay in
dark capes and promontories upon the green sea of the grass. The
standard roses were in bloom, and the scent of the clover pinks in the
borders filled the air. Swallows glided in and out, threading their way
among the cedars, and circling round the tall chimneys of the house.

Parson Goffin hobbled up the drive, and sat down on a bench to watch
Jeremy Winter and Jasper fencing. He had watched them at swordplay years
ago, and there was nothing new in it to awaken curiosity.

Goffin was in one of his growling moods. He had a sore tongue from too
much smoking, and England was going to the dogs.

"They say that we may have Villeneuve in the Channel any day during the
next month. They don't know where he is; they expect him to swoop out of
the blue. Boney will get across, and we shall be licking his shoes."

"A pretty angel of hope you are, Goffin!"

"Sir, we have been drinking too much these fifty years. The Almighty may
be sending something to sober us."

"He gave us the Hanoverians to help us to drink! You are down at the
heel, parson. If you could prove to me that Nelson is at the bottom of
the sea, I might be ready to howl with you."

"So he may be, sir, so he may be, for all we know."

"Jasper, send for a good stiff glass of rum; Mr. Goffin is feeling a
little faint and vapourish this evening. Yes, that was the best tussle
we've had. It took me all I knew to keep your point out."

Parson Goffin's gloom was in sympathy with the gloom that overshadowed
England during those months of May, June, and July. At Boulogne Napoleon
waited for the chance that should give him control of the narrow
sea--even for three days. Off Rochefort, Ferrol, and Brest the ships of
Calder and Cornwallis kept up their grim blockade, while out yonder upon
the Atlantic, Fate, Villeneuve, and Nelson faltered on the edge of the
unknown. Nelson and his fleet had sailed away into the west, and men
asked themselves what news the Atlantic would disgorge. Would it be the
thunder of the French guns in the Channel, the breaking out of the ships
blockaded in Brest and Rochefort, the sweeping of the Dover Straits, the
red horror of invasion?

At Stonehanger Nance sat on the terrace wall and looked out toward the
sea. The sunlight played upon her face and in her eyes, and gave them a
brown radiance. There was a warmth and graciousness about her, a sadness
that found its recompense in the richness of her thoughts and musings.

Her spiritual attitude toward her father was one of astonishment and
compassion. She could pity him, even though she could not understand his
motives. De Rothan was the scapegoat upon whom she laid the guilt and
the burden of her resentment, though how Anthony Durrell had been
inveigled into such schemes she could not imagine. What quarrel had he
with England? He was a morose man, a silent man, and perhaps in a vague
way she felt that he had been disappointed. Nance's nature was the very
opposite of her father's. She was direct, generous, less ready to feel
aggrieved. The flaming discontent of the fanatic is incomprehensible to
healthy, humour-loving, sanguine people. There are men who will backbite
their own country out of sheer hereditary cussedness. They are against
everything that is--and Anthony Durrell was such a man.

He came out upon the terrace while Nance was there, and walked up and
down under the house with his hands behind his back. There was a
restless uncouthness even in the way he moved, for Durrell was one of
those men who had been a sop at school, and a greenhorn at college. He
had thrown a ball like a girl, and his legs and arms were not made to
work like the limbs of a virile male. Books, philosophy, and theorising
had filled his circle of consciousness. His liver had grown sluggish
with a sedentary life, and now he was nothing but a lean and embittered
figure of denunciation and discontent, impatient, ineffectual,
passionate, yet weak.

Nance felt a kind of pity for him as she watched him go to and fro. She
could not help contrasting him with Jasper Benham. As for De Rothan, he
was a sinister figure dogging the footsteps of this lean, white-haired,
narrow-shouldered man.

She crossed over to her father.

"Would you like a walk on the common? It is cooler now."

He glanced at her as though he had only just discovered her presence.

"No, no; I'm busy, thinking."

"You can think while you walk, and I'll keep quiet."

"Thank you. I wish to be alone."

His strung forehead and irritable eyes repulsed her. Intuition warned
Nance that it would be useless to attack him openly, even with the power
of compassion. Some men are mad, even when they are sane. It is useless
to argue with them. They have to be strait-jacketed by the common sense
of the community and kept from doing themselves and other people harm.



XXII


Parson Goffin was still grumbling on the bench under one of the cedars
when Jack Bumpstead appeared from the direction of the stables.

"Here be a man for to see you, Master Jasper."

"Who is it, Jack?"

"Thomas Stook o' Bramble End."

"Send him round. Wait, though, I'll come myself. Where did you leave
him, Jack?"

"In the yard."

Jasper found Tom Stook sitting on the horse-block and tickling himself
pensively with a straw. His brown face remained shy and stolid when he
saw Jasper. He stood up, slouching his shoulders, the straw tucked away
in one corner of his mouth.

"Well, Tom, what is it?"

Stook surveyed the yard, and scrutinised the kitchen windows with
sneering suspiciousness.

"Them turmit-flies o' wenches; always poppin' about. Maybe, sir, you
might like to see them signal lights at Stonehanger. I wouldn't be for
promising, but I have my sense o' smell. They say that Mounseer Jerome
be comin' ashore to-night."

"The smuggling rogue! How do you know, Tom?"

Stook grinned, and looked expressively at Jasper.

"Maybe a little bird dropped ut down t' chimney. Maybe there'll be kegs
on t' beach. It be'unt no business o' mine, but you can see Stonehanger
from my cottage."

"So these devils of smugglers play two games. They ought to sink Jerome
and his boat. Tom, you've got some sense."

"Thank 'ee, sir."

"Get into the stable and saddle the new brown cob, not Devil Dick. And
keep your mouth shut, see."

"I will--sure, Master Jasper."

Jasper went in by the back entry and made his way noiselessly upstairs.
He took his pistols and a hanger, and rejoined Tom Stook in the stable.
Jeremy and Parson Goffin were arguing together under the cedars, and
Jasper left them at it, wishing to get away without being questioned.
Coming out with Tom Stook and the cob he took the field path that turned
aside under the orchard hedge.

The western horizon was a level band of yellow light, with blue-black
hills below and a sky of lapis-lazuli above. The full moon was a great
silver buckler on a field of blue. Big stars were beginning to glitter
as Jasper and Tom Stook turned down by one of the high hedges with the
long grass and weeds brushing their knees. The hedge hid them from Rush
Heath, a hedge that smelt of honeysuckle, and trailed the pink sprays of
the wild rose over the green of the hazel, thorn, and holly.

Twilight fell as they made their way toward Bramble End, and the world
became a world of amethyst and of silver. The Stonehanger uplands were
dim and vague in the distance. The colour had melted out of the western
sky when they reached the rough track that led to Bramble End. Jasper
had mounted the cob, and Tom Stook swung along ahead on his long and
lumbering legs, a length of straw still dangling from one corner of his
mouth.

Stook's cottage had the shape of a hay-rick. It was built of stone and
thatched with heather. A tumble-down shed or lodge stood half hidden by
three elder trees that grew close together in the hedge. All about the
place lay a tangle of brambles, furze, blackthorn, and bracken.

"I'll put t' nag in t' lodge, Master Jasper."

"Right, Tom."

Jasper made his way to the back of the cottage. There was a piece of
vegetable ground here shut in by a low hedge. A yew-tree grew close to
the cottage, and a seat made of the rotting tail-board of a cart had
been laid upon two logs. Away to the north rose Stonehanger Common, and
in the twilight Jasper could distinguish the grey mass of Durrell's
house.

He sat down under the yew-tree, and Tom Stook came round from the lodge.

"A good look-out, Master Jasper."

"No wonder you could see the lights, Tom. What time do they show them up
yonder?"

"Must have been nigh on midnight when I've seen 'em afore."

"That means three hours' sentry work. Have you had your supper?"

"No, I ain't."

"You go in and get it. I'll keep a watch here. If it should come to a
scuffle, Tom, are you ready to see it through?"

Stook scratched a meditative chin.

"Sure, Master Jasper, so long as it be'unt with Sussex folk."

"You don't mind beating a Frenchman?"

"They be nasty beasts with their knives and pistols."

"You can leave that part of it to me, Tom."

"Oh--I doan't say as I be afraid."

Jasper kept watch there in the dusk, with the light of the moon becoming
more brilliant as night gave her the darkness that she needed.
"Pee-weet, pee-weet" wailed a plover somewhere over the furze. From an
oak wood in the valley came the "burring" of a night-jar. With steady
patience Jasper kept his eyes on the place where Stonehanger house cut
the sky-line. Once he saw the distant twinkle of a candle, coming from
Nance's window, so far as he could judge. The furzelands were vague,
black, and desolate under the moon, strange eerie wastes where anything
might happen.

Jasper's thoughts dwelt upon Nance, though the reverie of a man in love
is rather a visualising of the woman beloved than a meditation upon her
mystery. The white face of the moon and the dusky elf-locks of the night
were wholly feminine. Jasper imagined himself walking with Nance in the
dark old shrubbery behind Stonehanger, looking into the dim dearness of
her face, touching her hand, and uttering her name.

Tom Stook's clumsy figure drifted across these passionate imaginings. He
was wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, and looking toward
Stonehanger.

"What may you be after, sir?"

"I am out hunting, Tom, to catch a fox of a Frenchman. And look you
here, I want you to keep your mouth shut about all this, the lights up
yonder, and the comings and goings. It will be worth your while."

"Sure, Master Jasper, you be a gen'leman o' sense. It be'unt no business
o' mine."

"There is some one who has to be protected. I want to lay a rogue by the
heels without harming innocent people."

Stook brought out a short clay pipe, and a little leather bag in which
he kept tobacco. He had to go indoors to get a light from the wood fire
that he had lit to cook his supper. When he emerged, the bowl of his
pipe glowing, he had one very characteristic remark to make.

"It be powerful cold f' June."

Jasper felt for his pocket flask. He knew that it was inward warmth that
the man needed.

"One pull, Tom, and no more. We must keep our heads clear to-night."

Two hours passed, and the vague, moonlit slopes of the common began to
suggest all manner of mysterious movements to Jasper's tired eyes.
Stonehanger was a dim outline against the sky. He had begun to doubt
whether anything was going to happen when a bright, yellow point flashed
out suddenly in the north. It remained there for some ten seconds, and
then disappeared as though a curtain had been jerked forward to cover
it.

"You seed ut, sir!"

"Was that from Stonehanger, Tom?"

"Sure."

They waited awhile, and in due course the light flashed out a second
time and died back into the night with equal suddenness.

"What do they mean by that?"

"Mounseer Jerome be about somewhere."

Jasper meditated.

"I tell you what, Tom, we will make our way up to Stonehanger."

"Better try t' owld quarry, sir."

"They meet there?"

"I reckon they do."

"Have you got a lantern?"

"Sure."

"Fetch it, and bring a thick stick with you."

They left the cottage, Jasper with his hanger and pistols, Tom Stook
carrying a lantern, and a stout hollywood cudgel. Tom took the lead,
pushing his way along a narrow, winding path half overgrown by
straggling furze, their figures melting away into the blackness of the
moor.

After twenty minutes of this rough going, Tom Stook stopped abruptly,
and stood listening. Jasper paused close to him. There was no wind, and
no stirring of the furze in the clear sheen of the moonlight.

"T' quarry be yonder, sir."

"Where?"

"Just down over t' bank."

They spoke in whispers, bending forward and looking across the moor.

"Can you hear anything, Tom?"

"Not me."

He put the lantern down, and scratched his chin.

"I reckon I'll go on, Master Jasper, and take a look into t' quarry."

He went down on all-fours, and Jasper saw his long, loosely knit body go
crawling along the path like some big beast of prey. He disappeared with
nothing more than a faint rustling of the furze, and Stonehanger Common
seemed as still and as empty as a becalmed sea at midnight. Tom Stook
was away twenty minutes. He came back, walking, his holly-stick over his
shoulder.

"There be'unt no one--yet."

"Well, then, we had better take cover in the quarry."

They went on and clambered down through the furze into the mouth of the
quarry. A rough trackway led into it, and Tom Stook seemed to know the
place as well as he knew his own garden. There was some open ground in
the centre, though dwarf-trees, brambles, and furze made a tangled mass
along the walls. Stook chose a place near the entry, a kind of nest shut
in by the wild undergrowth, and under the black shadow of the quarry
wall. A gap between two furze bushes gave them a view of the open space,
and of the trackway leading into the quarry.

"I'll have t' lantern ready, Master Jasper."

He took off his coat, produced a tinder-box, and, going down on his
knees, proceeded to get a light.

"She's got a shade, sir, and I'll put her on under t' bush with m' coat
to make it safe."

The lantern was lit and hidden away, and they were both growing stiff
and rather tired of waiting when Tom Stook touched Jasper's shoulder.

"Did ye hear that?"

Through the stillness of the moonlit night a faint sound reached them, a
sound as of some one brushing through the furze. It might, have been a
strayed sheep, or even a rabbit scuttling among the dry stems of the
furze, but for the distinctive scraping of feet over the rough ground.
Jasper crept forward, and stood waiting in the gap between the two furze
bushes. He had borrowed Stook's holly-cudgel, and was in the deep
shadow, and not likely to be seen.

The footsteps came nearer and nearer, and paused outside the quarry. A
deep and grumbling voice growled sulkily as though its owner were tired
and out of temper. Then the man entered the quarry, passing close by the
place where Jasper stood.

Benham saw him as a shortish, thick-set man with a great round head, and
a slouching walk. It was just a glimpse, for Jasper made his leap,
springing out from the black shadow into the moonlight. The man swung
round with a quick snarl of surprise.

"Tonnerre!"

The holly-stick swung just before a pistol flashed, and the bullet
thudded against the wall of the quarry. Jasper knocked the pistol out of
the man's hand, gave him a tap on the skull, and then closed. So far as
the tussle went, it was not a very serious affair. Youth was well served
in handling this little round cask of a man. He was rolled over, and
pinned flat on his back, while Jasper wrenched a second pistol and a
knife out of his belt and threw them away into the undergrowth.

"Tom, bring your lantern. Quick, man, quick!"



XXIII


Tom Stook came running out with the lantern.

"Have ye got him, Master Jasper?"

"It looks rather like it, Tom--eh!"

The light fell upon a fat, swarthy, and sullen face that blinked its
eyes at the lantern.

"Mounseer Jerome--sure!"

The man heaved, and swore savagely.

"Sacre bleu,--give off my chest!"

"Lie still."

Jasper was in no mood for wasting time, since he desired the business
over and done with before De Rothan or Durrell should appear.

"Tom, take him by the wrists and hold his hands above his head. Quiet,
will you, or I'll give you a crack with the stick."

Jerome glared and lay still, his arms extended above his head like the
arms of a man upon the rack. Jasper unbuttoned the Frenchman's coat, and
went through all his pockets. He found nothing there save a pipe, and a
tobacco-box. Something lying under the man's shirt betrayed itself as
Jasper passed his hand over Jerome's broad chest. As Jasper tore the
shirt open the Frenchman's body squirmed like the body of a man who
stiffens his muscles to resist.

"Hold on, Tom."

"Help, there,--help!"

"Lie quiet, or by George, I'll put a bullet through your head."

Jasper drew out a flat, leather pocket-book or case that was fastened by
a string round Jerome's neck. Jasper snapped the string, and turned
aside toward the lantern to examine the plunder. It contained several
sheets of paper neatly folded and covered with what appeared to be a
jumble of dots, lines, and letters. Jasper's brown face showed grim and
intent by the light of the lantern.

"Cipher, to be sure! This is what I expected to find."

He put the sheets back into the leather case, and thrust it into the
inner pocket of his coat. The sea-captain's eyes were watching him with
evil interest, and he had the air of one who listened.

Jasper understood. Captain Jerome expected a rescue.

"Tom, I want to be rid of this gentleman, and I don't want the red-coats
to get hold of him, either."

"Sir?"

"March him down to within a mile of the sea, and send him off with a
blessing."

"I'll do't, Master Jasper."

"Monsieur Jerome, it is lucky for you that I am giving you this chance.
Clear out, and let us hear no more of you. If ever I hear of you showing
your face on this side of the Channel, I'll have you taken and shot as a
spy. You understand?"

"I speak no English."

"Nonsense. You get off back to France, and pray to God to keep you from
playing at carrying secret signals. Up with him, Tom. Here, put one of
my pistols in your belt."

Tom Stook grinned, and swung the Frenchman to his feet. Jasper gave him
a pistol and the hollywood cudgel.

"Bundle him off, Tom. I want him out of the way. I am staying on here to
see what happens."

Stook took the sea-captain by the collar.

"Come along, you barrel o' sour beer. No shouting, mind ye, and no
tricks. Come along."

Jasper heard them go blundering along down the path, Stook helping the
Frenchman along with vigorous bumps of the bent knee. Jasper smiled to
himself and picked up the lantern, and, returning to his lurking-place,
he put out the light and sat down to wait.

It was De Rothan whom he expected, this insolent and sneering
_émigré_, who dabbled his hands in midnight treacheries. Jasper did
not doubt that the packet of cipher he had taken from the smuggling
sea-captain Jerome would compromise not only De Rothan but Anthony
Durrell and his daughter. Jasper's attitude was one of shrewd and
patient restraint. A scheme that was defeated might be considered to be
non-existent, and there would be no need to swoop upon the lesser dupes
when the dominant spirit had been dealt with.

Something crackled into a clump of briers close to where Jasper lay in
ambush. It was a stone flung from above as a signal to Jerome, who
should have been waiting in the quarry. Jasper kept very still. He heard
some one pushing through the furze and brushwood round the rough lip of
the quarry. Footsteps came down toward the entrance. Then there was
silence.

Jasper leaned forward and peered round one of the furze bushes. A man
was standing in the trackway leading into the quarry, his face turned
toward the sea. By his height and build, and by the arrogant throw-back
of the head, Jasper knew him for De Rothan. He stood there like a figure
carved in black basalt, motionless, watchful, full of a fine yet
sinister suggestiveness.

Jasper watched him. How easy it would be to bring the man down, wing
him, put an end to all his weavings of treachery. He did not doubt but
that De Rothan was armed. They might make a fight of it there, but
Jasper was not given to shooting in the dark. He wanted to prove the
whole case against De Rothan, to convince himself and Nance of the man's
double dealing.

Minutes passed, and De Rothan showed a growing impatience. He began to
walk to and fro along the trackway, stopping from time to time to listen
or stare out over the stretch of moonlit furze. It was evident that he
had not heard the report of Jerome's pistol, and that he suspected
nothing in the way of intervention. The smuggler had failed to appear;
that was what made De Rothan restless.

For an hour the Frenchman walked up and down while Jasper lay behind the
furze bushes and kept watch. Once De Rothan paused within three yards of
him and stood listening, muttering angrily over the absence of Jerome.

His patience gave out at last. Jasper saw him walk to the entrance of
the quarry, stare into the distance, and then turn, and clamber up the
bank. Jasper held back till the sound of De Rothan's footsteps had died
down into the night. Then he pushed Tom Stook's lantern under a bush,
climbed out of the quarry, and, striking the path that led toward
Stonehanger, followed it with some of the caution of an Indian working a
trail.

Jasper neither heard nor saw anything of De Rothan till he came in sight
of the chimneys of Stonehanger rising above the ridge of ground that hid
the lower part of the house from view. Jasper paused here instinctively,
and it was well that he did so. A black figure rose into view on the
rising ground above and stood with the grey oval of its face turned
toward the sea.

Then De Rothan disappeared. Jasper pushed on, topped the rising ground,
and over the furze saw Stonehanger grey and glaring in the light of the
full moon. Chimneys, parapet, window frames, even the individual stones
in the walls were clear and distinct. The thorns and yews were bunches
of black foliage rising above the grey line of the terrace wall.

Jasper could not help asking himself why Jerome had chosen such a night
for landing, and how he had been able to avoid the patrols.

"Money and rum work wonders. These smugglers squeeze in everywhere."

He saw De Rothan mount the steps to the terrace and stand there looking
at the windows of the house. Jasper seized his chance to slip forward
and gain the shelter of some furze bushes that straggled close to the
terrace wall.

He heard voices on the terrace. Anthony Durrell had been waiting for De
Rothan, and but for his short sight he would have seen Jasper make his
dash across the open grounds for the shelter of the furze bushes under
the wall.

"Jerome has failed us. I waited more than an hour."

De Rothan glanced at Nance's window.

"Is madam asleep?"

"Yes. Speak softly, she mustn't know that you are here. Perhaps we
mistook Jerome's light."

"No, I'm sure of that. Hallo--!"

The voices broke off abruptly like the voices of two plotters who hear
the sound of stealthy footsteps coming toward them. Jasper had made his
way to the terrace wall. He flattened himself against it, expecting to
see a head appear over the edge of the parapet.

Then he heard some one calling, "Who's there?"

It was Nance's voice, and the moonlight seemed to quiver with it. She
had thrown her lattice open and was leaning out, and scanning the
terrace. Durrell had drawn De Rothan under the dense shadow cast by one
of the yews.

They remained there motionless, till Nance disappeared for a moment from
the window.

"Quick, round to the back of the house."

"This game of hide-and-seek is all nonsense, Durrell. You had much
better let the girl know the truth."

"No, no, she's not to be trusted."

"My dear sir, I'll make her trustworthy. You do not know how to manage
women."

They had crossed the terrace and passed down the passage that led to the
offices and stables. Durrell was agitated and impatient, De Rothan a
little scornful. He was tiring of Durrell's moods and eccentricities. If
everything went well, the fanatic would have served his purpose in the
course of the next few weeks. He would be thrown aside like a broken
tool.

"Jerome won't come to-night. I'll be off; I left my nag round under the
wall."

Durrell was full of vague fears.

"I hope nothing has happened."

"Bah! Jerome found the moon too bright. Besides, the news we expect is
too important to be risked with a shrug of the shoulders. If Villeneuve
can only get into the Channel and hold it for three days! Fate will spin
the coin for us before long."

Meanwhile Jasper had crept cautiously along the front of the wall and
reached the steps. He climbed them slowly, pausing when his head came on
a level with the terrace. It was deserted. Grass, flower-beds, and
stone-paved walk lay white in the light of the moon.

Jasper climbed the last steps, and stood looking up at Nance's window. A
passionate exultation possessed him, and for the moment he was ready to
take the maddest of risks. He wanted to see Nance, to speak with her, to
feel that they were conspiring together against De Rothan and the
French.

The chance was nearer to him than he imagined. There was the click of a
key turning in a lock, and the garden door opened, showing an oblong
shadow in the moonlit wall. Some one was standing there in the shadow,
and Jasper, caught in the full moonlight, laid a hand upon the pistol in
his belt.

The figure in the doorway moved out into the moonlight. It was Nance.
She had slipped on an old gown, and a pair of shoes, and come down,
shivering, to brave the truth.

"Nance!"

She hung back a moment, and then came gliding out across the grass, the
moonlight making a silver mist of her loosened hair. Mouth and eyes were
round shadows.

"You! Is it you?"

She was so close now that Jasper could see the moonlight in her eyes.
The pupils were large and black, and swimming with a kind of fear.

"Was it you I heard?"

"No. De Rothan and your father."

"Where are they?"

"They have gone round to the back. I have something that I must tell
you. And we may be seen here."

They stood looking into each other's eyes. The clatter of a horse's
hoofs came from the lane, followed by the slamming of a door.

Nance started, and a shiver of excitement went through her.

"It is so light here, and we shall be heard--"

Jasper reached out, and caught her hand. She did not flinch or resist
him.

"Quick! Down the steps."

They fled away, hand in hand, like a couple of children.



XXIV


They were on Stonehanger Common among the furze bushes with the
moonlight shining down on them, and the silence of night over the land.
The horizon was an horizon of silvery distances, woodland, sea, and
hill. There was no wind moving, and the air was fresh and fragrant with
dew.

Jasper still held Nance's hand. They had taken one of the grass paths
that wound down over the common to the fields and woods. The moonlight
was on their faces, and they said but little for the moment. They had
passed suddenly into a new world, and were somewhat awed by its
strangeness and its beauty.

There was an audacity, too, about the thing that thrilled them both.
Youth called to youth. They looked at each other as though there were
wonderful things to be discovered in each other's eyes.

"What have you to tell me?"

Jasper had taken off his hat, and was walking bareheaded beside her. At
such a season every gesture has an exquisite significance. There is
homage, passionate utterance, in every movement of the head and body.

"I have many things to tell you."

She caught the man's meaning and turned it back with a shy smile.

"I mean--about this man De Rothan."

"I am afraid that I have been playing the spy."

"You?"

"It was for good ends, and to help you and yours."

She looked at him anxiously.

"Have you found out anything more?"

"A little. Look at this."

He dropped her hand gently, and pulled out the leather case that he had
taken from the sea-captain, Jerome.

"I robbed some one of this to-night--yes, fairly and squarely--down in
the quarry. It was their go-between, their secret letter-carrier from
France--a smuggling captain. These dispatches should be in De Rothan's
hands. He came down to the quarry, but we had packed his man off with
the fear of God in him."

Nance's head was very close to Jasper's shoulder as she bent to look at
the papers.

"What are they?"

"Messages in cipher. One has to find out the code. But you see what all
this means."

She did see it, and her face was white and serious in the moonlight.

"It means danger for us."

"Unless we smother it."

"But what will you do?"

He replaced the case in his pocket.

"It seems to me that I have two causes to serve, to put an end to this
system of spying, and to save your father from ruining himself. There is
only one thing to be done; deal with De Rothan."

"But how? If you have him arrested----"

"No, nothing so clumsy as that. I began the attack by quarrelling with
him yesterday."

"After you left me?"

"Yes. I pitched him into the ditch."

Her eyes looked frightened, and there was a tremor about her mouth.

"What have you done! It means an affair of honour."

"Just so, Nance. That was why I did it. I expect to hear from him in a
few hours."

She was distressed and perplexed.

"But how can I let you do this--risking your life for us!"

"I am doing it because I like it."

"No, it is for us. I can't let you. I'll go to father and make him give
it up."

The sincerity of her distress touched him very deeply. He reached out
and caught her hands.

"Nance, I'm no boy. I'm as good a man as De Rothan. I can't go back; my
honour's in it. I've got to fight this man and beat him. Don't you see
how it will mend everything?"

She would not meet his eyes.

"But you are sacrificing yourself----"

"No--no--no. Look at it in this way. I fight De Rothan; perhaps I kill
him--perhaps I only wound him. If he comes out of it alive, I take him
by the collar, tell him what I know, and give him twelve hours in which
to leave the country. Go he shall. Then will come the time to appeal to
your father's common sense."

His blunt confidence almost persuaded her.

"Oh, you are brave enough. But as to my father's common sense----"

Jasper laughed at her quaint despair.

"Well, I shall come to him and say, 'Mr. Durrell, I happen to have
discovered about this French affair. I have some of your secret papers
in my possession. Our friend the Chevalier de Rothan is dead, or has
fled the country. The game is up. Swear to try no more plotting, and I
will not breathe a word of what I know. Otherwise I shall have to hand
you over to the authorities.'"

Her eyes flashed with approval.

"Ah, yes--that would be great. It might settle everything."

He drew her a little nearer to him.

"Not everything, Nance. But I am not here to ask for what I have not
earned."

She did not look at him, but hung her head a little.

"You are being too good to us."

"That's no credit to me. I can't help it."

His frankness brought her eyes glimmering up amusedly to meet his, and
it was then that she noticed that they had come within a hundred yards
of the big oak wood that bounded the common on the south-east. The domes
of the trees gleamed in the moonlight.

"Look! Do you see where we are?"

"By George, yes. I suppose we had better turn back."

"Please."

"But supposing they have locked us out?"

"I shall have to throw stones at father's window."

"Yes, but then----"

Her mouth wavered into mischievous curves.

"He will be told that I have been out in the moonlight looking for
voices."

"That's it--that's it."

He looked at her with fine approval.

"Yes, show spirit, that's the thing. But supposing, for the sake of
argument, that Mr. Anthony is asleep and won't be wakened?"

"There is the stable. I should not mind a bed of hay."

"And scold--before you are scolded in the morning. It is like getting in
the first blow."

Nance fell into a more serious mood as they saw Stonehanger standing
bleak and grey in the moonlight. She knew that she was to be left alone
with her own thoughts and fears, nor could she escape from some dread of
the crisis that Jasper was provoking for her sake. She was afraid of De
Rothan, and knew him for a dangerous and a masterful man.

They came to the place where the furze thinned out toward the rough
grassland below the terrace. Nance faltered and paused. Her face looked
shadowy and troubled.

"We must say good-bye here."

He looked at her very dearly.

"Good night, Nance."

Her hands seemed to wait to be taken in his, and her face was turned to
his with sudden wistfulness.

"I don't like to think of what may happen."

"Don't think of it, then."

"How can I help it?"

They looked straight into each other's eyes.

"Nance, I'm not afraid of anything--for your sake. Take heart, dear,
take heart."

Her lips quivered. Her white face and dark hair seemed to swim nearer to
him in the moonlight.

"Nance----"

Their lips met. Her upturned face dreamed for a moment with shadowy
mouth and closed eyes. Then she drew her hands away, and fled in a shy
panic across the grass.

Jasper watched her with exultant tenderness. She paused, and turned at
the steps, waved to him and disappeared. He was hidden from the house by
the furze bushes, and he kept cover there lest Anthony Durrell should be
watching from one of the windows.

Jasper made his way back toward Bramble End and Tom Stook's cottage. The
night seemed very wonderful. The black summer woods reminded him of
Nance's hair.

Three miles away De Rothan was riding slowly along lanes and field
paths, moody-eyed and savage, a man possessed by ugly emotions. Jerome's
failure to appear at the quarry had not troubled him very greatly. It
was a dull anger against the man who had toppled him into a ditch that
filled De Rothan's consciousness. He hated Jasper Benham with all the
hatred of which a strong and passionate man is capable. He meant to be
revenged, to salve his own smarting self-conceit. But even the easing of
this blood lust was an inopportune necessity thrust upon him in the
thick of many dangers. The affair had come to a head at the moment when
De Rothan least desired it, for there were the larger issues to be
remembered. In ten days--twenty days--a month, Napoleon might be in
England. De Rothan wanted those days free and untrammelled. If he could
only fight this man in some secret corner, and leave him lying hidden in
a ditch! Yes, but would Jasper Benham consent to such conditions? Would
it be possible for them to fight without a living soul knowing of the
quarrel? De Rothan felt sore and savage over the problem. It threatened
confusion to his plans, promised to interfere with the delicate
balancing of possible events.

He reached the Brick House about three in the morning, stabled his
horse, and was let in by the man Gaston. Supper had been laid in the
long parlour, and De Rothan sat down and ate with the morose
deliberation of a man who is vexed by his own thoughts. He was tired,
too, and thirsty, and wine was a welcome sustainer. The long night spent
in the open made itself felt. De Rothan fell asleep in his chair, while
the two candles on the table burned steadily toward the sockets.

The light of the dawn was just touching the windows when a man came up
the brick path to the porch and hammered at the oak door. The sound woke
De Rothan, who sat up in his chair and stared at the candles. The
knocking at the door was loud and persistent. De Rothan took a hanger
down from over the fireplace, picked up one of the candles, and went out
into the hall. There was a grill in the door, closed by a little wooden
shutter. De Rothan set the candlestick on the floor, pushed back the
shutter, and, looking through, saw a piece of greyish sky, and a man's
right shoulder.

"Hallo--who's there?"

"Jerome."

"The devil! You are late, and at the wrong place."

"You'll thank me for being here at all."

De Rothan unbolted the door and let Monsieur Jerome in. He looked tired
and sulky, with a shock-haired head that resembled the head of a wild
beast. His forehead showed a big, purpling bruise.

He was a bearer of bad news, and he looked it. De Rothan guessed that at
the first glance.

"What has gone wrong?"

"I'm thirsty. I'll drink first."

"Good, my child. Is it Dutch courage you want?"

"Look you here, Monsieur de Rothan, if I have come here to save your
neck, keep your accursed tongue out of your cheek. I'll have none of
it."

He looked savage and dangerous. They passed into the parlour. There were
glasses on the table, and De Rothan took a spirit bottle from an oak
cupboard, and mixed Jerome a stiff glass of grog.

"Sit down, man. What has happened? Why didn't you come to the quarry?"

"I came there right enough."

"So----!"

"Yes, to be knocked on the head and have the cipher stolen."

De Rothan's figure stiffened like a sword that has been bent against the
floor, and is allowed to spring back into shape.

"You have lost the dispatches!"

"I say they were taken from me."

"By whom?"

"That fellow whom Mees Nance was kind to at Stonehanger, that Jasper
Benham."

De Rothan's face grew dusky.

"God--you great fool--how did it happen?"

"Keep your big words to yourself. He and a man of his were in hiding.
They knocked me on the head and had me on my back before I could take
aim with a pistol. Then I was marched down to the sea by a lanky devil
of a peasant, and left there to find the boat. They promised to have me
hanged if I said a word, and didn't jump the Channel. I put out, and
managed to sneak in and land again in the marshes--to save your
neck--see! A lot of gratitude you seem to show me."

De Rothan stood resting his hands on the back of a chair. He did not
speak for some seconds.

"Jerome, you have done me a service. I shall not forget it."

The sea-captain finished his grog, and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. He
glanced at the windows that were going grey with the dawn.

"Time to make a run for it. The game is up."

De Rothan's forehead was one fierce frown.

"No, by heaven, it is not! I have these dispatches to recover--and to
cut out Mr. Jasper Benham's tongue."



XXV


Jerome had gone, and De Rothan walked up and down the brick-paved path
between the porch and the gate, with the two yew-trees cut in the shape
of peacocks spreading their tails on either side. There were climbing
roses flowering over the rust-red front of the house. The stone pillar
of the sun-dial had an edging of rank, green grass.

De Rothan stood by the sun-dial and stared at it reflectively. What a
thing was Time, how trivial and yet how urgent with its little droppings
of sand or the slow stealing of a shadow! And time, delay, was
everything to De Rothan for the moment. It was as though a marvellous
clock had been constructed; that he had set it going and was waiting to
hear it chime all manner of tunes at the hour of noon, when chance, in
the shape of a Sussex squire, threatened to send a pistol bullet into
the works, and to ruin the whole mechanism.

How was the thing to be prevented?

De Rothan's consciousness of the imminent peril of a betrayal was like
the barking of dogs about a man who was trying to puzzle out some
problem. The need for immediate action importuned him. He must have
silence, for a week, two weeks, a month, silence till Napoleon's schemes
matured, till Villeneuve made his dash for the Channel, and the French
bayonets glittered in English meadows.

Supposing he killed this man?

So far as he could see, this grim attempt at a solution would only
plunge him into further difficulties. There would be a huge outcry, for
it would be next to impossible for him to hope to keep it secret. Even
if he pleaded that it had been an affair of honour, the gentry here
would not be in a mood to show much pity.

Moreover, Jasper Benham might have handed on his information, though it
had been in his possession only a few hours.

It took De Rothan some time to strike the one possible line of attack.
The idea came to him as an inspiration. He seized it, and turned it over
and over in his mind with the exultant audacity of a man recovering his
self-confidence.

De Rothan returned to the parlour, and sat down before the oak bureau by
the window. The scratching of a quill pen ran on through the silence. He
frowned, and moved restlessly in his chair as he wrote, his whole
mind-force concentrating itself upon the wording of that letter. When he
had finished it and sealed it, he sat awhile, reflecting. Some one was
moving now in the house. Gaston and the other two servants were
stirring.

De Rothan went out into the hall and waited. A door opened. Heavy
footsteps came down the stairs.

"Gaston."

"Monsieur?"

"Quick, man, come in here."

He took the slow, surly fellow into the parlour, poured him out a glass
of wine, and began to talk decisively and quickly. Gaston listened,
sipping his wine, and staring at De Rothan with the intelligence of a
shrewd and ugly dog.

"You can trust me, monsieur."

"It will not be for nothing."

"No, no, one does not risk one's neck for nothing."

"You know Rush Heath Hall; we have often ridden that way. Saddle a horse
at once, and take this letter to Mr. Jasper Benham. Give it to none but
him. Answer no questions. Wait for him if he is not at home."

"Yes, monsieur."

"I will look to things here. François and Jean will obey you, if needs
be?"

"They fear me, monsieur."

"Good. There is the south attic. We can knock staples into one of the
oak posts, and fasten rings to the floor. Off with you, Gaston. By the
Emperor, there is no time to lose."

It happened that De Rothan's man did not have to ride all the way to
Rush Heath that morning. As he was coming down Hog Lane into the road
from the direction of Bexhill, he sighted a gentleman on a brown cob
trotting toward him. Gaston was none too sure of the way, and he hailed
the man on the brown cob.

"To Rush Heath, sir?"

Jasper reined in with a stare at this queer-looking rogue in livery on a
smart-looking horse. He was riding home from Tom Stook's cottage after
two hours' sleep on a bundle of bracken, the bracken being cleaner than
Tom's bed.

"Yes. What do you want at Rush Heath?"

"I carry a letter."

"From the Chevalier de Rothan, perhaps?"

"From the Chevalier de Rothan to Meester Jasper Benham."

Gaston chewed at his broken English, for he was a man who talked as
though he were munching a crust.

"I can save you two miles. I am Mr. Jasper Benham."

Gaston eyed him critically.

"All right, monsieur, you need not doubt me being myself. I was
expecting to hear from your master."

Gaston handed the letter over.

"It is urgent, monsieur."

"No doubt."

"Good day to you, monsieur."

"Good day to you."

And they parted company, Jasper riding on toward Rush Heath.

Curiosity pinched him, and he stopped his horse under the shade of one
of the big chestnut-trees by Lavender's Forge, and opened De Rothan's
letter. It was written in a fine hand upon fine paper, and the heads and
tails of the letters ran into curls and flourishes, making it quite a
courtly document where each word kept up a kind of royal progress.


MR. JASPER BENHAM.

SIR--

I send this in haste by the hands of my servant. Seeing that I have had
news that calls me to London, and seeing that I must chastise you before
I go, I ask you to meet me in the clearing in Darvel's Wood. You will
know the place. They tell me charcoal-burners used to burn charcoal
there.

I have no time to attend to formalities and to send you my friends. I
desire to fight you as man to man, and I shall go alone to Darvel's
Wood.

Bring a sword and pistols. We will take our choice.

I shall be in the wood by seven o'clock this evening, and I shall wait
there for an hour. If you do not come to me I shall be constrained to
scorn you as a coward, and shall go my way, promising to deal with you
on my return.

DE ROTHAN.


The audacity and the informality of the challenge were all to Jasper's
liking. De Rothan was giving him the opportunity that he desired, and
its very nearness made him realise the utter seriousness of the
adventure. De Rothan would show him little consideration when their
swords crossed or their pistols pointed in the middle of Darvel's Wood.
It was a question of nerve, steadiness, and determination. Men pull
themselves together to meet such hazards, more easily perhaps when they
have learned to take big risks in some such school as the hunting field.
Moreover, Jasper Benham had pledged himself, and he was in love.

He would ride to Darvel's Wood and fight De Rothan. His confidence
steadied itself on a quiet belief in his own strength and skill. There
was just that simmer of exhilaration in his mood that makes a man a
little better than his normal self. It was his day. He felt on the top
of the game, with all the confidence of a man who attacks.

He rode on toward Rush Heath, putting his plans in order.

There was Jeremy Winter to be considered, and he had to decide that he
would tell Jeremy nothing. Winter would never consent to let him fight
upon such terms, and would insist on going with him to Darvel's Wood.
Jasper knew what Jeremy could be when he was obstinate, and that it was
hard to beat him from a position when he had once chosen it. He would
have to keep Jeremy Winter out of the adventure.

At Rush Heath Jasper found that Jeremy had ridden into Hastings, and
might not be back till supper time. This was useful in its way, and
Jasper showed his sound sense by making a light meal and going straight
to bed. He wanted steady nerves and a fresh body, and though few men
could have slept on the edge of such an adventure, Jasper accomplished
it, a point to his credit. He had told Jack Bumpstead to call him at
four o'clock, and at that hour he arose, dressed himself, went below,
and made a meal.

To get from Rush Heath to Darvel's Wood one could go by way of
Stonehanger Common, and Jasper rode that way, meaning to see Nance. A
glimpse of her would be as a cup of red wine to him, though the
melancholy of fatalism was not part of his nature. His own imagination
was not strong enough to force upon him a vision of his own body lying
dead in Darvel's Wood. He neither felt like dying nor being beaten, but
he had the sense to realise that in a couple of hours he might be dead.
The thought did not frighten him, but roused a sense of cheerful
incredulity.

Anthony Durrell had become nothing more than De Rothan's dupe, the man
of the arm-chair being the servant of the man of the sword, and Jasper
did not trouble his head about Durrell's prejudices. He rode into the
yard at Stonehanger, fastened Devil Dick to the ring by the stable door,
and, leaving his sword and pistols there, walked round the house to
Nance's garden on the terrace.

He found her there, cutting the dead blooms from the rose-bushes, and
the sight of her gave his mood the touch of deeper solemnity that it had
lacked. He felt of a sudden that life was a very serious and passionate
affair, and that no one was justified in risking it lightly. The girlish
figure bending over the rose-bushes made him bend more reverently over
her fate and his own.

"Nance----"

She had not heard his footsteps on the grass, and it was a coy, flushed
face that she turned to him. Her eyes might have shown him that she did
not regret anything. The kiss upon her mouth had enriched life for her,
and made it more dear and desirable.

"You! It is rash of you to be here!"

"I don't think so. Is your father at home?"

"No; he went out for a walk over the common."

"Either way, it does not matter."

They moved to a seat under one of the yews, Jasper's hand holding
Nance's arm just above the elbow. She looked round and up at him with
shy and shining eyes.

"How did things happen last night after I left you?"

"Quite happily. Father was waiting. He said nothing."

"What do you make of that?"

"Perhaps he does not know whether to tell me everything or nothing."

"Why not make him trust you?"

"Against his will?"

Jasper held both her hands in his.

"Nance, I shall have news for you to-morrow, news that should sweep all
these deceits aside. I shall come and talk to your father--as I
promised. And you will help me to make him see the uselessness of
further plotting with the French."

Nance's hands tightened on his. She understood what his words portended.

"You mean----"

"Nothing as yet. I may have good news."

"Then there is danger."

"Don't let the thought of that trouble you."

She looked him steadily in the eyes, compelling them to acknowledge the
truth.

"Jasper?"

"Well, dear--"

"You know you are trying to hide this from me. You are going to fight
this man."

"Well, do I look like a dead man, or one who is not sure of pulling
through? I never meant you to know this, but things will out."

"When is it?"

"In an hour or so."

"Oh, Jasper!"

He showed a fine and tender cheerfulness.

"I have been longing to fight him, Nance, and here is my chance. What's
the hour? By George, I must be going."

She caught his hands and would not let him go for the moment. Her eyes
were afraid.

"It's wrong of me to let you do this."

"No, no."

"If the wrong thing should happen!"

"Nance, it has to be; it's an affair of honour. Do you think I would let
a man like De Rothan call me a coward? No, by God, I am going to take
him by the shoulders and thrust him out of your life."

He rose, and his arm went round her as they crossed the terrace, and
passed round to where Devil Dick waited in the stone-paved yard. The
pistol butts sticking out of the holsters, and the sword leaning against
the stable wall made Nance's mouth quiver.

"Who is going with you?"

"No one."

"Where is it to be?"

"In Darvel's Wood. I shall ride back here."

He talked so as to hearten her as they passed through the wild shrubbery
to the gate. Her tense, white face hurt him. It was so near to tears and
yet so very far from them.

"God bless you, Nance. In two hours I shall be back again."

He kissed her, and felt her lips answer his with quick and passionate
abandonment.



XXVI


Long slants of sunlight came through the trees as Jasper rode into
Darvel's Wood. The place was a smother of leaves, for the underwood had
not been cut for five years or more, and the hazel tops were up among
the lower boughs of the oaks. A broad ride ran through the wood from
north to south like a gallery tunnelling through the green gloom.

A jay screamed raucously in the distance, but save for the bird's cry
the silence was complete. The very sunlight stealing through shone upon
leaves that did not quiver. There was an eeriness about the stillness
that suggested treachery and secret threats.

For the first time Jasper felt something that was akin to fear. It was a
vast uneasiness; a primitive, physical distrust of his surroundings. The
wood threw deep shadows, and the shadows lay across his confidence. Was
he trusting De Rothan too much by meeting him alone in the middle of
this wood? The man might have been warned, and be tempted by his own
danger. Their meeting was avowedly for polite and gentlemanly murder,
but it was possible that De Rothan might put his honour in his pocket
and pull the trigger of his pistol ten seconds too soon. Jasper shivered
with a kind of chilly alertness. He found himself favouring swords
rather than pistols. There was less chance of trickery with cold steel.

He was not sorry when he came to the clearing in the centre of Darvel's
Wood. A horse tied to a tree, and a tall figure walking up and down in
the sunlight gave him something real to look at. De Rothan was waiting
for him, and he was alone.

The clearing had been used by charcoal-burners years ago, and it was
marked in the centre by a circle of sleek and vivid grass that did not
look unlike a great fairy-ring. Half of the clearing lay in shadow, the
other half in sunlight. The boles of the oak-trees rose like grey-green
pillars round it, curtained in between by the foliage of the hazels.

De Rothan swept off his hat and bowed. His grandiose courtesy made
Jasper keep a keener eye on him, for he would not have trusted this
child of St. Patrick and St. Louis behind his back. A case of pistols
and a sword lay on a black cloak at the foot of a tree.

"The very best health to you, Mr. Benham."

His politeness was ironical. The man appeared to be his conceited and
condescending self, cynically amused, and not in the least flurried.

Jasper rolled out of the saddle and fastened Devil Dick to a tree. The
vague sense of apprehension had left him. He felt hard, and grim, and
steady now that he and De Rothan were face to face.

"I am at your service, Chevalier."

"I am charmed, sir. Please choose your weapon. It is immaterial to me
whether we fight with sword or pistol."

He swaggered finely, throwing off an air of aristocratic nonchalance.

"I prefer cold steel."

"Excellent, Mr. Benham, excellent. You have given me my own desire. Let
it be cold steel. I would rather kill my man with a sword than with a
pistol."

He went to the oak-tree, picked up his sword, and came back to Jasper
with the most condescending of smiles.

"I see no reason why we should delay, Mr. Benham."

"None at all."

"Very good. We had better fight here in the shade."

They went apart, stripped off coats and waistcoats, and rolled up the
sleeves of their sword-arms. De Rothan posed, and made a series of rapid
passes and parries, ending the display with a whirl of the sword. He
felt the muscles of his right shoulder, and smiled. His forearm was thin
and white, and shaded with black hairs.

"More supple than most young men's! You have a fine arm, sir, the arm of
a ploughboy. Come--I am at your service."

They took ground, saluted, and crossed swords, De Rothan resting his
weight on his left foot, and holding his head with a kind of high
fierceness. His eyes looked dangerous yet amused.

Jasper called to mind Jeremy's advice. De Rothan was a man whose vanity
might be played with, and who might be lured into despising his
opponent. It takes a subtle swordsman to ape clumsiness, and yet to keep
a clever adversary out. Jasper tried it, and was nearly run through the
shoulder for his pains. The Frenchman's point tore his shirt.

De Rothan's face with its fierce and arrogant eyes was like a foul word
flung in Jasper's mouth. His hatred aimed for a body thrust. His
swordsmanship caught a sudden flash of brilliance. He had his chance and
took it, and saw blood on the Frenchman's shirt.

It was a skin wound, but De Rothan leapt back with a cry of savage
surprise. His eyes looked beyond Jasper for the moment to where the head
and shoulders of a man showed from behind a tree trunk.

Jasper caught the look, but had to keep face foremost and meet the
return rush of De Rothan's sword. The man Gaston had come out from
behind the tree, and had his fist raised, whirling a stone. It did no
more than strike Jasper between the shoulders, but it staggered him
sufficiently to let in De Rothan's sword.

Run through the sword-arm, he was seized from behind, thrown down, with
De Rothan, Gaston, and another man on top of him. Grim, silent, yet
violent figures, they wasted no words. Jasper's sword was kicked away.
He was rolled over on his face, his arms tied behind his back, and his
ankles lashed together. Then they lifted him between them, carried him
into the thick of the underwood, and threw him down at the foot of a
clump of hazels.

De Rothan spoke to Gaston.

"Get the horses. Don't let Benham's beast break away."

He went out into the clearing, put on his coat and waistcoat, and,
returning, stood by Jasper, looking down at him with amused contempt.

"Well, Mr. Benham--well, you are no fool with a sword."

Jasper lay in a dumb rage. The lust to resist was still strong in him,
and he was savage over the roughness the men had used. The dastardly
nature of the whole thing maddened him; also the knowledge that he had
been tricked.

"You damned cur!"

Their brevity was expressive, but the words did not appear to hurt De
Rothan.

"Mr. Benham, we are playing a critical hand in a great game--that is
all. If there is any gratitude in you, you should be grateful to me for
not having killed you. Meddlers must not complain if they are treated
without ceremony."

His complacency scourged Jasper's sense of savage humiliation.

"This comes of trusting the word of a scoundrel. I was a fool not to
have you arrested and shot."

De Rothan took out his snuff-box, and helped himself with finger and
thumb.

"So you confess to that, Mr. Benham. It is a relief to me to know that
you have been a fool. Now, if you will pardon me, we will have that
packet of cipher you stole from my friend last night."

So De Rothan had been warned! Jasper cursed his own self-confidence that
had persuaded him to try and carry the adventure through alone. No
wonder De Rothan had laid a trap. The bitterest thing of all was that
the packet of cipher lay in the breast pocket of his coat.

"Give me the gentleman's coat, François."

A wonderful smile spread over his face as he felt in the pocket and drew
out Jerome's packet.

"Mr. Benham, I am obliged to you for being so simple. This may save a
great deal of trouble. At all events, you will be spared the vexation of
deciphering it."

He put it in his pocket, looking down at Jasper with whimsical
self-satisfaction.

"You will have to be my guest for a time, Mr. Benham, and we will have
that arm of yours seen to. It may inconvenience you, but that cannot be
helped. I must keep you from meddling in my affairs."

Jasper said nothing. He was thinking quickly and angrily, and not
greatly to his own content.

"Gaston, I think you have a silk handkerchief there. We had better tie
up Mr. Benham's mouth, or he may be too talkative."

They gagged Jasper and bandaged his eyes. Dusk was falling, and De
Rothan went back to the clearing to see that the man François had taken
up Jasper's sword and pistols.

The wood grew darker each minute. De Rothan, returning, sat down at the
foot of a tree with his sword across his knees. He had sent Gaston ahead
along the ride to see that no one was loitering there.

It was nearly dark when Gaston returned. De Rothan and he spoke together
in undertones. Jasper heard them coming back through the undergrowth.
They came close, and he felt himself lifted and carried some yards
further into the wood. They placed him on the back of a horse, passed a
strap and ropes round him, and lashed him firmly to the beast's back.

Then they started out through the darkness, passed northward along the
ride, and halted awhile on the edge of Darvel's Wood. Jasper felt half
smothered by the gag, and saliva clogged his throat. The long silence
seemed threatening. He wondered what they were going to do.

Then he heard De Rothan's voice.

"Forward. François, go ahead, and keep your eyes and ears open."

They set out along a dark lane, Gaston hanging back awhile with Devil
Dick. He gave the horse a stab with a knife, and started him galloping
back into the wood. Then he hurried on, and rejoined De Rothan.

Meanwhile, at Stonehanger, Nance sat at her window, listening. Suspense
hung in the silent hush of the June night. She was waiting for Jasper to
ride back and to tell her that all was well.



XXVII


Jeremy Winter grew anxious when Jasper did not return. Squire Kit was
not in a state to be worried with alarms, and Jeremy, who knew the
inwardness of Jasper's plans, felt the responsibility to lie upon his
shoulders. He cross-questioned Jack Bumpstead, but the groom could tell
him no more than that Jasper had ridden out on Devil Dick with pistols
in his holsters.

Jeremy's anxiety seemed justified when a labourer arrived at Rush Heath,
leading Devil Dick by the bridle. He said that he had found the horse
grazing in the corner of a field not far from Rookhurst.

"'If that be'unt Master Benham's horse, may I be struck blind,' says I.
And look 'ee, sir, he's bin stuck in t' shoulder wid a knife."

Jeremy examined the horse, and made light of it.

"The squire has had a spill, and lost his nag."

Jack Bumpstead and the labourer shook their heads at each other with
dolorous pessimism.

"He's bin stuck wid a knife, or t' point of a hanger."

"Hedge stake, more likely."

"No, sir, it be'unt, sir. 'Tain't the sort o' mark a stake leaves."

Jeremy was vastly disturbed, but his main desire was to keep the affair
from Squire Christopher and to put the gag upon these two garrulous men.
Gossip always runs on ahead to make trouble, and Jeremy, man of the
world that he was, had learned the value of a subtle unobtrusiveness in
dealing with all happenings that touched even the edge of passion. He
took the labourer aside and dealt with him wonderfully after the manner
of a soldier and a philosopher. The fellow had to be persuaded into
taking a pride in his own discretion.

"I be'unt for sayin' a word, sir."

"That's it; you are the right sort of fellow. We may want a man of your
sense over here in a day or two. Jesse Saunders, is it? I'll keep you in
mind."

With Jack Bumpstead he played the bully.

"Saddle my nag, Jack. And look you here,--not a word about this--not one
word--see."

Nothing could be more ferocious than Jeremy when fierceness was a
necessity. Jack Bumpstead wilted before him.

"Sure, Mister Winter, sir. I'll do as ye please."

"By George, you will, Jack; I'll take care of that. Wash the horse's
wound, and plaster a little hair over it, and not a word to a living
soul."

Jeremy rode out, with pistols in his pockets, and a certain significant
tightness about the mouth. He knew the country well, and his conjectures
pointed him toward Stonehanger. Jeremy was something of a cynic.
Experience had taught him that there was truth in the saying, "Look for
the woman." He had his mind's eye on Nance, and his thoughts were none
of the kindest.

Riding up the steep lane at the back of Stonehanger, he found himself
reining in before the gate at the very moment that a girl appeared
between the two stone pillars. The hollies and laurels made a deep shade
there. The white anxiousness of the girl's face struck Jeremy at the
first glance. The startled way she looked at him provoked his
suspicions.

He raised his hat to her.

"Miss Durrell, I believe?"

The eyes that met his were big, and most honestly troubled.

"Yes, I am Miss Durrell."

"I am trying to hear something of Mr. Jasper Benham. His horse came home
this morning without him. I had an idea that he might have been at
Stonehanger."

Jeremy believed in being blunt with women. He wanted to try Nance and to
judge her by the way she reacted to his words. And react she did, in a
way that made Jeremy rearrange his notions.

"Are you a friend of Jasper's?"

She came across the stone bridge over the ditch, the white eagerness of
her face driving the cynicism out of Jeremy's mood.

"I may say so. I am his adopted uncle, and almost taught him to walk."

He eyed Nance with keen sympathy. She was all pale and intent passion.
There had been none of those self-conscious changes of colour, those
vain little manœuvres that so few women can forget. The girl was white
steel, fine-tempered, and a little fierce.

"Did Jasper tell you where he was going last night?"

"I had been away from Rush Heath all day."

"Had he told you nothing? I have been awake all night--waiting."

Jeremy's face grew grim, but his voice was gentle.

"Miss Durrell, I know a good deal. I can guess still more."

"This Chevalier de Rothan, this so-called _émigré_----"

"Ah, now we have it."

"They were to fight a duel in Darvel's Wood."

The forward thrust of Jeremy's jaw became more pronounced.

"What! And the lad never told me! He went out alone against that Irish
blackguard! Good God----!"

A quivering upper lip and a pair of brown eyes brought him back to
Nance's outlook upon life.

"Miss Durrell, you'll forgive me--"

Her hands were gripping the folds of her dress.

"You know, it was for us. Perhaps he told you? He came to Stonehanger
last night before he went to Darvel's Wood. He was so confident. He
would go. He promised to ride back and tell me how it all happened."

Jeremy--that man of many experiences--slipped out of the saddle and held
out a comrade's hand.

"I don't blame Jasper for this, but I do blame him for going alone. The
fellow De Rothan would have stabbed him in the back for the price of a
pewter pot."

Nance shivered.

"Oh, don't talk like this!"

"My dear, I ask your pardon. Winter, Jeremy Winter is my name. Where the
devil is Darvel's Wood? I'll ride there at once."

"I'll come--I'll show you."

"But----"

"I must come--I must. I was going when you rode up."

Jeremy knew when a wish was not to be gainsaid. Here was a girl who
leapt into the experiences of life with her whole heart. She was strong,
rich, and convincing.

"My dear, can you borrow such a thing as a horse?"

"No, and I can't ride."

"Well, we must take what Nature gives us. How far is it?"

"Two miles."

"I'll walk--for the sake of sympathy."

They seemed to have known each other years by the time the oaks of
Darvel's Wood rose against the white clouds of the summer sky. Their
instinctive liking for each other met and kindled in these moments of
suspense. Both of them were thinking of Jasper, but Jeremy coupled his
thoughts with the tense, white face of this young girl.

"She's true metal; she has edge and temper," he kept saying to himself.
"Confound the lad, why was he in such a damnable hurry!"

When they came to the gate that led into Darvel's Wood, Jeremy paused
and looked questioningly at Nance.

"Will you stay here?"

"No, I will come with you."

He was afraid for her sake and of what he might find. But her courage
persuaded him.

"Come, then. I'll fasten my horse to the gate-post."

And they entered Darvel's Wood.

It was close and oppressive in among the trees, and the summer foliage
shut in the ride with massive walls of green. Flies, too, were in
evidence, swarming down out of the foliage as though these two humans
had entered Darvel's Wood with the particular intention of offering
themselves as food. Jeremy, less imperturbable than usual, cursed the
black pests and smote the air with his hat.

"The insolence of the brutes! As though we mortals walked abroad for the
benefit of flies! Some day we shall wipe all these things out--and then
have the earth as clean as a Dutch kitchen."

They were anxious and under strain, and showed it by their silence.
Jeremy's face looked fierce. He was thinking how he would hunt De Rothan
into a corner, drive his sword through the man's body, and see him
double up like a doll.

Nance knew of the clearing, and Jeremy could tell that they were nearing
the place--by the sound of her breathing. He had his eyes on the tracks
left by Jasper's horse.

"Not far now?"

"We are there."

The clearing opened out before them with the horse tracks turning aside
into it. Half the place was in sunlight, the rest smothered in umbrage,
and very silent.

"Stay here, child."

He left Nance under an oak, and began to explore the place, his sharp
eyes soon discovering many suggestive facts. Another horse had been
ridden into the clearing, and there was a trampled place where men had
fought. What was more, Jeremy found the track through the underwood that
De Rothan and his men had made. Twigs were bent and broken, dead leaves
kicked up. More than one man had been responsible for this.

He returned to Nance. Her eyes questioned him--like the eyes of one in
pain.

"Yes, there are traces. Foul play, probably."

"Do you think that Jasper----?"

"My dear, I don't know. I have found nothing but trampled grass and
broken underwood. De Rothan was not alone. He had men with him."

"The coward! He laid a trap?"

"That's what I gather."

Jeremy stood smoothing his chin and staring at the ground.

"This fellow lives over beyond the ridge--Winchelsea way?"

"No, nearer than that, off a lane between Sedlescombe and Westfield. It
is called the Brick House."

"Brick House. I know the place. I shall ride there at once."

"Will you?"

"Something may be found out. I know how to deal with a man like De
Rothan."

They returned through the wood to the gate, Jeremy thinking hard and
saying nothing to his companion.

As he unfastened his horse, Nance spoke out, standing and looking over
the lulls toward the sea. Her face was set, and her eyes hard.

"If the worst has happened, we must be revenged."

Jeremy was struck by the passion in her voice.

"We will not believe the worst yet. It is possible that they may have
kidnapped Jasper for those dispatches he seized."

"Whatever has happened, my father is nearly as guilty as De Rothan."

"He may not have known."

"I have no pity. I shall make him confess everything."

Jeremy reflected a moment.

"It might be as well to let him understand that the whole business has
been discovered."

They parted at the gate, Nance pointing out to Jeremy the way he should
take. He lifted his hat to her devoutly.

"Keep your heart up, child. I will ride back and tell you what I have
discovered."

Nance walked back slowly to Stonehanger, her mouth set in a determined
line, her eyes steady with thought. She felt very bitter against her
father, and in no mood to spare him in his conspiracy with De Rothan.

Anthony Durrell was reading on the bench under the yew-tree when she
returned. He glanced up sharply as Nance crossed the grass, and she was
struck by the narrowness of his face, and ill-balanced bigotry of the
man's whole nature. But Nance had risen above fear of her father. She
had youth on her side, and the strength that youth gives.

"I want to speak to you."

He put his book aside, an irritable crease appearing between his
eyebrows.

"Well, what is it?"

"It is known that you are a French spy."

"Child----!"

"I know it, as others know it. You may be grateful that those who know
it are my friends."

Durrell sat staring, his face vacant, mouth slightly open. Nance had
expected a violent outburst, recriminations, arguments, denials.

Presently he spoke to her, making a great effort to regain his
self-control.

"What do you mean, child?"

"What I have said, father. Nor is that all. This man De Rothan may be
accused of murder."

Durrell's hands moved restlessly to and fro along the edge of the seat.

"Murder! I know nothing of that."

She stood looking down at him with her uncompromising eyes.

"God grant that you do know nothing. We must wait--and be patient.
Remember, now, that you are at the mercy of these friends of mine--who
know. It would have been better if you had trusted me a little."



XXVIII


Jeremy stopped at the "Queen's Head" Inn at Sedlescombe for some bread
and cheese and a mug of ale. He was an old campaigner and remembered the
needs of the inner man.

The landlord of the "Queen's Head" appeared to be a person of sense. He
had a shrewd, well-shaved face, and a mouth that spoke pleasantly, but
was always able to keep something back. Jeremy chatted with him for
twenty minutes. He had a queer way of getting hold of men, of making
them feel the grip of his character. Jeremy asked for the Brick House.

"You mean Mounseer de Rotten's place, sir?"

"That name's good enough."

"Go straight down the village, over yon hill, and take a lane to the
right. You'll see the house in a hollow."

The landlord and Jeremy looked at each other as though neither took the
other for a fool.

"Does mounseer keep a big staff of servants?"

"Three, sir, so far as I know."

"Men?"

"Men, sir, yes."

"I met the Chevalier in London. I might look in on him now that I am
down in these parts."

Jeremy strolled down the brick path to the white fence where a boy was
holding his horse. The landlord followed at his heels, staring
reflectively at the sturdy breadth of Mr. Winter's back. This was a
gentleman who walked very much on his own legs.

"Roads nice and dry, sir. You might be wanting a bed for the night?"

Jeremy paused with a toe in the stirrup.

"I'll keep you in mind, landlord. How far do you call it to Mr. de
Rothan's?"

"A matter of two miles, sir."

"If he hasn't a bed to spare, you may see me again. I like a quiet
place, and quiet people."

"We're quiet, sir, very quiet."

"I'll remember it. Good day to you."

The landlord watched him ride off down the village.

"Hum--what's he after? A gentleman of parts. He had an eye on me for
something, friendliwise. No small beer, I reckon."

Jeremy found the lane leading off the main road. It was a mere grass
track with high hedges on either side of it. The red chimneys of the
house showed above the thorns and hazels, and a plume of blue smoke went
up against the green background of a wooded hill. A gate closed the end
of the lane which opened into a meadow.

Jeremy dismounted and leaned his arms on the top bar of the gate and
looked across the meadow at the Brick House with its red walls, clipped
yews, and diamond-paned casements. The place looked peaceful enough in
the green dip of its valley, but Jeremy was not in quest of beauty. He
scrutinised every window of the house like a man staring at an ancient
tablet whose writing refuses to be deciphered.

Jeremy fastened his horse to the gate-post, and looked to the priming of
his pistols. He was playing a bold game, and in such case a man needs
something more dangerous to rely on than his tongue. He climbed the gate
and walked slowly across the meadow, slapping his right leg with a
little riding switch that he carried.

When he came within twenty yards of the brick wall of the garden, he
halted and stood staring at the house as though he were an antiquary
studying types of English domestic architecture. Jeremy was not going to
put himself within safe pistol-shot of the windows. To provoke a parley
a man must not give away all his advantages.

Jeremy began to walk up and down in the line of the garden wall, keeping
a sharp eye on all the windows. It was not long before he saw a face
appear at one of the upper lattices. It remained there a moment, and
then melted back into the shadow of the room.

Presently a servant in black livery came out from the porch, and down
the path into the meadow. He approached Jeremy, and spoke in broken
English.

"What will monsieur desire here?"

Jeremy stood with feet apart, hands behind his back, staring at the
house.

"Good mullions, and excellent brickwork. There is a solidity about these
Jacobean houses. My good fellow, is your master at home?"

"What will monsieur desire here?"

"Nothing, Pierre, nothing, but a word with your master. Tell him there
is a gentleman here who is interested in old houses."

The man looked contemptuously at Winter and returned to the house. De
Rothan was waiting in the hall.

"Well, François?"

"A gentleman who loves old houses."

"Thunder, what, a dry-as-dust! Go and tell him the house is not to be
viewed."

François went back to Jeremy.

"Monsieur, my master the Chevalier de Rothan cannot be agreeable to your
curiosity."

Jeremy's eyes twinkled.

"Go and tell him I have ridden sixty miles to see this house. If he will
give me a few minutes I can explain."

This time the man was exchanged for the master. De Rothan appeared at
the porch, came slowly down the path and out into the meadow.
Stateliness was the pose of the moment. An aristocrat of France came to
speak with some antiquarian huckster who would force himself upon an
exile's privacy.

"Sir, I wish you good day."

Jeremy took off his hat and bowed. He could be damnably urbane when he
was most dangerous. De Rothan had not recognised him. Who would expect
to see a fencing-master from St. James's in an out-of-the-world Sussex
meadow?

"Sir, I take liberties in being here. I am one of those inquisitive
persons who are interested in everything."

De Rothan looked him over with supercilious politeness.

"A very admirable state of mind, but a little embarrassing at times--to
others."

"You cannot be so kind as to let me see your house, Chevalier?"

De Rothan's eyelids seemed to close a little.

"My house, monsieur, is not a museum."

"But I am told there is a unique curio to be seen in it, a thing of
particular, local interest----"

"Indeed! You surprise me."

"Not at all, sir, not at all. It is a gentleman who was stolen yesterday
out of Darvel's Wood. I am sure you will oblige me in the matter."

De Rothan's figure seemed to lengthen. His nostrils dilated, and his
eyes became very bright and staring.

"Sir, I fail to understand you. Nor do I love impertinence."

"Nor I, Monsieur de Rothan. I expect Mr. Jasper Benham to dine with me
to-night. It will be courteous of you to produce the gentleman, and to
deliver him over to me."

"You are talking nonsense."

"I'll wager that I am not."

They stood eyeing each other, challenging each other, gauging each
other's strength and grimness.

"Who are you, and what do you want?"

Jeremy's eyes twinkled. He had been standing with hands clasped behind
him. One hand had slipped itself into the tail pocket of his coat and
was gripping the butt of a pistol.

He began to speak slowly, and very distinctly, looking at De Rothan from
under frowning eyebrows.

"Mr. Frenchman, let us understand each other. I have two men over yonder
behind the hedge; neither you nor yours can play any tricks with me.
Now, I ask you, what is there to prevent me putting a bullet in your
body?"

Jeremy had a pistol out, and, holding it at his hip, covered De Rothan
with the muzzle.

"My good sir, this is like a stage play!"

De Rothan had nerve, and showed it in the casual way he glanced at the
pistol, and then looked Jeremy in the eyes. Quick wit and audacity were
divided pretty equally between them.

"Well, Chevalier, what do you say?"

"Of course, sir, if you wish to blow Mr. Benham's brains out----"

"Thanks. So I was on the mark--there."

"Do not congratulate yourself. I can tell you at once that Mr. Jasper
Benham is in my house, alive and well, save for a sword thrust through
the arm."

Jeremy nodded.

"You laid a trap for him and cheated him on a point of honour."

"My good sir, I outwitted him, if you call that cheating."

They were silent for a few seconds like men who break away and take
breath between two bouts of boxing. Jeremy's mouth looked ugly, but he
was as debonair as ever.

"Listen to me, Chevalier. This spy business of yours is over and done
with. What I have to do is to call one of my men, send him galloping for
half a score red-coats, and hold you here at the pistol point till they
come."

"Very good, sir, very good. But I take it that you have some respect for
Mr. Benham's life."

Jeremy felt the cunning of the thrust.

"No doubt."

"Very well, do what you suggest. But I warn you that I have a man in the
house whom I can trust. He has had his orders. It is a nasty business
blowing out a young man's brains. Faugh--you will not drive us to that!"

"You are not without daring, Chevalier."

"I am one of the eagles of adventure, sir. I play my game and I play it
boldly. Mr. Benham is my hostage. I demand to be left alone, to be
allowed to give my plans a fighting chance. In three weeks or so French
cavalry may be sabring your red-coats in these lanes."

Jeremy reflected.

"I see your point, sir."

"Regard it in this way. I play my game--I put down my stake. This Mr.
Benham blunders in and tries to upset my table. I seize him and tie him
up in a corner, and, to defend myself from his friends, I have to keep a
pistol levelled at this good young man's head. You see, I hold him in
front of me, so to speak. Shoot, or stab at me--and Mr. Benham's body
takes the first blow. What you have to decide is whether you are willing
to sacrifice your friend."

"By George! Do you mean to tell me you would shoot the lad?"

"Mr. Englishman, I am the devil when I am in earnest. My man is watching
you, even now. If you were to fire that pistol at me--he would do the
same to Mr. Jasper Benham. You see how things stand. The decision is
with you."

Very rarely had Jeremy found himself fenced with so cleverly. De Rothan
held him at a disadvantage.

"Let me put things plainly. You, Chevalier, are a French spy. The truth
has been discovered. You expect the French fleet in the Channel, and
Napoleon to invade us. Good! To gain breathing space you tie up this
lad, hold a pistol at his head, and dare us to interfere."

De Rothan bowed and smiled.

"You have summed up the situation. It is very simple."

Jeremy lowered his pistol. He was baffled, and very furious behind that
imperturbable face of his.

"Very well, Chevalier. It seems that we are not in a position to
quarrel."

"Mr.----?"

"Winter, sir, Jeremy Winter."

"Mr. Winter, you show good sense."

Jeremy could have twisted De Rothan's neck. The man's complacent
audacity rubbed him raw.

"One thing, Chevalier. Have you any personal spite against the lad?"

He watched De Rothan narrowly.

"No more than the natural contempt of a grown man for a big fool of a
boy who tries to kick him."

Jeremy's mouth betrayed sarcasm.

"I believed he kicked--with success."

But he regretted the gibe when he saw the glint in De Rothan's eyes.

"Mr. Winter, I am too big a man to bear malice."

"Thank heaven for that!"

"I hold Mr. Benham as a hostage."

"And if the French come, sir?"

De Rothan shrugged his shoulders.

"A country squireling will not matter. He will be one of a mob of
sheep."

"And if the French do not come?"

"I shall still hold Mr. Benham at my mercy. He will be my shield, Mr.
Winter; you will shoot or stab at me through him."

"A very convenient arrangement for you, sir. I suppose it is useless to
suggest that we might come to terms and give you a safe passage out of
the country?"

De Rothan smiled.

"One does not count one's winnings, Mr. Winter, till the cards are
played. Especially when one holds a winning hand."

Jeremy bowed to him, and they drew apart, keeping their faces toward
each other.

"Good day to you, Chevalier."

"Good day, Mr. Winter. You will be careful how you meddle in any affair
of mine."



XXIX


When Jeremy was in a rage his imperturbable face had a smooth, tight
look, the lips pressed a little more closely together, the jaw well set.
His wrath was always a quiet wrath, deep, purposeful, not wasting itself
in words.

De Rothan had made him more furious than he had been for years, and even
the knowledge that Jasper was very little the worse for his adventure in
Darvel's Wood did not modify Jeremy's anger. De Rothan was the kind of
man who filled him with a scornful disgust, and to be baffled and
dictated to by such a man left Jeremy quarrelling with his own
self-respect. He damned De Rothan as a coward, and was equally indignant
over the contradictory conviction that the adventurer had audacity and
courage. De Rothan had seized a desperate chance. It had been a clever
move, too confoundedly clever to please Mr. Winter.

"Curse it, what shall I tell the girl?"

He laughed at his own impatience.

"Why, Jerry, my boy, you want to appear infallible, do you, dallying
with a snuff-box, and proudly overwhelming all ruffians with one look.
The lad's alive. Tell her that. She'll be ready to kiss you, though you
have brought nothing but news."

It did not astonish Jeremy when he found Nance watching for him where
the lane topped the high ground to the east of Stonehanger. She was
sitting on a turf bank under a thorn-tree, out of sight of Stonehanger
House.

Jeremy gave her the best news he could, while he was still some yards
away.

"The lad's alive, and they tell me not much the worse."

The way her face changed stirred Jeremy, man of fifty that he was. It
was good to be young, to desire, and to be desired.

"Where is he?"

"Ah, that's a long story. You and I have got to hold a council of war."

He dismounted, fastened his horse to the thorn-tree, and seated himself
beside Nance on the bank. Her face still retained much of the radiance
that had poured into it with the first rush of relief.

"What has happened, then?"

"They kidnapped Jasper in Darvel's Wood. I guessed it. De Rothan has him
shut up safely in that house of his beyond Sedlescombe."

"As a prisoner?"

"Yes."

"But how absurd, in these days! Then we shall soon have him out."

Jeremy wagged his head.

"My dear, you don't know Monsieur de Rothan."

"What do you mean?"

"He has the audacity of the devil. He has snapped up Jasper as a
hostage, and dares us to interfere."

"He told you that?"

"Why, to be sure, we had a parley in the meadow. I covered him with a
pistol and asked him to tell me why I shouldn't shoot him. His argument
was that one of his own men would promptly shoot Jasper. You see, they
are holding him against us as a kind of shield."

Nance's face lost some of its radiance.

"But De Rothan dare not do this."

"Unfortunately he does dare, in fact, he is obliged to dare. It is the
one chance left him of forcing his game through. We are on the edge of
a crisis. The next month may decide whether we are to be invaded or not.
De Rothan is standing out for a fighting chance."

She looked very gravely into Jeremy's eyes.

"Do you think he would be brute enough to murder Jasper?"

"My dear, I do."

"Then if we threaten or inform against him, Jasper will be sacrificed?"

"Exactly. That's what makes me feel like a caged tiger."

It seemed to take Nance some minutes to realise the vindictive grimness
of the thing.

"But what a villain!"

"Call him that if you like, child. He is a clever gambler and has to use
a gambler's tricks. The end justifies the means. That is what he tells
himself."

She smoothed her dress with her hands, and looked into the distance.

"It makes me ashamed and furious that we are so helpless. And yet we
have to be polite and swallow our anger. Can anything be done?"

"And take the risk of having the lad shot?"

"No, no, you know I don't mean that! But to think that we should have to
truckle to this man!"

"I see no other course at present. I am not a lamb myself. I would run a
sword through the man to-morrow if I thought that it would help us. But
it won't. We have got to be careful."

"I see--yes, I see."

"We must hold our tongues, not let the truth out, and yet try to find
some way out of this blind alley. If we were to let our neighbours know
the truth, they might come blundering in and lose Jasper his life."

She held her breath at the thought of such a chance.

"Then there is father. I spoke to him this morning."

"You did?"

"He is a strange man. I thought he would storm, but he looked stunned. I
don't see that he could help us. He might even be dangerous."

"Yes, set everything in a blaze. I had thought of that. I think that I
had better see Mr. Anthony Durrell."

She looked at him questioningly.

"But----"

"I have dealt with all sorts of men in my time."

"Do you mean to frighten him into silence?"

"I shall try to treat him as a reasonable creature. It is no time for
soft phrases."

She thought awhile, knitting up her forehead, and clasping her hands.

"Perhaps it will be best."

"Shall we go on? I may find Mr. Durrell at Stonehanger."

The essential weakness of a man of Anthony Durrell's character showed
itself in the parley that followed between him and Jeremy Winter. The
man of action and the man of the bookshelf were pitted against each
other, though Jeremy, unlike most Englishmen, had subtlety and a very
quick sense of humour. Nance had left them alone together in the
stone-room, feeling vaguely sorry for the thin, white-headed figure that
looked so ineffectual.

Jeremy went straight to the point with a merciless directness, much as
he would have attacked with a sword. Durrell's hysterical verbosity was
like the clumsy and excitable fencing of a greenhorn who has never
learned to use his hands. He chose the high, ethical, magniloquent
attitude, being sincere enough in his wild, foolish, visionary way.
Jeremy thrust the egregious fanatic through and through with the brutal
logic of his common sense.

"You need not stand and orate, Mr. Durrell. Take the facts and leave
your theories. Here are you, a traitor to your country, with a noose
dangling invitingly over your head."

Durrell flapped his arms.

"I stand for liberty--for a great idea----"

"Bosh, man, bosh! We don't win things in this world in that way. Answer
a straight question. Do you want your daughter to see you hanged?"

Durrell was disjointed, wild, hysterical. Jeremy kept up his body blows,
driving home truth after truth till he had this poor, exclamatory piece
of scholarly discontent battered into impotence. Durrell was a weak man.
He was not built for pounding, for fighting toe to toe. He might have
quarrelled and stormed with women. In the presence of a man like Jeremy
he collapsed.

Winter softened a little when the enthusiast crumpled up into a chair.

"Mr. Durrell, sir, try to realise that we are your best friends. Have
nothing more to do with this scoundrel De Rothan. You've got something
valuable to live for in the shape of a daughter."

Durrell mumbled, and twisted this way and that. Jeremy had cowed him,
and seized the dominating influence that De Rothan had held.

"I will think over what you have said, Mr. Winter. Heaven knows I would
not countenance any violence to this young man."

Jeremy left him a beaten man, and went out into the garden to speak with
Nance. She looked steady and sure of herself, and Jeremy respected the
strength in her. It struck him that she would be able to dominate her
father now that Durrell had been shocked into a kind of panic.

"Well?"

"You must forgive me if I have been a little rough with your father.
Soft words are of no use at such a time."

"What does he say?"

"I think he has surrendered to us. I had to 'tarrify' him, as they say
in these parts."

"If only he would keep to his books."

"That's it. Some men are made to live with books."

They walked through the shrubbery to the gate where David Barfoot was
holding Mr. Winter's horse. Jeremy spoke what was in his mind.

"Go and play the daughter to him, my dear. I think he is in a mood to be
managed. Some oldish men have to be treated like children."

"I will try."

"There must be plenty of good stuff in your father."

"Yes."

"I take you as my proof."

Cynicism, tinged with benevolence, such was Jeremy's attitude toward
life. It was not very reasonable to expect a girl of spirit to hold a
man of Anthony Durrell's nature in great love and reverence. Durrell
needed hurdling in like an old sheep, and left to browse contentedly
among his books.

Jeremy had already quarrelled twice that day, but he was yet to have a
third quarrel laid upon his shoulders. This time it was with a woman,
and the woman--Miss Rose Benham.

He found her at Rush Heath, energetic, inquisitive, and voluble, driving
the inarticulate Jack Bumpstead into comers, and insisting upon
examining Devil Dick in his stall. She had scolded the groom till he had
involved himself in a maze of muddled contradictions, hunting him round
and round with her cross-questions and her curiosity.

Jeremy's mouth went grim. His patience had borne up bravely, and he was
in no mood to be teased by a managing and meddlesome young woman.

"Mr. Winter, what does all this mean?"

He handed his horse over to Jack Bumpstead, gave the groom one
terrifying look, and bowed Miss Benham out of the stable.

"My dear young lady, I think you are a little excited."

He was deluged, but managed to divert the stream into a quiet corner of
the garden.

"Miss Rose, you are inclined to call this affair your own. I warn you
that it is nothing of the kind. I even forbid you to meddle with it."

"Forbid, indeed! I shall----"

"Excuse me, you will not."

"What right have you----?"

"Expediency justifies me--and a man's honour."

"Jasper's? You mean to say----"

Then Jeremy told what was very like an audacious lie.

"Miss Benham--Cousin Jasper will very shortly be married. And I am
glad--because of the woman he will marry. Honour is concerned in it,
even his very life. He is in great danger. One careless word may wreck
everything."

Rose was white, furious, and astonished.

"To be married! And all this wild talk----?"

"My dear Miss Benham, sometimes two men desire to marry the same woman.
It is not unusual. And one of the men may be desperate and unprincipled.
The unprincipled man may take advantage of the other's sense of honour."

"But Jasper--is he in danger?"

"Very grave danger."

"Then why on earth don't you do something?"

Jeremy gave her one of his shrewd smiles.

"That is just what must not be done, for the moment. It will spoil my
masterly inactivity if fools go cackling about the country. We are in a
very delicate dilemma. I shall not explain it, as the less that is known
about it--the better. You have it in your power to lose Jasper his
life."

She flinched, as people had so often flinched in Jeremy's presence.

"If he is in danger, I----"

"Yes, you will be kind and cautious. You will say nothing. And for God's
sake leave Jack Bumpstead alone, and not a word to Squire Christopher."

Rose tossed her head.

"I do not need to be lectured like a schoolgirl, Mr. Winter. I am a
woman of sense. I will not interfere in a man's love affairs--even if he
is my cousin."

And Jeremy saw that he had piqued her into a proper pride.



XXX


The men who had built the Brick House had framed the attic story of huge
baulks of oak, posts and beams that looked like the halves of great
trees, with struts and cross-pieces worked in quaintly at all angles.
There was a long gallery connecting the attics, and the whole place
looked like the interior of a ship, the little windows high up no larger
than portholes. The plaster had not been whitewashed for years, and
beams, rafters, and posts were a deep rich brown. Even the floor-boards
were of oak, and riddled with worm-holes.

Jasper Benham's prison room was the attic at the far end of the gallery.
Its dormer-window was squeezed in between the slopes of two gables.
There was no furniture in the attic save a rough box-bed in one corner.

Nor did the bed belong to Jasper. The man Gaston slept there with a
pistol under his pillow.

Jasper had been given a truss of straw to lie on. They could not have
managed otherwise, for the simple reason that they had put him in irons.
His ankles were chained and bolted to the floor-boards, and his wrists
handcuffed. He might have been a negro in the hold of a slave ship, or a
refractory seaman undergoing discipline.

Both De Rothan and Jeremy Winter were cynics, with the difference that
one possessed far more natural kindliness than the other. Their
materialism kept its eyes fixed upon the sensuous aspects of life. They
knew good wine, and a woman who was worth following, and were ready to
be amused by the ingenuous wraths and enthusiasms of youth.

As for De Rothan, he found Jasper a most companionable young person, a
man who took his own honourable indignation with vast seriousness, and
could be pricked into all manner of odd exasperations. Jasper had not
learned to wink at life, or to sneer upon occasions. De Rothan baited
his youthful sincerity. He would take his glass of wine and smoke his
cheroot in Jasper's attic, sitting on the edge of Gaston's bed, and
prodding the Englishman with his cynicism as he would have prodded a pig
with a stick. He made a daily habit of this parley, spending an hour or
two with his prisoner while Gaston had a change of air in the garden or
meadow.

It was the fifth day of his imprisonment, and Jasper heard Gaston's
descending footsteps meet those of De Rothan, who ascended to take his
place. The Frenchman came in with his glass of wine and his cheroot,
bowed ironically to Jasper, and took up his usual position on the bed.

"Well, Mr. Benham, how is the forlorn lover to-day?"

De Rothan's sleekness, his white linen and smoothly shaved face filled
Jasper with a kind of fury. He felt himself unclean on his bundle of
straw, with a five days' beard on his chin, and his face and hands
unwashed. The wound in his right arm was giving him no trouble, but they
had not offered to dress it for him, and Nature was responsible for any
process of healing.

"Your consideration, Chevalier, does not run to a crock of water and a
piece of soap."

"Why, my good sir, what should you want with such things? I might find
an old clay pipe and let you blow soap bubbles!"

"It is something to feel clean, especially in the presence of people
whose honour happens to be foul."

"We have been taught that it is the heart that matters. Inward
cleanliness, eh? You have heard, Mr. Benham, of the old saints and
hermits. Dirt and vermin were held to be honourable."

"You would talk in a different way if I were out of these irons."

"Pardon me, my dear young man, I think I should not. Besides, why should
you trouble about your beard? The sweet charmer is not likely to see
you--though there is pathos about an unshaven chin. Do you think that
she troubles----"

He sipped his wine, and watched Jasper over the rim of his glass.

"I drink Miss Nance's health. She is a clever girl, Mr. Benham. How we
laughed, she and I! It was funny, although so damnably serious."

"Curse you, what do you mean?"

De Rothan regarded him with infinite relish.

"What an honest soul! You really believe that Miss Durrell wanted me at
the end of a rope, and you kneeling romantically at her feet?"

Jasper had nothing adequate to say.

"Nance led you on so cleverly. She sent you off with her blessing to
Darvel's Wood. Dear, honest fool!"

"You need not tell me lies about Miss Durrell."

"I don't, sir, I don't. She was kind to you, was she not? When did the
kindness begin? Ask yourself that. Was it not when you had blundered
like a bumble-bee into our web and seemed likely to give us trouble? Of
course Miss Nance was circumspect. She handled you very cunningly, Mr.
Benham."

"You need not try to make me believe that."

"It would be impossible? Your vanity is too serene and confident? No
woman would have the audacity to treat you like a fool, would she? No,
of course not. It would be impossible. Mr. Jasper Benham is too
dignified and important a person to be played with."

"Make the most of your tongue, sir."

"Really, you refresh me. When our Emperor is in London, I must present
you to him as a unique young man without any sense of humour. You would
amuse the Court. You will continue to amuse my dear Nance when she is a
great lady of the Empire."

"Don't boast too soon."

"I may as well tell you some news. You will not gossip and spread it
abroad. The noble Nelson has been chasing a wild goose instead of your
Lady Hamilton. Villeneuve has tricked him. And in a week or two
Villeneuve will be blowing your Brest ships out of the water. Then we
shall come up Channel, and the Emperor will land in England. It will be
a fine spectacle. I shall enjoy it."

"It may prove a very fine spectacle."

"Ah, you dear English--you think yourselves invincible. Are you better
men than the Germans, the Austrians, or the Russians? Are your country
bumpkins so valiant? Why, our Grand Army will devour you. Think of the
American colonists, think of Burgoyne at Saratoga, and Cornwallis at
Yorktown. We French have had two years of war. We have fought all
Europe. We are veterans, and a nation of soldiers. We shall gallop over
you, hunt you hither and thither with the bayonet."

Jasper lay down on his straw.

"It must be a pleasure to you to talk, Chevalier," he said.

Jasper Benham was reliable, and he believed in the reliability of those
in whom he trusted. De Rothan's clever mockery might exasperate him, but
it did not shake his faith in Nance.

Meanwhile at Stonehanger Nance was strengthening her hold upon her
father. The economics of life would seem to be very delicately balanced
so far as old men were concerned. They may retain their faculties in a
state of fair efficiency so long as no abnormal event interferes with
that sanity that is begotten of old habits. But this equilibrium may
easily be disturbed, and an illness or a great sorrow may age an old man
more in one month than in the ten previous years.

So it seemed to be with Anthony Durrell. The shock of the discovery of
his schemes, and the violent ethical attack made upon him by Nance and
Jeremy appeared to overthrow his normal self. There was a sudden
slackening of all his fibres, both physical and mental. The emotional
part of him, so long smothered and overlaid, broke to the surface as the
intellect lost some of its ascendency. Then--he appeared to become
conscious of the existence of his daughter.

Now Nance had one of those large natures that bears no malice, and is
ready to give of its best when an estranged friend stretches out an
appealing hand. Her father had become to her a weak and pathetic old man
whom the rough virility of younger men shouldered into a corner. She
could not be very sorry for Anthony Durrell without being very tender
toward him.

For some days her father appeared puzzled by a new atmosphere that
enveloped him. Like a man who had been very ill, he was content to sit
and muse and stare at nothing in particular. He had led a very lonely
life, and a selfish one, since the life of a fanatic and a dreamer is
often very selfish. It was now that he felt defeated and feeble that
Nance's nature flooded in upon his consciousness.

She would take his chair into the garden under the shade of one of the
yews, fetch him the books he loved, read to him, talk to him, try to
enter into his thoughts and prejudices. Durrell felt old emotions
stirring in his heart. Some of the old gentleness came back. The harsh,
thin lines melted out of his face.

The change in him was betrayed by the very way he looked at Nance, and
by what he said to her one evening as they sat on the terrace and
watched the sun go down. The sea seemed no longer a strip of ominous
silver across which the immortal dragon of war should swim to scorch up
this green island rich with its yellowing wheat and rolling woods.
Durrell had drifted suddenly into the softer evening lights of fife.

He realised that the girl had had a hard and a lonely life.

"Nance, you must often have been very lonely here."

She looked at him in surprise, but with a kind of compassionate
radiance.

"I have been less lonely these few days, father."

He seemed to reflect upon these words. And perhaps the warm beauty of
the July evening helped the quiet drifting of his thoughts.

"In this life--we make many mistakes."

She nodded as though she understood.

"I used to believe in the efficacy of violence and fear. Curious, in a
man of my habits. I have come to doubt whether the quieter forces are
not more powerful."

She smiled at him.

"People do hate to be driven."

"To be sure."

"It is easier to persuade them, to play the Pied Piper to the world."

He glanced at her with eyes that asked, "Where did you learn this
wisdom?"

And presently he began to speak of De Rothan. It was the first time that
he had mentioned the Chevalier's name since his meeting with Jeremy
Winter. The adventurer had come to rouse in Durrell a feeling of
repulsion. He had allowed himself to realise what manner of man this was
whom he had pretended to call friend.

Nance let him talk, even encouraging him to speak of Jasper Benham.
Jeremy Winter's anxiety had been unable to convince her that this
monstrous piece of kidnapping could be very serious. It was an insolent
attempt to extort terms. That was what Nance believed, not knowing the
abominable and wanton things of which a revengeful man is capable. De
Rothan had not yet taken his change for that rolling in the ditch.

She tried to suggest to Durrell what he should do.

"If the Chevalier de Rothan comes here, father, try and show him how
absurd this is. Jasper and Mr. Winter will let him leave the country.
They will keep silent--for our sakes."

Durrell looked troubled. Since the change in him he distrusted De Rothan
even more than Nance distrusted him.

"This is a difficult man to argue with."

"But what sense is there? Who really believes that the French will
land?"

"My dear, I believed it a week ago."

"But not now----"

"It is possible. De Rothan believes it, or he would have been across the
water many days ago."

She glanced at her father, and realised once more how weak he was. The
one great motive that had inspired him had crumbled away. Even her own
sympathy had helped to sap and to undermine his strength.

Every day Jeremy rode over. He was blunt, laconic, but very courteous to
Anthony Durrell. There were things that troubled him at Rush Heath,
namely, the soothing of Squire Christopher's violent and choleric
curiosity. The old man was bedridden, but he fumed for Jasper. Jeremy
had told lies, that Jasper was away on duty. The whole household had to
be deceived, and Jack Bumpstead kept from gossiping.

But Jeremy had not been able to stand wholly alone. He had been
compelled to take Parson Goffin into his confidence, and by that peppery
gentleman's advice he had enlarged the circle of trust still further.
Certain of Jasper's friends were told the truth. They met at Goffin's,
and held a council of war. The situation seemed absurd, even in its
gravity. A Sussex gentleman kidnapped and held as a hostage in his own
county by a French spy.

Jeremy told Nance all that he had to tell.

"We are having De Rothan's place watched, night and day. They are
burning charcoal in a wood half a mile from the house, and one or two
fellows have joined the charcoal-burners. If we could only collar De
Rothan and his rogues, but they are cunning. They go out singly, and the
fellow Gaston is always in the house."

He smiled grimly over the affair.

"Of course--a night attack would be the thing, after we had laid De
Rothan by the heels. But there's the risk; I don't like taking it. The
scoundrel still rides about as though he were in France. That makes me
feel that he means business, and means to let us know it. He dares us to
interfere."

"But can nothing be done?"

"I have an idea. I will tell it to you in a day or two."



XXXI


Jeremy had not exaggerated when he had said that De Rothan rode about
the country as though he had nothing whatever to fear. His audacity
carried him even into some of the country houses round about, and Jeremy
himself met him in Hastings, riding along the High Street with a groom
at his heels. He bowed to Jeremy and took off his hat.

"Good day to you, sir. I can assure you, in passing, that our mutual
friend is very well."

"Damn your cheek," said Jeremy.

And De Rothan laughed in his face.

Some days elapsed before the Chevalier appeared again at Stonehanger. He
had more desire to see Nance than to warn her father, for Durrell was
becoming a negligible quantity now that the crisis was at hand. De
Rothan was not the man to waste time upon a thing that was no longer of
any use. He had made many shrewd guesses, but he had yet to learn that
Nance herself was arrayed against him.

He found Durrell alone under one of the yews on the terrace. He had been
reading and had fallen asleep with the book open across his knees. He
woke with a start when De Rothan touched him, dropped the book, and
looked up at the Frenchman with a narrowing and mistrustful stare.

"I had no notion you were here, sir. I have not been asleep more than
five minutes."

He was confused, flurried, and De Rothan had quick eyes. He caught the
restless antagonism in the other's manner. Durrell was a little afraid.

De Rothan sat down on the terrace wall, studying Durrell with cynical
and amused eyes.

"So they have been frightening you, have they? Poor friend--poor
comrade!"

Durrell moved restlessly in his chair. He had foreseen this meeting and
had prepared himself for it, yet De Rothan's flippant scorn held him at
a disadvantage.

"I have decided to abandon this enterprise----"

"Did they dangle a rope under your nose? Alas, we have not the blood of
the martyrs in us! That little black-chinned bully has been here with
his tongue and his pistols. He tried his bombast with me, but I had the
adder's head under my heel."

Durrell's face twitched irritably.

"I have not been frightened from my purpose. But I see certain things as
I did not see them before."

"A convenient conscience, eh!"

"I cannot share your methods."

"Indeed! That overwhelms me."

He looked at Durrell with amused contempt.

"So you know that I have compelled Mr. Jasper Benham to be my guest? And
yet you cannot appreciate what a desperate piece of cleverness it was. A
little man comes and storms at you, and instead of holding loyal to me,
you throw up your arms and surrender."

"I have refused to accept your methods."

"Because of a wonderful new affection for this cub of a Sussex squire?
Thunder! I wish you had your girl's courage, and not the heart of a
sheep."

Durrell's eyes began to glitter in his white face.

"It is because of Nance that I have seen fit to renounce you and your
cleverness."

"You overwhelm me! How much does your daughter know?"

"Everything."

"Oh, come, now, come!"

"I said everything."

"And she does not despise you for playing the coward--calling out when
the shoe begins to pinch?"

De Rothan's insolence roused Durrell to a thin and austere dignity.

"Sir, do you think that my daughter admires your idea of honour any more
than I do? Her sympathies are with this young man, concerning whom you
saw fit to tell me many lies."

"Ah--is that so!"

"I have said it. I do not ask your leave to tell the truth."

De Rothan's face seemed to sharpen and to harden its outlines. He looked
at Durrell out of half-closed eyes.

"Let us be frank. Am I to understand that this calf that I have tied up
in a stall is particularly precious to your daughter?"

"I refuse to deal in such terms."

"The devil take all our little nicenesses! Do you mean to tell me that
Nance cares one farthing whether that round-headed young oaf----"

"My daughter is not for your discussion."

De Rothan laughed, but it was the laughter of a man whose self-love felt
savage.

"What a pretty little romance I have been feeding! That I should have
rubbed this young fool on the raw, while sweet Nance pitied him."

Durrell's fingers kept up an agitated rapping on the arms of the chair.

"If you have any sense of honour, De Rothan----"

"Honour! I am packed full of honour. My marrow tingles with it. But you,
Sir Pantaloon, do not understand."

"You are right. I do not understand."

"No, who could expect it. You desert me to play the fond father. It is
very laughable. As if you could not have played the fond father and kept
all your ambitions! Well, Mr. Anthony Durrell, I think there is nothing
left for you but to sit here and wait to see the Emperor land."

"I believe less, sir, in the Emperor than I did."

"A pity! Yet we shall recover from your sudden scepticism. No doubt you
will be happier with your books."

De Rothan rose, and stood looking over Stonehanger Common. His long
mouth curled, and his nostrils were contemptuous. Durrell watched him
uneasily, resentfully, still tapping the chair-rails with his fingers.

"You will release Mr. Benham."

De Rothan turned on him sharply.

"Pardon me--am I so soft a fool! I am not a man who turns back, or who
shirks the holding of an advantage. I have some respect for my own neck,
though I no longer look to you to respect it."

Durrell nodded solemnly.

"No good can come of it. As for this house----"

"Shut the door on me quickly. Lock me out in a great hurry, Mr. Durrell.
I will wish you good morning."

He marched off across the grass, swaggering with stiff shoulders, and
smiling a queer, sidelong smile up at Nance's window. David Barfoot was
holding his horse in the yard. De Rothan glanced at him as though there
were some sudden significance in the thought that the man was deaf.

"Do you sleep well in summer, Mr. David?"

Barfoot stared back at him and said nothing.

In the lane, close to the yew-tree where Jasper had been shot, De Rothan
came right upon Nance and Jeremy Winter. They were climbing the hill
side by side, Jeremy leading his horse by the bridle. The meeting roused
a quick crackle of complex enmities. De Rothan stiffened in the saddle,
and raised his hat to Nance.

She did not look at him, but beyond him, and her face was white frost.
Jeremy bit his lip. There were so many things that he desired to say and
do.

De Rothan smiled in his face as he passed him.

"Good day to you, sir; I may tell our friend that he has a kind relative
who sees that his shoes are kept warm."

"Tell him what you please. It won't matter. Liars are easily known."

"How you would like to argue with me! But I am content with my present
advantages. Good day."

De Rothan rode on, savagely amused. The varied experiences of life had
not made him magnanimous, or tolerant, and cynic that he was he loved
himself like a spoiled and passionate boy. He could not forgive the
snatching away of a thing that he himself desired, his overweening
egotism ruffing itself over the insult.

The most cynical of men are often the worst sensualists, and anything
that balks their appetite rouses the wrath of the animal in them. De
Rothan's hatred of Jasper Benham was natural enough in itself. He had
been meddled with and humiliated by this young man, and De Rothan had no
sentimentality when the stiff-haired anger of a dog was on him. Man of
the world that he was, his cynicism could not save his vanity from being
exasperated by the affair between Nance and Jasper Benham. He might call
it a pinafore romance, and sneer at the crude preferences of a young
girl. His self-love became an angry, snarling, dangerous thing, the more
dangerous because it was clever and could sneer.

"Why not?"

His sullen face gleamed under the light of sudden suggestive thought.
Why not, indeed? There were many ways of humiliating and hurting a man
besides slashing him with a whip.

He roused his horse to a canter, brisked up by the delightful
maliciousness of this new inspiration. He swaggered in the saddle and
assumed a flamboyant jauntiness in passing a coach full of women on the
Hastings road. The preposterous simplicity of the idea made him laugh,
the sly noiseless laughter of a bon viveur enjoying a suggestive story.

"Bravo for the villain! What a queer mix-up of characters we mortals be!
The philosopher crushing the wasp that has stung him. It is the nature
of wasps to sting, therefore a philosopher should not be angry. But
there is a joy in the crushing. And to see the sick black mug of that
little fencing-master! It would be worth it even for that."

De Rothan rode home in great good humour. He left his horse with
François, and went straight to the attic where Jasper was imprisoned.
Gaston opened the door.

Jasper was lying on his straw in the corner, his face turned to the
wall. He sat up when De Rothan entered, his hair over his eyes, a fine
stubble on his upper lip and chin. A man's dignity is apt to go to
pieces under such conditions, showing how greatly he is the slave of his
comb and his razor.

De Rothan eyed him whimsically.

"Very good, Mr. Benham, very good indeed. Work just a little more straw
into your hair. It would be sacrilege to have you washed and barbered."

He gloated, opening his chest, and forcing back his shoulders. Jasper
looked at him stubbornly.

"If it is a question which dog is the dirtier----"

"My good young man, I am a Pharisee of the Pharisees. I make clean the
outside of the cup. Women prefer it. Gaston, come down with me.
Presently you may show Mr. Benham himself in a mirror."

Gaston followed De Rothan to the panelled dining-room. Master and man
were in a good humour with one another.

"Bring the sherry and glasses, Gaston. If you can manage to make our
friend up yonder look a little dirtier and more like an unclean lunatic
I shall be gratified."

He poured out two glasses of wine.

"I expect more visitors, Gaston, my friend. Have two bedrooms got ready,
and see that the locks of the doors are in order."

"More visitors, sir!"

"We are to fetch them to-night, Gaston. I shall want you and François
with me. Jean can stay with the gentleman. He is a surly lad, is Jean.
Tell him to cuff Mr. Benham on the mouth if he tries to talk to him. And
have the horses ready at ten."



XXXII


Nance was awakened that night by the sound of some one walking on the
stone-paved path below her window. She sat up in bed with a fluttering
of the heart, wondering whether the footsteps were the footsteps of her
father, or whether Jeremy had ridden over late with news.

She was about to slip out of bed when she heard voices on the terrace.
There appeared to be several men talking together in undertones. Then
came the crash of glass being broken, as though they were battering in
one of the lower windows.

Nance went cold, her heart drumming, her ears straining to catch the
slightest sound. The smashing of glass had ceased. She heard the voices
again, and then a thud as of a man leaping from a window-sill into one
of the lower rooms.

She told herself that these must be thieves. There was little to steal
in Stonehanger, but even this thought was not altogether comforting. She
knew that some of the country-folk were little better than savages, and
that acts of brutal and even wanton violence were by no means uncommon.
Some of the wild tales she had heard flashed vividly across her
consciousness.

What should she do? Try and join her father? Or would it be better to
lie still and wait, and even pretend to be asleep? She was still
shivering with indecision when she heard the sound of footsteps on the
stairs.

They came up slowly, steadily, with no attempt at concealment. Nance
could see streaks of light showing under her door. The man, whoever he
was, carried a lantern or a candle.

She held her breath when the footsteps turned aside at the landing and
came toward her door. They paused there, and she knew that the man would
be standing within four feet of her bed. With the door open he could
reach in and almost touch her.

Her heart leapt at the sound of a knock, and she had to moisten her lips
before she could speak.

"Who's there?"

"Have nothing to fear. It is the Chevalier de Rothan."

For the moment she felt an irrational rush of gratitude and relief. She
could have embraced the man; he seemed so much less terrible than some
low gipsy or rough footpad. The mere physical fear was appeased for the
moment, but it was to be followed by a dread that was more spiritual and
refined.

"The Chevalier de Rothan?"

"Your very good friend--in spite of many prejudices. Miss Nance, I am
here to secure you and your father. Will you wake him, or shall I?"

She swung her feet out of the bed, and sat with her arms wrapped round
her.

"But what does this mean? Breaking into the house?"

"It means that I am shrewder than you think. I insist upon befriending
you, on placing you somewhere where you will be safe. I must beg you to
rise and dress."

"But still--I do not understand. What right----?"

"It is not necessary that you should understand. I hold myself
responsible. You and Mr. Durrell are coming back with me to my house. I
mistrust your friends. That is sufficient."

There was a confident irony about his masterfulness. She could picture
him standing there with those hard Irish eyes of his smiling at the
door. Her wits groped hither and thither in the darkness, searching for
motives. One thing she realised very vividly, that De Rothan was in a
temper that would not wait to argue.

"But this is ridiculous! You cannot compel us in this way----"

He brushed her words aside.

"I do not explain. In half an hour we leave Stonehanger. You will go
with me, if I have to break down your door and wrap you up in blankets.
I do not desire to use force, so spare me the necessity."

Nance was still groping for his motives, but a fresh drift of thought
obscured the main issue. Out of it emerged a clear spark, shining in the
thick of her bewilderment, the thought that she would be under the same
roof as Jasper Benham, and that she might be able to help Jeremy in his
plans for a release.

"Since you are ready to use force, I do not see how we are to resist
you."

"Sweet Nance, roughness is very far from my desire."

"I will be ready."

She might have seen him smiling at her surrender. He could keep step
with her motives, and visualise her girl's plans even before she had
conceived them.

"Then I will leave you to wake your father."

"Yes."

"I shall wait for you in the hall."

Nance dressed, and went to her father's room. She had to wake him and to
tell him what had happened. Durrell, in the thick of his contemptuous
amazement at De Rothan's audacity, absolutely refused to leave
Stonehanger.

"But, father, what are we to do? We are in the man's power."

"Refuse to do anything."

He persisted in remaining in bed, and Nance had to leave him, and go
down alone into the hall. A lantern stood on the oak chair by the door,
and De Rothan was standing with his back to it. He came forward
gallantly when he saw Nance upon the stairs.

"Nance, you will forgive these highwayman's methods. I cannot help
myself. It is for the best."

He would have taken her hand, but she held aloof, pausing upon one of
the lower steps. His elaborate courtesy repelled her. It was artificial.
The half-amused and half-triumphant glint in his eyes betrayed the real
man.

"Father refuses to leave the house."

"I am sorry. I shall have to persuade him. You will pardon me."

She barred the way.

"No--no roughness; he is an old man."

"You misjudge me; I am not a cut-throat. A few gentle words will serve."

He turned, picked up the lantern, and came back toward the stairs. His
eyes were fixed upon Nance's eyes, and he smiled as he passed her.

"Why will you not do me justice?"

His voice caressed her, and she shrank aside, as though from physical
contact. For the moment a great dread of the man made her wild to
escape, but she steadied herself and remained true to her purpose.

De Rothan walked into Anthony Durrell's room and held the lantern over
the bed.

"Get up, sir, get up. When I offer you my hospitality are you childish
enough to refuse it?"

"I refuse to leave this house."

"Is that so? Then I shall have to take your daughter and leave you
behind."

Durrell started up in bed, vehement and scornful.

"You are an abominable rogue, De Rothan."

"No, sir, I play to make my point. Are you coming with us, or must Nance
and I go alone?"

Durrell rose and began to dress.

Nance was sitting in the half-lit hall. She could see a man standing in
the stone parlour with a lantern in his hand. He was watching her
through the open doorway as though he had been left on guard. Nance was
wondering whether it was possible for her to get at David Barfoot and
leave some message with him for Jeremy Winter. She racked her brains for
some ruse, some excuse.

Why should she not try being boldly frank, and challenge interference?
She rose and walked toward the passage leading into the kitchen, only to
become conscious of some live thing filling the darkness. She recoiled.
Another man was on guard there. She had almost felt his breath upon her
face.

"Pardon, madame, there ees no way heer."

She returned to the hall in time to see the fight of De Rothan's lantern
coming down the stairs. He radiated a triumphant tranquillity, and
smiled at her with whimsical satisfaction.

"Mr. Durrell accepts my hospitality."

"You were able to persuade him?"

"With ease."

In twenty minutes they were in the yard, and De Rothan's men unfastening
the horses. De Rothan had suffered Nance to go up and pack a small
valise. He waited for her and for Anthony Durrell, and bowed them out
into the yard. They had brought two spare mounts, a quiet old nag for
Anthony Durrell, and De Rothan's favourite mare Étoile for Nance.

He hung near to Nance, overshadowing her with his presence.

"We have improvised a saddle for you. Étoile is very quiet. Let me help
you up."

"Thank you--I can----"

"Pardon me, you cannot."

His confident courtesy dominated her, and she did not care to bicker
with him.

"Step into my hand. So."

He lifted her up into the seat that was half pannier, half saddle.
Gaston and François had hoisted Durrell on to the old horse. De Rothan
mounted his own, drew up beside Nance, and took Étoile's bridle. They
rode out under the hollies and laurels and across the little stone
bridge into the lane.

It was a fine night, splendid with stars. The world was black and silent
and breathing in its sleep to the faint drift of a light sea breeze. The
air was fresh and dewy. On Stonehanger Common a wood of birch trees with
their delicate fingers caressed the stars.

De Rothan drew deep breaths.

"A southern night, and full of the smell of adventure. Has the desire to
wander at will over the world ever come to you?"

She mistrusted the intimacy of his mood, and his nearness to her.
Moreover, her thoughts were working against him, planning and scheming
perpetually.

"I am so very sleepy."

She felt that he was looking at her.

"Poor Nance, poor girl. You shall go to bed, and not be worried."

He was silent a moment, and she hated him because he seemed so
confident.

"Mr. Benham will be asleep. But to-morrow we shall have a stupendous
surprise for him. Yes, you shall see him. He will be overwhelmed."

She kept a white and stark reserve.

"You do not thank me! Am I not the kindest of friends? You will find me
even more sympathetic than the little fencing-master with the black
jowl. Besides, I have the fly in amber, and he has not."

Nance yawned behind her hand.

"You have a wonderful imagination, Chevalier."

He leaned over and stroked the mare's neck.

"Étoile, you are carrying the Queen of Hearts to-night. She is very
proud, my child. She twists her mouth at your master."

It was two in the morning when they reached the Brick House. There were
candles burning and supper set out in the oak dining-room. De Rothan was
grandiloquent and gracious. He bowed them in as though he put the whole
house at their service.

Durrell was morose and bitter, and Nance tired. Neither wine nor food
was welcome. Distraught and restless, they avoided each other's eyes.

De Rothan called for candles.

"Mr. Durrell, I will show you and your daughter to your rooms."

Their rooms were on the first floor, but not next to one another. De
Rothan gave Nance her candle and threw open the door for her.

"Good night, Miss Nance. There is a little bell within. Ring it if you
should desire anything."

He turned back to show Anthony Durrell to his room.

Nance was standing looking about her at the mahogany furniture, the gay
chintzes, the carved low-post bed. She put the candle down, opened the
window, and looked out. Garden ground seemed to lie some fifteen feet
below; it was all black, but she saw something that glimmered like
water. She was still standing there when she heard the key turned in the
lock of her door. Footsteps died away down the passage. She realised
that she was a prisoner.

It was still early when Tom Stook came lumbering on his long shanks to
Rush Heath Hall. He asked for Mr. Jeremy, and Jeremy came out to him on
the grass before the house.

"He have gone and stole the young leddy and her father."

"What, man, what?"

"They be at t' Brick House. De Rothan brought 'en back from Stonehanger
two hours after midnight."

Jeremy swore a big oath.

"Caught napping--by God!"



XXXIII


Jeremy sent Tom Stook back to lie in Yew-Tree Wood and watch De Rothan's
house. He himself snapped up a brisk breakfast, mounted his horse, and
rode straight to Stonehanger.

Here he found David Barfoot in mighty perplexity and distress, and
looking like an old man who had been robbed of all his savings in the
night. The whole matter was a mystery to him, especially the smashed
window in the parlour. He nearly danced before Jeremy, and began to
shout the news at him.

"Kidnapped or murdered, sir, and me asleep like a pig!"

Winter had learned to speak so that David could understand him. It was a
question of very distinct lip movements, deliberation, and the use of
simple and familiar words.

"Kidnapped they have been, David, but not murdered. The Chevalier de
Rothan is guilty of this."

"The tarrifying villain! He be'unt fur doing Miss Nance any wrong?"

"He had better not, David. We have got to see to that."

"God bless me--sure."

"I want you to help."

"I'll take my holly cudgel, and crack t' Frenchman's head."

Jeremy smiled grimly. He liked that kind of wrath.

"Hold up, David, that would not do at all. We have got a rotten plank to
walk on and if we are too heavy it may break and let us down. Listen to
me now. I have got something to trust you with."

Winter told him the truth about Stonehanger, and also how De Rothan held
Jasper Benham a prisoner. David's eyes grew more and more astonished as
he picked up these amazing facts from Jeremy's lips.

"Mr. Durrell in wid t' French! Bother my bones--I'm fair beat!"

"He's in with them no longer, David. We have got to outwit this rogue of
a Frenchman. I want you to help us."

"Sure."

"I want you to go to the Brick House. Be as innocent as a lamb, and try
to get a few words with your mistress. Tell her I know what has
happened, that De Rothan's house is being watched, and that if she can
help us from the inside, so much the better. Ask her to tell you which
is the window of her room, and that three blinks of a candle or a
lantern at night will stand for a signal."

David scratched his beard.

"Maybe they'll not be fur letting me see her."

"That's certain. You have got to fox them if you can."

"Sure."

"You'll find me at the Queen's Head, Sedlescombe."

"I'll lock up t' house and go this very hour."

David, like many a quiet and rather dour old man, had had his adventures
as a youngster. Orchard-raiding, smuggling, poaching, had all come
easily, and he had retained that primitive rustic cunning that is never
wholly lost despite a bent back and the Bible. Jeremy had told him of
the charcoal-burners in Yew-Tree Wood and of Tom Stook lying in ambush
like a great lean hound. David knew Tom Stook, and Tom Stook knew David.
They were dogs who had poached and ratted together.

David made for Yew-Tree Wood that morning, and found Tom Stook lying
along the limb of an oak with a bottle under his chin, for it was July
and hot weather. They gave and received explanations, grinning solemnly
at each other under the shade of the trees.

"De Rothan be gone Guestling way."

"Sure?"

"I saw him go out on his nag. To get a word wid t' lady--be that it?"

"Ay."

"It be'unt safe to whack in and fight 'em. Mr. Winter he be sly. I've
seed her at her window."

"Have ye?"

"At t' back o' t' house. Sure, Dave, ain't Farmer Cross's bull bruk out
o' t' meadow, gored Will Gray, and come rampin' down yonder?"

David looked at Tom Stook and grinned. It was amazing how well he could
hear the vernacular on occasions.

"Sine--and t' beast be blood mad!"

"We be after him."

"Runnin' five mile!"

"And t' brute be tarrifyin' t' whole country----"

"Sure."

"We seed him go down into t' Brick House meadows."

They cut hazel-sticks and started off on this yokel's game, running
heavily and clumsily after the fashion of hobnailed countrymen. They
made straight toward the Brick House, scrambling through hedges,
flourishing their sticks, and shouting to imaginary comrades.

"He be down yonder, Dave."

"Sure."

"I saw him break into t' garden."

They pounded on, sweating, shouting, flourishing their sticks. A head
appeared at an upper window, and then disappeared. David and Tom Stook
blundered through into the Brick House garden. A man came running round
the corner of the house, a pistol in his pocket, and his hand on the
butt thereof.

Stook bawled at him.

"T' mad bull, man, have ye seen him?"

The Frenchman stared, watchful and suspicious.

"I see no bull."

Stook carried it through. He looked broiled and boisterous, the heated
hero of a five-mile run.

"He bruk through t' hedge here. He be blood mad."

He blundered on, and the Frenchman seemed caught by his hairy and
vigorous enthusiasm. They ran round the house together, David remaining
behind. He had seen someone come to an upper window.

"Miss Nance, we be after ye----"

Nance was looking down at him.

"David! Oh, be careful!"

"I know, miss. Mr. Winter has his eyes open. Be that your window?"

She nodded.

"There is a great cistern full of water under it, David. I thought I
might have let myself down."

He stole up, and glimpsed a big brick tank into which all the rain-water
was guttered from the roof. Trying it with his hazel stick he found he
could not reach the bottom. And it was directly under Nance's window.

"Drat 'em. Don't ye fear, Miss Nance, we be on the watch. Three glints
of a lantern on t' hillside or three glints o' t' candle in your window
will serve as a signal."

"Yes, David."

"I'd better be after that there bull!"

He ran on and overtook Tom Stook and the Frenchman who were on the edge
of the paddock. Stook was scratching a hot head and looking puzzled.

"Damn t' beast, Dave. He be gone along t' bottom. I could have swore be
bruk into t' garden."

"Get on then, man----"

"I be that dry----"

"God badger t' drink. He'll be goring some other body. Run, Tom, run."

They ran, breathing hard, and pounding the grass with their heavy boots.
The Frenchman stood and stared. They were just lumbering, red-faced
yokels so far as he was concerned, and he believed contemptuously in the
existence of the bull. The bovine seriousness, and especially Tom
Stook's thirst, had convinced him of their stolid, sweating sincerity.

No more was heard of the mad bull, though Jasper had heard the shouts of
the two men as they ran down through the fields. The window had been
jammed by Gaston's broad figure. Then Gaston had hurried away, locking
the door after him.

De Rothan had been to Rye, and since there were folk of French
extraction in Rye town, and money was as useful there as anywhere, De
Rothan had long ago been able to assure himself of a friend or two among
the smuggling, seafaring folk. De Rothan had discovered a man who would
have sold King George and both Houses of Parliament for a bag of
guineas. The man who served him was the working owner of a fishing boat,
and one of the most noisy of the Rye patriots. His boat had even been
used as one of the coast patrols between Rye and Hastings, so that the
fellow was in a position to be very useful to De Rothan.

De Rothan and the Rye man had met as though by chance on the flats
between Rye and Winchelsea. They had stopped and gossiped under a
thorn-tree by one of the dikes, De Rothan on his horse, concealed by no
attempt at concealment. The Rye man had gone home with gold pieces tied
up in a red handkerchief, and De Rothan had ridden back by way of
Guestling and Westfield to the Brick House.

He was told of the incident of the mad bull, and smiled over it. None of
De Rothan's French servants knew that David Barfoot had seized a chance
of speaking to Nance Durrell.

Dinner was laid for three, and De Rothan, with the keys of the two
bedrooms in his pocket, went up to release his two guests and to bring
them down to dine. He opened Durrell's door and found the scholar
reading by the window.

"Mr. Anthony, I consider your safety to be so important that I have
taken the liberty of keeping your door locked. We will conduct your
daughter down to dinner."

Durrell said nothing. He put his book aside, and joined De Rothan in the
gallery outside Nance's door.

"Miss Nance, your father and I wait for you to dine with us."

They descended to the panelled room. The man François waited at table,
Nance and her father sitting opposite each other, De Rothan taking the
head. The conversation was largely a monologue on his part, a pretence
at making an ambiguous situation seem natural and honest.

"I cannot help wishing that Mr. Benham were with us; the party would be
complete. But Mr. Benham is disinclined to leave his room. He even
seemed angry when I told him that you were here."

Nance stared at the bowl of roses in front of her. Anthony Durrell
glanced slantwise at De Rothan. His enmity was austere and solemn.

"I may eat your food, Chevalier, but I do not touch your hypocrisy."

"That is a fanatical and rather illogical temper. You do not like my
wine, sir, and yet you drink it!"

"I eat to live, but I do not live to lie."

His angry sententiousness amused De Rothan.

"Leave the little moral problems at the bottom of your glass, Mr.
Anthony. Why, a month ago you were not so particular. Besides, François
here understands English. We need not hang our prejudices out to dry
before our servants."

The rest of the meal dragged through in silence. Nance, sitting with
downcast eyes, heard De Rothan proposing a walk in the garden.

"I must find you some sweet corner, Miss Nance, where you can dabble
your hands among flowers. I am not forgetting that you may like to take
a posy up to Mr. Benham."

His ironical good humour troubled her. The garden was a garden of
clipped yews, brick paths, and rank green grass, but Nance and her
father were distraught and restless, moving and speaking as though under
compulsion. Nance had a vague hope that Jeremy might leap up from
somewhere, and that De Rothan's cunningly balanced house of cards might
come tumbling about his head. But he seemed gay and debonair, inspired
by a mischievous and cynical courtesy that bubbled over into
playfulness.

"Will you not gather some flowers for Mr. Benham?"

Nance was too much in earnest to be able to match his flippant irony.

"No? You will not? And yet in half an hour or so we are going to pay
this youngster a visit. It was a promise, was it not? I always keep my
promises."

His voice made Nance afraid, it was so callous and so confident.

"When shall I see Mr. Benham?"

"Now, if you like."

She gave De Rothan a puzzled and mistrustful look. What was he trying to
bring about? What were his motives?

"As you please."

"Come, then. Mr. Durrell, we will leave you for a few minutes."

Durrell looked fixedly at De Rothan.

"Chevalier----"

De Rothan guessed what his thoughts were and what he wished to say. He
bowed to the father, and then to Nance.

"Sir, your whole attitude is one of unjustified distrust. I love my
friends--if I hate my enemies. Miss Nance is far safer in my house than
if she were at Stonehanger."

Durrell blinked self-consciously under frowning eyebrows.

"I wish to take you at your word, De Rothan."

"Follow your inclinations, my good friend. Miss Nance, are you afraid to
follow me into my own house?"

She looked at him steadily, feeling that it was necessary that she
should show no fear.

"No."

"That is good. Come."

She was struck by the intent, shrewd, but half-mocking look he gave her.



XXXIV


De Rothan led Nance to the attic story of the Brick House, talking all
the while with a gay and railing vivacity that sharpened the edge of her
feeling of suspense.

"Mr. Benham is so valuable to me that I have to lodge him high up near
the gods. You may find him a little moody. It seems, too, that a certain
display of dirt and disorder helps him to maintain an attitude of
resentment and independence. Have you ever heard of pride refusing soap
and water?"

She felt that there was an abominable cleverness about this man that
might succeed in turning her finer instincts into ridicule. It was the
old trick of throwing some evil-smelling stuff over a man's coat just as
he was about to meet the woman of his desire. It might be contemptible
and sordid, but the taint lingered and offended the senses.

They, passed along the gallery and stopped before a stout oak door. De
Rothan knocked gently.

The man Gaston was within, and he appeared to fling the door open with
studied suddenness, showing Jasper Benham sprawling on his bed of straw.
He was asleep and snoring, head hanging back over a rough bolster
stuffed with straw, his face flaccid and vacant, his shirt open at the
throat. That one glimpse of him was a shock to Nance. De Rothan had come
near persuading her to be disgusted.

Gaston went out, closing the door, while De Rothan walked across to
Jasper and stood looking down at him with pleased vindictiveness.

"Mr. Benham--sir, wake up; here is a lady to see you. You see how he
sleeps, Miss Nance, this fat young Sussex ox. Wake up, sir, wake up."

He touched Jasper with his foot, and Jasper woke up, snarling.

"Curse you! Let me alone!"

"Mr. Benham, here is a friend to see you."

Jasper sat up and caught sight of Nance. His face showed utter
astonishment, nor was it lovely to look upon with its sprouting beard,
uncombed hair, and streakings of dirt. His irons made a ridiculous
jangling. There was much in the picture to provoke laughter and pity.

"Mr. Benham, do you not recognise the lady?"

Jasper did not look at De Rothan. The sudden heat of his angry
humiliation was too bitter and too fierce in him. His eyes fixed
themselves on Nance's shoes; nor had he a word to say.

"Come, Mr. Benham, come--are you not pleased?"

There was a sneer in De Rothan's voice, and it stung Nance to the quick.
A sudden great pity carried her away. Jasper was humbled before her and
before his enemy, and this shame of his transfigured all that was
uncouth and ridiculous. It was she who felt humiliated and sneered at.

She turned on De Rothan.

"I understand now. I did not understand before."

He shrugged his shoulders, but the scorn and anger in her eyes stung
him.

"My child, this is what we call romance. You do not seem to appreciate
the opportunities I am giving you. No mere humdrum, thread-and-needle
experiences----"

She regarded him steadily, thoughtfully, and then turned to Jasper.

"It sounds so empty to say that I am sorry."

Her voice made him look up. It seemed to uplift his courage and his
pride, and to rescue him from the foolish squalor of his surroundings.

"Don't worry about me, Nance. It comes of my own conceit. But why are
you here?"

Her eyes shone angrily.

"Because, like you, I have been kidnapped."

"You, too!"

"Yes, and I know everything."

Jasper met De Rothan's eyes, and De Rothan smiled at him.

"If circumstances admitted it, my dear young people, I would leave you
alone together. But----"

Nance ignored him.

"Jasper, it makes me burn with anger----"

His eyes no longer shirked hers, and even his grime and his uncouthness
heightened the tragic note that she persisted in hearing.

"I treated our friend here as a gentleman. It was foolish of me.
Chevalier, I never ought to have let you out of that ditch."

De Rothan jerked a laugh, and Nance's eyes flashed to Jasper's. They
said, "Well done, throw your scorn in his face."

He showed her his chained wrists.

"Pretty things, these, as the result of an affair of honour. Do you
know, Nance, he had his men hidden in Darvel's Wood to pelt me with
stones so that I should not hurt him."

She gave a dry little laugh, and glanced at De Rothan.

"That was very brave and honourable."

His sudden arrogance showed that he was growing out of patience with
their scorn.

"Miss Nance, you have not the sense yet to know men, and the ways of
men. If you were only five years older, and if you had been married to
Mr. Benham here for five years, I should have had more hope of you.
Still, it may be good for you both to remember that I am the man in
power."

Jasper eyed him meaningly.

"You can be as insolent to me as you please, but----"

"Mr. Benham, let us have no fool's bellowing. I say what I please, even
to a woman. I have brought you two together to see how weak in the head
my poor Nance here might, be. It is a bad case, but I shall cure her.
Gaston, you can come in."

The man entered, smothering a grin.

"Now, my most sweet lady----"

He shepherded Nance out with a sweep of the arm, but she went slowly,
holding her pride aloof, and giving Jasper a look that he could
treasure.

Nance went to her room, De Rothan following her to the door, and bowing
as she entered. She heard the key turned in the lock, and then De
Rothan's footsteps dying away down the stairs.

Nance went to the window, and, leaning her elbows on the sill, looked
across toward the oak wood on the hill to the west of the house. What
was De Rothan's ultimate desire with regard to her, and did he believe
in the crushing of England by Napoleon's army of invasion? Supposing
this should happen, what would become of them all? She saw not only
herself, but Jasper and her father at the mercy of a man who would be in
a position to satisfy any vindictive whim or passion.

Nance had travelled beyond mere amazement. Incredible things had
happened, and were happening. Even the seemingly quiet life that her
father had led all these years had been but the fitting-out of the ship
of adventure. Monotony indeed! The prudish stolidity of English life!
And yet there were people who lived as though all the world was a
comfortable breakfast-table, little people who dabbled with their
teaspoons, and for whom time was spaced out by a change of underclothing
and the donning of a Sunday hat.

Nance kept asking herself, "What is Jeremy Winter doing?" For Jeremy
seemed their one hope, the one man capable of dealing with this devil of
a Frenchman. She knew that Jeremy had to be sly and cautious, yet this
very cautiousness had begun to try her patience. She wanted things to
happen, quickly and even violently. She wanted Jasper freed, and De
Rothan confounded. The suspense would be intolerable, with this man
holding her at his mercy.

Meanwhile De Rothan had rejoined Durrell in the garden--Durrell, whose
face carried an expression of resentful bewilderment. He was so little
of a man of action that he was still gaping at the events of the
previous night. The whole adventure would be over and done with before
he had decided what part he ought to play.

De Rothan twitted him maliciously.

"Come, come, friend Durrell, put away that grieved look. I have all
these people in the hollow of my hand, and for the glory of La Belle
France, and Liberty. A month ago you would have been patting me on the
shoulder."

Durrell looked at him with an old man's thin distrust.

"Yes, but what are your plans?"

"Why, to pick up some of these fine English estates, to live as one of
the grandees of the Empire, to marry and found a family!"

"That is all very magnificent, but----"

"Men of courage are ready to meet the 'buts' of life. A general has his
line of retreat as well as his line of advance. You will not object to
joining me if I have to return to France!"

"What do you mean?"

"If we are foiled I shall not leave you behind to be hanged. I am too
good a comrade. I shall take you and Nance back with me to France."

Durrell stood open-mouthed, staring, and De Rothan smiled at his amazed
face.

"The idea surprises you! You are struck by it, eh?"

"De Rothan, I have had enough of this monstrous fooling."

"Will it be fooling if I marry your daughter?"

"Sir?"

"Save your emotions."

"You think you can marry Nance!"

"There are three reasons why I should marry her. Because I desire to,
because she does not desire me to, and because Mr. Jasper Benham will be
struck across the face. Motives indeed! Our motives in life are
curiously complex. I love complexities, entanglements, quarrels. Am I a
man for a tame hare? Psst! Durrell, if a woman provokes me I like her
all the better."

Durrell stared at him in impotent indignation.

"You are beyond me, De Rothan, and yet not beyond me."

"Indeed, I should not have to go far! What time is it? I think I shall
have to request you to be locked up in your room."

That night Nance watched at her window, sitting there in the darkness
with a cloak over her shoulders. She had heard De Rothan pass along the
gallery, pause outside her door, and then walk on toward his room. When
the dusk fell she had managed to push an oak chest against the door so
that no one could force their way in without waking her if she were
asleep.

The house seemed very silent, and the summer night was a noiseless
glitter of stars. Now and again she heard the faint splashing of water
as frogs leapt in the great rain-water cistern below her window.

It was past midnight when Nance saw a glimmer out in the woods on the
opposite hillside. It moved to and fro three times, and then
disappeared. Nance had brought a tinder-box with her, and a candle stood
on the little table at her elbow. It took her some time to get a light,
but she managed it and moved the candle to and fro three times across
the window. Then she blew it out and sat down to wait.

A quarter of an hour passed before she heard a faint splash in the water
below. She leaned out of the window and stared down into the darkness,
to see nothing but vague outlines and an uncertain glimmering of water.
Then something moved, close to the wall. A whisper came up to her out of
the darkness.

"Nance----"

She leaned out and curved her hands about her mouth as though to confine
her voice and throw it down to the man below.

"Who is it?"

"Jeremy."

She shivered with excitement.

"Oh, I'm glad, so glad."

"Not too fast, child. Where is Jasper? Do you know anything?"

"They have him in irons in one of the attics."

"Irons! Damn them!"

"I am locked into my room and father into his. A man seems to sleep in
the same attic as Jasper."

Jeremy was silent a moment.

"Cunning rogues. Ssh! Nance, could you let down a cord or anything, a
couple of sheets tied together?"

"Are you coming in?"

"No, no, not this time. Listen. Do you know what opium is?"

"Yes."

"Then let down a line. Here's a packet of poppy-powder."

Nance went to the bed, stripped the sheets off, tied them together, and
let the rope out of the window. The lower end dangled itself in the
water of the cistern.

"Jerk it to one side----"

She tried several times before Jeremy managed to catch the wet sheet on
the end of a stick. He fastened the packet to the dry part of the sheet.

"Right, Nance. Do you think you can manage to get this stuff into the
wine--De Rothan's wine?"

"I'll try. Would it kill him?"

"No, there's not enough for that. If we could get him drugged, we could
deal with the others. Try the trick to-morrow evening. We shall be on
the watch in the wood. If you succeed, signal with your candle."

Nance had pulled up the sheets, and had the packet in her hands.

"Is there no other way, Jeremy?"

"We will try this. Are you afraid?"

"Yes--and no. No--not for Jasper's sake."

"Good. No more risks to-night. And, Nance?"

"Yes."

"If anything bad should happen, call, shout, someone will be within
hearing. We should break in and chance the rest. See?"

"Yes."

"Good night, child."

"Good night, Jeremy, good night."



XXXV


Parson Goffin came cantering up to Rush Heath House, his face radiant,
his nag's coat shining with sweat. The parson's face glowed, and he was
in magnificent good humour. Bumpers of exultation, and of far stronger
drink, had been tossed down the throats of many Sussex worthies that
morning. The powder on his coat and waistcoat showed that Mr. Goffin had
been taking snuff with feverish exhilaration.

He pulled up in front of the house, waving his hat, and shouting.

"Hallo, there, Squire--Jeremy--three cheers for old England."

Squire Kit was asleep, but Jeremy came out like a boy out of school.

"Hallo, hallo, what news?"

"Villeneuve has been caught and plucked. Hoorah, sir, hoorah, no damned
French fleet in the Channel."

"By George, Goffin!"

"The news had just come into Rye. I was in Hastings early, but, good
Lord, one never hears anything but old women's gossip in Hastings!
Calder fell in with Villeneuve off Ferrol. He had fifteen ships to
twenty, but he went in and hammered at him. No great victory, sir, but
he has kept Villeneuve from Brest and from the Channel."

Jeremy snapped his fingers.

"Sing old Rose, and burn the bellows! Good, by George--for England."

"Villeneuve got away into Ferrol, but he's there, sir, and not off
Boulogne. And some of them are cursing Calder for not doing better. Why,
damn 'em, he has stopped the Frenchman's rush. It's all up with him for
a dash on the Straits of Dover. And I'll wager that Nelson is not very
far from the coast of Spain."

He blew, perspired, and exulted.

"A drink, Jeremy, my man, my pulpit for a drink. Here's to old England!"

"Pots will have a busy day. Hi, Jack, Sue, Marjorie, here--all of
you--run, now, fill up the brown jugs. The French have had one on the
nose, and are stopping to think it over! Run, you beggars, kisses all
round for the wenches. Toss the brown ale down and be merry."

Jeremy took the news and a jug of ale to Squire Christopher.

"Villeneuve has been headed out of the Channel, sir."

"Murder my soul, Jerry, news--that's news. Let all the apothecaries go
to blazes. Give me a drink, man; the jug will do. Here's to the roast
beef. We'll soon have lad Jasper home, eh?"

Jeremy kept a stolid face.

"Count on that, Kit; we'll soon have the lad home."

But he went down to join Goffin, with a grim mouth and thoughtful eyes.

"This is good for the country, Goffin, but over yonder it may mean
something dangerous. And here is Kit calling out for the lad----"

Goffin emptied his mug for the third time.

"The game is up for the scoundrel. He knows it by now."

"Yes. He hears things quickly enough, but you don't know this sort of
man, Goffin. You have never come across the breed. I have. A bit of
Irish and a bit of French, and a kind of pleasant cynical villainy
thrown in. He is the stage rogue off the stage--to the last insolent
cock of the rapier. Yet he's no mere actor man in a black doublet and a
plumed hat. He'd pistol you before you could say pat, if it were worth
his while to do it."

"The linen sounds too dirty, Jeremy! He will make off across the water."

"Yes, and take the girl with him. And perhaps stick a knife into Jasper
before he goes."

"Poof, sir, you make the man a monster. I'll not believe it. Your
adventures in Spain----"

Jeremy smiled a rather hard smile.

"Good sir, tell me, I have seen the savage, and the passionate side of
life--I have. Blood and steel! Good Lord, Goffin; these things are real;
they aren't bits of wood and cups of cheap wine. Men lust, and stab, and
shoot. They do; I assure you. I suppose it has been so peaceful over the
water----"

Goffin grunted.

"Well, what are we wasting precious time for, sir?"

"Ask the impossible monster! I am not going to waste time. I am going to
get our men together and draw a leaguer about De Rothan's place. We
shall use craft if we can. It will be safer for the girl and for
Jasper."

Jeremy was in the saddle before the day was half an hour older. He knew
that the news of Villeneuve's defeat would be serious news to De Rothan,
and that it would go far toward making him a desperate man. The climax
that he had schemed and waited for had vanished. There might still be a
vague chance of Villeneuve sailing out of Ferrol and trying to fight his
way into the Channel, but Jeremy, unlike the scaremongers, was well
content with things as they were. Villeneuve had not shown himself to be
the man for a great enterprise. The haunting and inexorable genius of
Nelson dogged him, casting a premonition of disaster over the
Frenchman's mind.

Jeremy rode out to gather in Jasper's friends. He called up John
Steyning, of Catsfield, and young Parsloe, of the "Black Horse," and
told each of them to bring two or three sturdy men. The meeting-place
was to be the "Queen's Head" Inn at Sedlescombe. They were to gather
there unostentatiously, as though it were a matter of chance. Jeremy
himself rode on to Hastings. He had an old friend quartered there as
surgeon to the troops, Surgeon Stott, a one-eyed, bronze-headed vulture
of a man, fierce of beak and skinny of neck, and with language enough to
satisfy Satan. But Stott was a shrewd and steady surgeon with a quick
hand and a cool head. He could keep his mouth shut, and bring down a
partridge with a pistol-bullet.

Stott was an oddity, and Jeremy found him in a little back room of one
of the Hastings inns, brewing a bowl of punch. He was tasting the stuff,
with the ladle under his hooked nose, when Jeremy entered.

"What, Jeremy--you devil!"

"Punch at this time of day! Empty it out of the window, sir. I am taking
you out on an adventure."

"A fight, eh? I'm game. Instruments or pistols, or both? By George, sir,
I feel in a mood to cut off ten legs in as many minutes."

Jeremy sat down and told him the whole tale.

"So it is not a matter of leg-cutting, Stott."

"No, a quick shot with a pistol, and no pomposity, eh! Shoot the rogue
first, and explain afterward."

"We've got to be careful, Stott. He is as touchy on the trigger as you
are. Have you got a horse of your own?"

"Yes."

"Then come along. We can talk on the road."

By four o'clock Jeremy's party had gathered at the Sedlescombe inn.
Jeremy's opinion of the landlord proved sage and astute. The man did not
even look inquisitive. He had a private room at the gentlemen's service,
and never blinked an eyelid when seven or eight sturdy yokels who were
strangers in the village came scraping their hobnails in his brick-paved
parlour. Parson Goffin turned up with pistols in his coat-tail pockets,
and ready to drink and hobnob with Steyning, young Parsloe, Jeremy, and
Surgeon Stott. Tom Stook and David Barfoot with three or four steady men
were lying in the woods and ditches about the Brick House, keeping
watch.

Jeremy and his friends played bowls on the "Queen's Head" green, and
dined together in the private room, the landlord waiting on them in
person. Over their long pipes Jeremy elaborated his plan of campaign.
They were to surround De Rothan's house that night on the chance that
Nance Durrell might be able to set the spell working within. This scheme
failing them, Jeremy proposed that they should break into De Rothan's
stables, make off with his horse-flesh, and see whether some such
argument could not bring him to reason.

Jeremy had pictured De Rothan as a desperate man, and if there is
anything in the saying that a man's temper can give him a black face,
then De Rothan was in some such desperate temper. He had ridden out very
early in the direction of Guestling and the sea, and Tom Stook, lying in
a dry ditch and peering through the hedge-bottom, saw him return. His
horse shied where the grass lane turned in from the by-road, and
something ominous about the incident seemed to set a spark to De
Rothan's black anger. He beat the horse about the head with his fist,
and then sawed at the bit till the beast's mouth bled.

Stook was no lamb, but De Rothan's savagery angered him.

"You tarrifyin' devil! Someone may be giving you a bloody mouth before
long."

The first person whom De Rothan spoke with at the Brick House was the
man Gaston. François had taken Gaston's place for an hour, and the
elder man was stretching his legs in the garden. He knew the various
expressions of De Rothan's face as well as a shepherd knows the face of
the sky. There was thunder about, and the horizon looked ominous.

De Rothan's horse was still quivering with fright. Gaston took the
bridle, and waited stolidly for orders.

"Thunder, don't stare at me, man, like that! This morning I have heard
the name of a coward. Villeneuve has wrecked us, if he has been careful
of his fleet."

"Villeneuve, monsieur!"

"The heart of a chicken! That the Emperor should have trusted such a
man! I heard the news at Rye. Maybe you have heard bells ringing. One
night more here, and then for France."

Gaston was about to lead the horse round to the stable, but De Rothan
stopped him.

"No, no, I know these yokels are on the watch. If they were to break
into the stable and snap up our horses we should be badly placed. The
hall can serve as a stable to-night. Have a few staples knocked into the
wainscoting and bring all the beasts in. Men and horses all under one
roof."

Gaston nodded.

"What of the young man, monsieur?"

"We will use him till the last moment, and he will be useful, even then.
Come here, Gaston. Some things must be spoken quietly."

They stood close together, Gaston intent and swarthy, stolidly ready to
follow the adventure through. Once or twice he blinked his eyes at De
Rothan as though astonished.

"Madame goes with us, monsieur?"

"I have said as much."

"And the young man, monsieur! Are we to leave him chained up like an ox
in a stall?"

"Growing soft at heart, Gaston? I have no pity for people who get in my
way. Besides, the trick will keep his good friends busy, and we shall
have to snatch our time. I agreed with Martin this very morning. It will
be high water at midnight to-morrow. He will run close in at Pett Level
and take us off."

"Then I will see to the horses, monsieur."

"Yes, now, at once. Then we will dine. I will go and warn Miss Durrell
and her father."

Nance was sitting at her window when she heard De Rothan's footsteps in
the gallery. The sound stirred the secret purpose of her suspense. All
day she had been thinking over Jeremy's plan, and it seemed so
impossible, so much like a trick out of an old play.

De Rothan knocked at her door.

"Nance, we dine in an hour."

"Yes."

"I will be here at your door to give you an arm."

She heard him go on to her father's room and knock. Their voices sounded
harsh and quarrelsome. For comfort she gazed out toward the oak wood on
the slope of the hill where Jeremy's watchers were hidden. She was
almost angry with Jeremy for putting such a weapon into her hands. What
chance had she to use it, and why did they thrust the responsibility
upon a woman?

She heard De Rothan repass her door. He was humming that song that the
royalists had sung so gallantly and so fatefully at Versailles: "_O,
Richard, O mon roi, si l'univers t'abandon_----"

A feeling of helplessness possessed her. She rested her forehead on her
crossed wrists and tried to think of something she could do.



XXXVI


Nance heard the sound of hammering below, and it connected itself in her
mind with some vague idea that the house was being barricaded against
attack. She was still leaning her crossed arms on the window-sill when
she heard De Rothan's knock.

She went out to him with Jeremy's packet hidden under her bodice. She
had torn off the sealed end and just folded the paper over so that the
powder could be emptied out quickly.

There was a gaiety about De Rothan that baffled her. It was not unlike
the insolent sprightliness of an aristocrat passing to the guillotine.

"Your father refuses to dine with us to-night."

"He is not ill?"

"Only in temper. You will not grudge me a little kindness."

"No. Besides, I am hungry."

He laughed, and offered her his arm.

"Let us be honest. Even heroines have to eat and drink and wash their
faces. It is monstrous nonsense, all this romance and all this
glorifying of women. A boy adores indiscriminately, a man chooses the
least offensive necessity. That is the difference between a boy's love
and a man's."

As they descended the oak stairway, François came in from the porch
with a horse following at the end of a halter. The beast followed him
quietly enough, though its hoofs made a rare racket on the oak
floor-boards of the hall. The unexpectedness of it made Nance falter.

"Nothing but a horse, _ma chère._"

"It startled me."

"You tremble. You are not made to be an adventurous heroine, to do
wonderful and absurd things, climb down ropes, and hold villains at the
point of a pistol. We are asking our horses to dine with us, that is
all. Now, tell me frankly, how do you like adventure?"

"I don't like it at all."

"No, of course not. It is abominably uncomfortable, but people will have
it that it is fine and exciting--to read about."

The man Jean waited on them at table, while François went in and out of
the big hall bringing the horses in from the stable and fastening them
to the staples that had been driven into the wainscoting. Nance's place
was at the lower end of the oak table, where the light from the window
fell upon her face. De Rothan sat well back in his chair, watching her
and keeping up a whimsical monologue.

"Why the old chivalry folk glorified you women, Nance, I do not know. I
have had experience, and I have never come across a woman who was not a
fool. Wonderful creatures, eh--all cream and roses and starry eyes and
tenderness and purity! Just because of something that is called a
petticoat. And Mr. Benham thinks you the most wonderful young woman in
the whole world! Now, I do not. And since a man cannot get on without a
woman, he makes the best of a bad bargain."

She felt that he was laughing at her, and yet there was something
vindictive and passionate behind it.

"You are too clever for me, Chevalier."

"No doubt I am. We have nothing to do with a woman's brains--God help
them. But we are not all brain. That is the tragedy."

She met his eyes and hated them for their sudden animal frankness. It
was probable that for the moment this rather sentimental girl understood
De Rothan and the type of manhood that he represented, a manhood that
could be passionate and unscrupulous, and yet could despise itself for
being passionate. "To fret oneself about this schoolgirl!"--that was
what he was saying to himself.

Nance shrank into herself, and thought of Jasper, without realising that
De Rothan was in many ways the finer man. He was a well-polished rogue,
and had done, many clever things in his time. Jasper Benham would be
remarkable mainly as the father of a family. But Nance's thoughts did
not run in this direction.

Jean had been dismissed by De Rothan. He reappeared at the door and said
something in French. De Rothan pushed his chair back and rose.

"Miss Nance, you will pardon me?"

She felt her face crimsoning as she saw her opportunity rushing upon
her.

"Yes."

He went out, closing the door after him. Nance was up and unfolding the
packet with shaking and ineffectual fingers. De Rothan's silver tankard
was half full. She slipped round the table and emptied the powder into
it, and, crumpling up the paper, thrust it back into the bosom of her
dress.

She was shaking like an old lady with the palsy, and trying desperately
to hide it, when De Rothan returned. He came in with a casual air,
humming the same song as he had hummed in the gallery. He gave one sharp
sidelong glance at Nance, and smiled.

"You will pardon my turning the hall into a stable, but circumstances
are urgent. François needed orders. I trust the opportunity was of
use."

His ironical air chilled her. She saw him resume his seat, take the
tankard, look into it, sip a little of the drink, and then lean back in
the chair and laugh.

"Nance, _ma chère_, you have not pledged me yet. Let me pass you a
loving cup."

She sat and stared at him helplessly, feeling herself a fool.

"What, you will not drink to me? Supposing we send the cup to Mr.
Benham? I will put more liquor in it, for no doubt he is thirsty. Jean,
man, Jean. Here."

Jean came in and stood beside Nance's chair. But De Rothan did not look
at him. His eyes were fixed upon Nance.

"Jean, I thought I wanted you, but I find I do not. Go and help
François with the horses."

The man vanished, and De Rothan sat with one hand holding the handle of
the tankard, his eyes still fixed on Nance. She felt humiliated,
outwitted, stripped naked before him. It was so palpable that he knew
and that the knowledge amused him.

"Nance, you cannot play the part, my child. We are too clever for the
sweet Tragedy Queen who tilts little packets of poison into a
gentleman's cup. Did that shiny-faced bully of a fencing-master take me
for such a fool!"

She had nothing to say to him.

"Whisperings at midnight under a lady's window! Some houses carry sounds
very queerly, child, and men who value their necks do not run too many
risks. Oh, I do not blame you. Husbands are poisoned more often than
lovers, and yet I am inclined to tempt the peril."

He rose and emptied the tankard out of the window.

"No doubt you would like to think over the possibilities of this little
affair? Sleep well to-night. You may need it. Do not waste the precious
horns making little signals with candles."

He moved across and opened the door for her. Nance had risen.
Resentment, and half-childish anger had taken the place of her sense of
blundering helplessness.

"I hate you," her eyes told him.

And he laughed.

"François, see that the horses behave properly. Miss Durrell goes to
her room."

Nance felt bitterly befooled, and not so much in love with Jeremy's
cleverness. De Rothan's sneering complacency made her horribly afraid.
Supposing he should win through, outwit Jeremy, and get away to France?
And supposing, too, that he intended taking her with him? The whole
thing was preposterous and yet abominably real. She watched the dusk
falling, brooding at her window, while the woods blackened against the
summer sunset. She supposed that Jeremy and his friends were hidden
yonder in the woods. They would be watching the house for her signal, a
signal that she could not give.

Nance did not sleep that night, which was hardly to be wondered at. The
house was full of noises, the stamping of the horses on the oak floor of
the hall, the passing to and fro of men, the noise of hammering in some
distant room. De Rothan was preparing his baggage for a sudden retreat,
packing such valuables as he possessed, and ordering his men to break
everything that had to be left behind. Jean was sent round with a
hatchet, and was smashing chairs to pieces, hammering in the cases of
the clocks, and splitting the panels of chests and cupboards.

Then, some time after midnight, Nance heard someone talking in the
orchard beyond the stables. There was a sound as of men running, a
scuffling of feet on the stones of the yard, a shattering of glass, and
the splitting of wood. Then someone exclaimed angrily, and shadows
shuffled away disappointedly into the darkness. Nance heard De Rothan
speaking from one of the upper windows.

"There is nothing to be stolen there, gentlemen. I disposed of my horses
this morning. We happen to be awake here, so I should advise you to go
away quietly."

Under an apple-tree in the orchard Jeremy was swearing into the
sympathetic ears of Surgeon Stott.

"Confound the fellow, it is like grabbing an eel. He has taken his
horses inside the house. I know what that means. He is going to make a
bolt for the sea."

Parson Goffin appeared, a long black shadow among the apple-trees. He
was taking snuff, and was ripe for a luxurious and irrepressible
explosion.

"Ha--tissho--ha--t----"

"Damn you, Goffin, you are a nice man for a night surprise!"

"It was not much of a surprise, sir. I can sneeze with impunity. Ha
tisshoo--ha tissho."

Jeremy swore. It was getting ridiculous.

"Look here, Stott, we shall have to bivouac here--blockade the place."

"That's the game, sir."

"I'll send Parsloe back for provisions, and then on to the coast to try
and warn the sailor people to look out for suspicious visitors. We will
sit down here, and trumpet with our noses, parson, and hope for the
walls of Jericho to fall."

When daylight came those in the Brick House saw Jeremy's people
bivouacking in the orchard and in the meadow in front of the house.
Jeremy had divided his party into two bodies so as to command both sides
of the place. Nance, standing at her window, saw Jeremy walking up and
down the orchard, his hat cocked at a militant angle, and a short clay
pipe between his teeth. He stopped and waved his hat to her, when she
appeared at the window, and Nance waved back. There was something
comforting about Jeremy's activity and about the men whom she could see
sitting with their backs against the trunks of the apple-trees with
muskets or old shot-guns ready across their knees. Hardly one of the
yokels could shoot, but still they looked impressive.

The Brick House itself seemed very quiet and undisturbed. About eight
o'clock Nance heard footsteps on the stairs, and a tray was set down
outside her door. She opened the door when she thought the man had gone,
only to find De Rothan standing close by in the gallery, and looking
through a window at Jeremy's men in the meadow. Surgeon Stott had
command there. They had lit a fire, and the blue-grey smoke went up into
the sunlight.

De Rothan turned and smiled at Nance.

"These good people are very attentive. Yes, take your tray, _ma chère_,
we still have some tea-cups left us."

He appeared audaciously cheerful, as though enjoying this essay in
strategy.

"Mr. Benham has been asking for you, but I thought that it would not be
kind to leave his wounds too raw. The end of his imprisonment is very
near. I hope to return him soon to his friends."

Nance faltered in the doorway, yearning to know what De Rothan was
hiding behind this mask of composure.

"Then you will let us go back to our friends?" He eyed her curiously.

"Mr. Benham will return home. Your father can please himself. As for
you, _ma chère_, in your case you will please the Chevalier de Rothan."

"You cannot mean----"

"I desire you to go with me to France. It is a fair country and will
please you."

She made as though to close the door on him, run to the window, and
shout to Jeremy. A gesture of De Rothan's restrained her.

"No, child, do not run and call to your friends. I assure you that it
would be fatal to Mr. Benham; nor would it help you in the least."

"But, it is impossible! You cannot take me against my will!"

He made a soothing movement with his hands.

"Tsst, child, do not excite yourself. I am doing you a great honour. In
France you will no longer be the daughter of an old schoolmaster. There,
take up your tray and get your breakfast. One should not go into action
hungry."



XXXVII


Most of that day Nance sat at her window overlooking the orchard. Once
or twice she waved to Jeremy and he waved back to her, but Nance had
conceived such a deadly dread of De Rothan that she was afraid to bestir
herself in her own cause. It seemed to be Jasper's life against her own
honour, for there was something about De Rothan's sneering cheerfulness
that made her believe that he would not hesitate to carry out his
threats.

But Nance did not go untempted, seeing that Jeremy and his men were
within hail, and that one appealing cry from her would bring the whole
crisis to an end. They would storm the house, and overwhelm De Rothan
and his Frenchmen. But then, in the meantime, what would have befallen
Jasper, with that sullen beast of a Gaston on guard over him in the
attic?

Nance understood what Jeremy's tactics were. He was showing De Rothan
with ostentation--that he was surrounded, and was waiting for the
Frenchman to come to terms. And Jeremy's strategy reacted upon Nance.
She had worn herself into a fever of emotional anguish, but her own
helplessness made itself felt. She would leave things to these men, let
herself drift. All, all--was it not impossible for De Rothan to break
away and reach the sea?

As for De Rothan, he was not the proper villain who stalked the
passages, biting his nails, and muttering love and vengeance. He looked
plump, sprightly, dressed to perfection, and very much unflurried. These
wasps buzzing in the orchard seemed to amuse him. He even went into the
garden and walked magnificently up and down the brick path, stopping at
the gate to lift his hat to Surgeon Stott who was busy with a glass and
bottle.

The surgeon approached the gate, thinking De Rothan had come out to
parley.

"Is it the white flag, sir?"

"Good morning, sir. I hope you like my meadow? No, I am taking the
air--that is all."

"Impudent blackguard!" said the surgeon.

But De Rothan did not seem to hear.

About eleven o'clock that morning he went up to see Jasper Benham, who
had been growing more and more exasperated each day over his own squalid
helplessness. Bad food and an abundance of physical discomfort soon take
the romance out of life, especially when there is no one to applaud a
man's fortitude. But Jasper had an abnormal amount of obstinacy. He hung
on to his ideals, when many men would have wished De Rothan, old
Durrell, and his daughter at Jericho.

"Good morning to you, Mr. Benham. It may please you to know that you
will be free to-morrow."

Jasper eyed him with grim hostility. De Rothan's good humour and his
shining self-satisfaction were not soothing.

"Thanks. But on what terms?"

"Terms, Mr. Benham?"

"You are not the man to surrender something for nothing."

"Eh! But I have all that I desire. You see, I leave you here, looking
your best and feeling proud of all that you have accomplished. I make my
departure with such valuables as I have by me. I take Miss Durrell with
me into France to be my mistress."

If Jasper's manhood needed reinspiring it found its inspiration in these
words of De Rothan's. A moment ago he had felt glad that the adventure
was at an end, that he would be able to stretch his legs, wash, drink a
glass of good wine, and eat a well-cooked dinner. The smell of liberty
had entered his nostrils. But here De Rothan had roused a deeper and
more powerful instinct, stronger physically even than thirst, hunger,
and the desire to be clean.

"You scoundrel!"

De Rothan looked at him quizzically.

"Mr. Benham, you have a good opinion of yourself. Does it not occur to
you that a woman may change her mind?"

"No."

"That is strange! How little you must know of women. Consider for a
moment. I am a very passable man, taller by half a hand than you are,
better built, not so thick in the skull. I am an aristocrat, a wit, and
a man who has travelled. Women love a man with a little of the devil in
him; it is human nature. I could kill you in half a minute if we were
put up to fight with swords. Nance knows that. And it counts with a
woman."

"What a liar you are!"

"No; I am telling the truth because--my little man--it will sting you
far more than if I laid my hand across your face. I depart for France.
Nance has chosen to come with me. It is not very wonderful that she
should prefer a French aristocrat and a man of the world to a little
red-faced Sussex squireling who has lived his life in three parishes.
Why should I laugh at you? It is not worth it."

"Still, you are a liar."

"Wait till to-morrow and judge by the facts. You will have that charming
old gentleman Mr. Durrell to comfort you. Embrace him, and try to
imagine that he is his daughter."

Jasper had gathered himself for a great effort. Every muscle and sinew
raged in him. He drew in his breath, and gave one wrench at the irons
that held him. But even if he had been fit and strong he could not have
broken them. The iron wristlets bit into the flesh.

He lay back against the wall, balked and humiliated, weighed down by his
own impotent wrath.

"This is not the end."

De Rothan moved backward toward the door.

"Do not excite yourself. You will be free in a few hours."

Jasper watched him as a chained dog watches a man who has struck him
brutally with a stick. He knew that his own fury was pleasant to De
Rothan.

"You accursed coward!"

"Ah, Mr. Benham; you may need your own courage presently."

Little did Jasper guess that Jeremy and Surgeon Stott were walking up
and down the meadow within a hundred paces of the house. The surgeon
kept a shrewd eye cocked on the windows. He moistened his lips with a
dry tongue, and leered knowingly at his own thoughts.

"He will either have to bolt, Jerry, or we shall starve him out. The
fellow is trying what insolence will do. I'll wager that he'll come out
hat in hand before long."

Jeremy was not so sanguine.

"It is not all wind, Stott. There's pith in the chap. I wish I knew his
game."

"Sit tight--that's ours. Rummy affair, Jeremy, some twenty Englishmen
blockading Frenchmen in an English house! We must keep two men on the
watch all night, with one of us to go the rounds."

And Jeremy agreed.

There was a full moon that night, and Nance, sitting at her window, knew
that the moon had risen by the huge black shadow of the house that
covered the yard and stables and spread across the orchard. She was
vividly awake, alert, overstrung, ready for anything to happen. As the
moon climbed higher the shadow of the house shortened, and she could see
the orchard and the figure of a man going to and fro among the trees.
The moonlight glinted on a musket barrel, and made his face look a grey
patch when he turned at each end of his beat.

Brick House had been restless. There had been a stamping of feet in the
attics overhead, and a rending sound as though men were splitting the
woodwork with hatchets. But for an hour absolute silence had held, and
the sentry out yonder might have thought the place asleep.

Nance was wondering whether she would have to watch all night. Her eyes
ached with weariness rather than with the desire for sleep. The black
boughs and foliage of the orchard trees swam into strange fantastic
shapes under the moon.

It was then that she heard a vague stirring in the rooms below. Someone
ran upstairs with a light patter of bare feet. In the hall voices spoke
in undertones, making a vague murmuring.

Nance heard footsteps in the gallery. They stopped outside her door.
Intuition warned her that it was De Rothan.

"Nance, I have good news for you."

She faltered by the window, keeping silence out of a feeling of
mistrust.

"Nance, are you asleep? Come, I have good news."

She rose and crossed the room.

"What is it--what do you want?"

"Nance, I see that the game is up. They will starve us into surrender. I
am going to send you out to make terms for me."

She thrilled.

"Me? To Jeremy?"

"Yes. We cannot get away from here, but still--I have my prisoner up
above. I want you to be magnanimous--to try to get me terms."

The little oak chest stood against the door. Nance pushed it aside,
trembling with the rush of her belief in the loosening of the net about
her. When she opened the door she saw De Rothan standing in the gallery.
The windows threw moonlit patches upon the floor.

"You see how hopeless it is for me."

He sighed.

"There are too many of them, and they have hemmed me in. I can leave the
country to-night if your friends yonder will come to terms."

He spoke dejectedly as though utterly discouraged.

"You will do this for me, go out as my friend?"

"Yes."

"Come, then, let us waste no time."

He had been standing with his head bent and his hands behind him, a
melancholy shadow in the long, moon-streaked gallery. Nance came out
from her room, believing what she desired to believe, and that De Rothan
had been driven to surrender. But before she could throw her hands up, a
blanket was tossed over her head, and she felt herself smothered in it
and wrapped round by De Rothan's arms. He carried her along the gallery
and down the stairs, holding her so tightly that she felt like a child
crushed in a crowd.

Confused movements were going on in the darkness about her. She heard
harness jingling, and smelt the smell of horses.

"Quick, François! The scarf--tie it so."

Something soft was passed about her body and knotted so that she could
not move her arms. She felt herself lifted on to the back of a horse and
held there by two strong hands. Someone mounted behind her, and she
guessed that it was De Rothan.

"Bide quiet, _ma chère_, and no harm will come. Gaston, are you there?"

A man came running down the stairs.

"It is done, monsieur, it is done."

Nance heard the words, and their vague, suggestive horror numbed her
heart. She was like a cataleptic, unable to move or to cry out. Strange,
wild things were happening, and she could not help herself. She was
aware of a dull red wound in the midst of her consciousness, the thought
that Jasper had been given his death.

"Open the door, man. Softly--ready? Follow me and keep close."

De Rothan's arm tightened about her. He spoke sharply as the horse
moved.

"Bend low, bend low."

He forced her down, bending over her as the horse passed through the
doorway into the porch. There was a clatter of hoofs, the breath of the
night breeze sweeping in. Then Nance felt De Rothan straighten himself
in the saddle. They were going at a walk down the brick path to the gate
in the garden wall.

Then, suddenly, the horse broke into wild, cantering life. They seemed
to sweep forward with a rush of wind, and a clattering of hoofs behind
them. A man shouted somewhere, and was still shouting as they galloped
over the meadow. A pistol cracked. Nance heard a queer sighing sound go
by her and die away into the distance.

De Rothan gave a sharp, exultant cry. The horse slowed up. Nance felt De
Rothan bend and swing something aside. It was the gate leading out of
the meadow into the lane. Shuffling, snorting horses came crowding up
behind. Then there was the burst of a fresh gallop between high black
hedges that banked out the moonlight.



XXXVIII


Smoke curled from the muzzle of Surgeon Stott's empty pistol, and his
mouth emptied itself of sundry emphatic curses. He shouted at Tom Stook,
who was standing and staring across the meadow.

"Run, man, run! Rouse Mr. Winter."

But Jeremy had been roused a minute ago by the sentinel in the orchard,
who had bent over him where he lay asleep under an apple-tree and pulled
him by the arm.

"Mr. Winter, sir, Mr. Winter, the house be a' fire."

Jeremy had sprung up, to find the man pointing at the attic story of the
Brick House.

The place was black under the moon, but at one gable end an attic window
showed the red glow of fire. The casement frames were clearly outlined;
from the open lattice came little swirls of smoke, and for a moment a
black shape showed within like a man tossing his arms in despair.

Jeremy's heart leapt in him.

"Good God!"

He ran round rousing his men, calling in particular for John Jenner the
Rookhurst blacksmith. They began their rush toward the house just after
Stott's pistol shot barked out a grim warning. Stott, Jeremy, and their
men met in the front garden, holding back for the moment as though not
knowing whether they were facing enemies or friends.

"Stott?"

"It is Stott, sir. They have broken through, curse 'em."

"And the house is on fire. The devil has left Jasper to burn in his
attic----"

"By George! And they have got the girl."

"We'll catch and butcher the lot of them. Jenner, Jack Jenner, have you
got your tools?"

"Sure, Mr. Winter, sure."

Then things happened as De Rothan had counted on their happening.
Jeremy, Stott, Steyning, and young Parsloe stormed into the house,
Jeremy carrying a lantern that one of the men had brought lit from the
orchard. They made no tarrying in the hall, but rushed for the stairs,
Jeremy carrying visions of Jasper tied up in a burning room.

Half way up the stairs a figure came blundering down on them. It was
Anthony Durrell, half dressed, and bewildered.

Jeremy held his hand.

"George, sir--I had nearly fired into you. Which is Benham's room? Do
you know?"

Durrell was inarticulate.

"Mr. Winter, sir! I--I have not----"

Jeremy swore, thrust him aside, and rushed on, the rest following,
leaving Durrell flattened against the wall.

The smell of the fire guided them, the pungent scent of burning wood.
The stairs leading to the attic story were narrow and tortuous like the
stairs in an old tower. Jeremy was the first to get a glimpse of the
yellow light streaming under an attic door. The crackle of burning wood
could be heard. Little puffs of smoke were drifting into the passage.

Jeremy rushed to the door of the burning room and found it locked. He
charged at it with his shoulder, but it did not budge.

"Jack Jenner--at this door, man. Jasper, lad--Jasper----"

Suddenly those who were in the gallery stood listening, and looking into
each other's eyes. The smith was caught in the act of raising a heavy
hammer. Stott had his hand on Jeremy's shoulder.

"Hallo, Jeremy, hallo----"

It was like a ghost voice coming, not from the burning room, but down
the long gallery with its dormer windows and its sloping eaves. Some of
the men on the stairs looked scared, and waited to see what Jeremy would
do.

"Jasper--hallo----"

"Hallo--hallo."

Jeremy gave a shout and went running down the gallery. This devil's
trick of De Rothan's was not so brutal as it had seemed. It had been a
ruse to trick them and to gain time, but it was a ruse that touched more
than the edge of murder.

"Jasper, lad, where are you?"

"In here; the end room."

The door was locked, and Jeremy made way for Jenner the smith. The man
took a run, lifted one leg, and set the sole of a heavy boot over the
place where the lock should be. The door flew in as though it had been
unfastened and had been caught by a gust of wind.

Jeremy's lantern showed Jasper on his straw.

Winter was on his knees, one arm over Jasper's shoulders, and shouting
to the smith to get to work.

"We thought the scoundrel had roasted you, lad, for the house is on
fire. Knock these bolts out of the floor, Jenner, knock 'em out--by
glory. We have half our night's work to do yet."

The smith was hammering at the bolts that held the rings in the floor
boards. Surgeon Stott had shut the door and was standing with his back
to it. A man in Jasper Benham's condition does not yearn to be gaped at
by grooms and ploughmen. In the gallery young Parsloe stood watching the
door of the burning attic. He had a coil of rope over his arm so that
they should have a means of escape if the fire broke through into the
gallery before Jasper could be released.

"What has happened, Jeremy? Where's De Rothan?"

"Got away, lad; broken through our lines. We have been blockading the
place."

"Nance----"

Jeremy's mouth hardened for action.

"That's it, lad, we have got to catch him and the girl before he gets
afloat."

"She didn't go willingly, Jerry?"

"Tied up in a blanket, sir," said Stott from the door.

Jasper's impatience flared up like a fire.

"Jack Jenner, man, smash those infernal bolts out, can't you? Never mind
me; I'm not afraid of a bruise or two."

"Sure, Master Benham, sure, it be t' oak as holds."

"Hit at 'em, man, hit at 'em. We can deal with the darbies afterward."

The smith managed to smash the bolts out of the oak, and Jasper was
free. He tried to stand, but found himself lurching against Jeremy, weak
in the knees and giddy. Jenner the smith was a man of tact. He stooped,
and made "a broad back" to carry Jasper below.

"Climb up, Mr. Benham, sir."

Stott went out to clear the men down the stairs, and Jeremy hoisted
Jasper on to Jack Jenner's back.

They were none too soon. The door of the attic was gaping and falling
apart, and yellow flames were licking the charred wood. The gallery was
full of smoke that turned to silver where the moonlight touched it. Jack
Jenner, blinking his eyes, swung along like a stolid elephant, with
Jasper on his back.

So they made their way out of the house and came out into the garden
where Anthony Durrell was pacing up and down with long, jerky strides.
He ran at Jeremy, waving his arms, and crying out like a man who had
been wounded.

"Nance--my daughter. Mr. Winter, sir, I implore you----"

Jeremy soothed him.

"That's just our business, Mr. Durrell; don't waste time, sir, by
shouting at the moon."

He turned to the men.

"Run, you beggars; bring the horses round from the orchard. And Tom, my
man, bring my sword. It stands against the apple-tree where I was
dozing. It's tally-ho, and a moonlit gallop."

Jasper was sitting on the grass with the smith at work upon the leg
irons and handcuffs.

"There is a horse for me, Jeremy?"

"Do you think you are fit to ride?"

"Do you think I am going to stay behind?"

"You can't sit a horse after three weeks in irons."

"I can ride Devil Dick.".

"He's with us."

"Then I go on Devil Dick's back."

"We shall have to tie you on."

"Tie me on! Be dashed to you!"

The smith had broken the catches of the handcuffs, and Jasper's arms
were free. The leg irons were a stiffer proposition.

"Leave the anklets on, Jack, and get the bar away."

"It be easier to knock off t' anklets, sir."

"Get along, then, for God's sake."

Jeremy stood and watched.

"You had better let us get along, lad," he said, gently, "time is
precious."

"But, Jeremy, I've been waiting for this chance----"

"It'll be away over the water if we don't hurry. Besides, lad, you are
not fit to fight it out with De Rothan."

"Look here, Jerry. I must have a shot or a thrust at him."

"And does somebody want to weep over a corpse? Be reasonable, lad. Leave
the Frenchman to me."

Jasper looked savage and dejected.

"Oh, call me a baby, Jeremy, and have done with it."

"Now, lad, now, do you think the old devil don't love you? Why, I'd put
a pistol into Squire Kit's fist and tell him to shoot me if I were to
let you run yourself to-night on that scoundrel's sword. The spirit is
willing, sir, but the flesh is weak. Hallo--here come the horses."

Jack Jenner sat back on his heels with a grunt of satisfaction.

"That be one of t' quickest jobs, Mr. Benham, sir----"

Jasper was up on the instant.

"God bless you, Jack Jenner. Jeremy, I say, Jeremy----"

"Well, lad?"

"I say, my confounded head's like a churn, going round and round. Have
you got a flask on you?"

"Here, Stott, you're the man. Give the lad a dose of schnapps."

The horses were ready in the meadow, and the men ready to mount. Stott
had brought out a flask from his tail pocket, and also a thick sandwich
of bread and beef.

"I'm an old campaigner, Mr. Benham; set your teeth into that, man, as we
go along."

In another minute they were in the saddle and riding across the meadow.
Several of the men had to be left behind, but counting Steyning and
young Parsloe they mustered nine riders. Each man had a brace of pistols
and a hanger, while Jeremy had his long sword. He meant it to be of use
that night in dealing with De Rothan.

As they paused at the gate leading to the lane, a sudden glare of light
made them look back toward the house. The flames had broken through the
roof, and one long tongue was waving high in the air like a great
wavering sword.

The light lit up grim faces and eager eyes.

"Which way, Jeremy?"

"Pett Level. We happen to have got the other side of De Rothan's game,
and bought his own man over his head."

"There'll be a boat waiting."

"There'll be no boat, or I'm a blockhead."

Jeremy gave a queer, hard laugh.

"Now, then, put 'em at it, boys. Tally-ho, tally-ho. I'm for the brush
of the French fox."

And they went galloping through the moonlight.



XXXIX


De Rothan seemed to know all the lanes, paths, and by-roads as though he
had been born in those parts and had played the smuggler on many a
night. He cast a half circle round Westfield village, and took the road
that led toward Icklesham and Guestling, riding a little ahead of his
men, his right arm supporting Nance. She was still smothered up in the
blanket, and unable to move her arms.

The country was fairly open, with the road climbing low hills and
dropping down into valleys. The moon painted everything in a broad
effect of black and greys, and showed the road as a white thread before
them. De Rothan was not playing for concealment. It was a question of
speed, and of a dash for the shore along Pett Level where the Rye boat
would be waiting to take them on board.

When they had covered a mile or more De Rothan pulled up on the top of a
hill, looked back, and listened. His men drew in and waited in silence.
The night seemed still and empty of all sound, and there was no rattle
of hoofs to tell of pursuit.

De Rothan turned his horse and rode on.

"How is it with you, sweet Nance?"

She would not answer him.

"Frightened and outraged, eh? Come, come, you must make allowances for
the spirit of adventure. If I have to cover your beauty with a blanket,
it is to keep you from making the moon jealous. I thought all the world
loved a pirate, a highwayman, and a gentlemanly villain! Once on board
the lugger, eh! You shall see me in a red cap and big sea boots, and
with a belt full of cutlasses and pistols. Ha--ha! That is the stage
cry, eh? Ha--ha! Your friends are finding some little affairs to keep
them about my house."

Nance shivered, and felt a wild desire to cry out. She had come by a
blind horror of the man, a horror that was quickened by her own physical
helplessness. Already her heart had accused him of Jasper Benham's
death, for those words of Gaston's still haunted her.

De Rothan appeared to divine her emotions.

"You are longing to ask questions, my Nance, and you feel like a fly in
a web? What has become of Mr. Benham and of your good father? Well, I
will try to put your mind at rest. Mr. Benham is having his irons
knocked off, and is drinking a pot of beer. Your father may be scolding
the moon. And Brick House is burning."

He felt her body quiver. She was overstrung with suspense, incredulity,
and fear.

"Why did we set the house alight? Well, you see, sweet one, it was an
excellent trick for distracting the bull. They could not leave Mr.
Benham there to be burned. When they have finished yonder, we may have
them after us. But then, you see, they may not know where to find us."

She wondered whether he was speaking the truth, or merely talking to
reassure her. His triumphant playfulness had all the glittering hardness
of a well-cut stone. It was useless to appeal to him, and there was
nothing that she could do to help herself.

The minutes seemed to gallop and to keep pace with the horses. They
appeared to be mounting some rising ground, and to be moving over
grassland by the dull thudding of the horses' hoofs. Presently De Rothan
drew in, and his men came round him, making a black blur upon the summit
of a hill.

To the right rose the long black ridge that climbed up to Fairlight
Down, and before them lay the sea; a tranquil, summer sea under the
moon. The shore was like a dark fringe to a silver robe.

De Rothan and his men were at gaze, looking for something that should
have been visible out yonder. For some moments there was silence, and
Nance felt the thread of hope breaking beneath the weight of her
suspense.

"Hum--we are a little early. Let us go down to the shore."

The horses were tinned into a narrow, high-banked lane that descended
steeply toward the flats between the high ground and the sea. Loose
stones rolled and scattered under the horses' hoofs. Nance had a feeling
that De Rothan's mood had changed. His arm seemed to hold her more
tightly. He was grimmer, less pleased with the chances of the night.

In another minute they had reached the bottom of the hill, and loose
stones gave place again to grass. They moved on for another two hundred
yards or more before De Rothan reined in.

Nance felt herself lifted down from De Rothan's horse. The scarf that
fastened her arms was untied, and the blanket taken away. She found
herself standing on rough grassland that ended in the shingle of the
beach. The place was very lonely, with masses of furze and of bramble
screening the shore and covering much of the ground between the sea and
the hills. The tide was making a faint splashing along the shingle
banks, the broken water catching the moonlight and turning it into a
thousand glimmering scales.

De Rothan was standing on a little hillock and looking out to sea. His
profile was visible to Nance, hard, intent, and a little scornful. The
man was anxious, but not afraid.

He tinned to her with an air of cynical courtesy.

"Will it please you to walk a little way along the shore with me? I have
certain things to say to you."

She was afraid of being alone with him, and De Rothan saw it.

"Come, come, I am not going to cut your throat, or be violent. Gaston,
keep yourselves and your horses under cover of that furze. We shall not
have long to wait. Now, Nance, I am ready."

The stretch of coarse grass divided the furze banks and the shingle, and
De Rothan set off eastward along it with Nance at his side. The girl was
white and on the alert. The splashing of the sea upon the shingle was
full of a sinister and shivering suggestiveness.

"My Nance, you are still very young. Why are you so afraid of me and of
the future that I offer you?"

The triumphant tenderness in his voice made her shudder.

"Need you ask me such questions?"

"It is all bold adventure, is it not, and am I not a man to gallop off
with a girl's heart?"

"Adventure! I hate the word!"

He laughed.

"Poor Nance, after all, it does not suit the click of knitting needles.
It is only pleasant in books, eh? Well, well, why not some pretty
château across the water, with swans on the moat, and a fine old-time
garden? You would not quarrel with such quiet, homely things."

Her very dread of him made her passionately impatient. She turned to one
side and sat down on a low bank in the full light of the moon.

"I'll not answer you."

"Mr. Benham is a homely young man, eh? He smells more of the fireside
and the kitchen? Whereas I am a gallant, and one of the best swordsmen
in France."

She rested her elbows on her knees, and her chin on her two hands.

"What kind of man are you to treat me like this? If you had one shred of
honour in you----"

"Honour? I have as much honour in me as Mr. Benham, and much more in the
way of brains."

"At least I have my pride left me and my scorn for you."

"Dear Nance, do you think you will speak to me like this when we are
over the water? I think not--I think not."

There was something of menace in his eyes, the exultation of fierce
desire. He watched her a moment, and then began to pace up and down,
throwing sharp glances at the moonlit hills and toward the sea. It was
plain that a savage impatience was growing in him, and that even his
insolent complacency could not save him from suspense. Now again he
paused to listen, fancying he heard the sound of galloping upon the
hills.

"Devil take the man! Why is he not here with the boat?"

Nance watched him narrowly as his long shadow went to and fro over the
grass. A glimpse of hope had risen in her, a determination to try some
last desperate trick. She strained her ears, trying to catch some sound
above the moist playing of the water on the shingle. If Jeremy only knew
the road they had taken. If he and Jasper could only arrive in time.

Her heart would have leapt in her could she have seen a long, lithe
figure squirming away amid the furze bushes. It was the figure of a man
who had crept down to reconnoitre, and who was making his way back
toward the higher ground above.

Half way up the hillside there was a thicket of dwarf, wind-twisted
oaks. The man made for this, keeping in the shadow of the furze bushes.
He gained the thicket and disappeared into it, to be surrounded almost
instantly by a crowd of eager men.

"What news, Tom?"

"They be down yonder; t' three chaps wid the horses, and Miss Durrell
and the French blackguard a little way along t' shore."

There was a murmuring of voices, and the clicking of pistol locks.

"Look to your priming, men. Now, listen to me."

They had left their horses on the other side of the hill, crept over the
brow under the shadow of a hedge, and taken cover in the oak thicket.
Tom Stook had been sent out to reconnoitre.

Jeremy told off Steyning and Parsloe with the four men to creep down and
overpower De Rothan's three French servants. He himself with Jasper,
Stott, and Tom Stook took a line a little more to the east so as to
strike the shore where De Rothan and Nance were waiting. Jeremy ordered
Stott to lead, but took second place himself. He had to hold Jasper by
the arm, and plead with him fiercely.

"Am I going to let you spoil all my plans by getting hurt at the last
moment? You have the pluck, but a man who has been in irons for three
weeks is not fit to face a swordsman like De Rothan. Moreover, I want
the surgeon at my elbow. He is a devil with a pistol, and will keep De
Rothan marked."

Jasper knew that Jeremy talked sound sense.

"It goes against the grain, Jeremy."

"I know, lad, I know. I shall love you the more for giving in to me."

They started down through the furze, Steyning, Parsloe, and their men
giving them a short start, since Jeremy's party had farther to go. Tom
Stook led, winding in and out among the furze bushes. Jeremy and Stott
followed close on him, with Jasper in the rear. Jeremy had given him his
sword to carry, having unbuckled it before their advance upon the beach.

Stook paused from time to time. The noise of the sea washing along the
shingle smothered any slight sound they made in brushing through the
grass or against the bushes. In five minutes they were close to the
shore, and could hear De Rothan speaking.

"My Nance, it is no use your putting up your pretty hands against fate.
Come now and kiss me, and let us forgive."

"Only let me be!"

They heard De Rothan's laugh, and then Nance's voice in sudden alarm.

"Look, there is a boat."

"Where?"

"Away yonder. I can see the sail."

Jeremy had risen from behind the furze, and Stott followed him. They saw
that De Rothan had turned and was looking out to sea. Nance had played
her poor little trick on him, and it had answered. She picked up her
skirts and made a dash toward the furze.

Jeremy leapt out on to the grass, shouting.

"Run, Nance, run, into the bushes for your life."

She was still in the moonlight, though nearing the banks of shadow. De
Rothan had twisted about, raised an arm, and taken aim. Jeremy's voice
rang out, fiercely, warningly.

"Not at the girl, not at the girl, De Rothan!"

Then Stott's pistol cracked, and De Rothan's hat went whirling, but left
him unhurt. Whether the shot startled him, or whether he drew the
trigger purposely, his pistol belched flame. Nance was some thirty yards
from him. She gave a curious cry, staggered on a few steps, and then
fell face forward into the furze.

A man's cry echoed Nance's. Jeremy swung round and caught Jasper round
the middle.

"No, no, lad! Leave him to us."

"Let go, Jeremy, damn you, let go."

"Tom Stook--quick! Take hold here."

They held Jasper between them, mastering him with some ease, for he was
weak despite his wild anger against De Rothan. Stott had marched forward
several paces, and was calmly covering De Rothan with his second pistol.

"I've missed ye once, ye damned coward. Stand fast, or I'll put a bullet
through you."

Jeremy had left Jasper to Tom Stook after wrenching his sword out of
Jasper's hand. He joined Stott, sword and pistol ready, his eyes looking
grimly at De Rothan.

"See to the girl, Stott. I'll deal with this gentleman."

Stott threw his pistol down and ran toward Nance, who lay half hidden in
the furze. De Rothan was standing stiff and erect like a black pillar
outlined by the moon. His one pistol was empty, and he had nothing left
him but his sword.

He threw his head back suddenly and shouted to his men.

"Gaston, _à moi_--Gaston----"

His cry came too late. Steyning, Parsloe, and their men had crept down
and overpowered the three Frenchmen without their firing a shot. Their
exultant shouts came with the swish of the water on the shingle.



XL


Jasper had broken away from Tom Stook, whose huge fists had
sympathetically relaxed their hold. Jasper's eyes were turned, not
toward Jeremy Winter and De Rothan, but toward Surgeon Stott, who was
bending over Nance.

Stott, glancing round to see how matters stood, saw Jasper's white face
and shining eyes.

"Keep back, Mr. Benham, keep back. I don't want any one meddling with me
in my business."

He rose and made as though to force Jasper back.

"Look you, sir, you are a man of sense, and I don't want folk hanging
round when I have work to do. If I want you I'll call you."

But Stott's professional whims were not to be humoured on this
particular occasion. Something stirred and moved close to them. Both men
turned to find Nance on her knees, putting her hair back from her
forehead and looking at them questioningly.

"Nance!"

"Jasper!"

Stott felt for his snuff-box and stood aside. Here were these two young
people kneeling face to face--Jasper holding Nance's hands, and looking
at her as a man looks at a love that has been snatched from death.

"Nance, are you hint?"

"No, no. The bullet only grazed my arm."

"Thank God."

"I think I threw myself down when he fired. It was just instinct. And I
lay here--to be safe--till friends came up."

Jasper was kissing her hands with a man's devoutness, and Stott took
snuff with energy and walked on to where Jeremy and De Rothan were
standing like two statues, staring into each other's eyes. Neither of
them had spoken, neither of them had moved.

"What news, Stott? I haven't eyes in the back of my head."

"Two young people seem very taken with each other."

"She's not hurt, then?"

"A mere scratch."

"God be praised!"

There were deep furrows between Jeremy's eyebrows, and his mouth was a
grim, hard line. He moved three steps nearer to De Rothan, pistol on
hip, sword ready.

"Have you any more cheating cards to play, sir, before we come to the
last hand?"

De Rothan's face looked stormy. The light, insolent humour had left him.
He was up against grim weapons and grim men.

"Shoot away, my little fellow; my own pistol is empty."

As he spoke, he tossed the empty pistol aside upon the grass. Jeremy's
eyes glittered maliciously.

"I do not shoot women and unarmed men, sir. Even a cur may be given a
chance to fight. You have your sword there."

De Rothan bowed to him.

"It is at your service, sir, if you are not afraid."

"Psst, I know that sort of lingo. I am not a raw boy, my friend. I don't
deal in words."

Meanwhile Jasper had lifted Nance to her feet, and was standing with his
arm about her, and looking down into her face. Her eyes glimmered in the
moonlight, soft, dusky eyes that were full of infinite and mysterious
things.

"Dear heart, what you have suffered!"

"And you!"

"I would go through it all again--for this."

She drew in her breath quickly.

"Oh, no, no. You were so near death. And even now I feel that all is not
finished."

She glanced toward the three dark figures of Jeremy, Stott, and De
Rothan. Jasper understood. His arm tightened about her, and he led her
further away along the shore.

"Stay here, Nance. There is nothing to fear."

"No."

"I must be with Jeremy."

She looked at him a little anxiously and saw the steady purpose in his
eyes.

"Jasper, promise me----"

"What, dear heart?"

"You will not risk yourself."

"I promise. I have already promised Jeremy, though it makes me ready to
call myself a coward."

"You--a coward! And that wretched man?"

"He has Jeremy to deal with. He had better have faced the Devil
himself."

There was the noise of men running, and Steyning and young Parsloe
appeared in the moonlight, having left their men to guard De Rothan's
servants. Jasper hailed them as they came up.

"All's well here. Jack Parsloe, man, will you bide with Miss Durrell
while I join Jeremy?"

The youngster raised his hat and bowed to Nance. Jasper and Steyning
hastened on to where Winter and Surgeon Stott faced De Rothan.

It was a grim group, imperturbable and pitiless. Jeremy was speaking to
Stott with the cool and matter-of-fact air of a man arranging a dinner
party. De Rothan's was the only restless figure. He fidgeted with his
sword, and kept moving his head as though his cravat were too tight for
him. His mouth was dry; his eyes shadowy in a sullen and bloodless face.

He looked hard at Jasper with a sudden malicious shrewdness.

"Mr. Benham, you have often uttered big words to me. There was that
little bout of ours in Darvel's Wood. I am ready to renew it."

Jeremy's chin went up. He passed his sword to Stott, and stripped off
his coat.

"That will not serve you, sir. I am your man."

Even in the moonlight they could see De Rothan's sneer.

"No doubt Mr. Benham is nervous----"

Jasper was standing by with white face and set jaw. But Jeremy had seen
through De Rothan's cunning, nor did he mean to let the Frenchman sneer
Jasper into fighting him.

"Enough of that. Off with your coat."

He caught his sword from Stott, and sprang forward toward De Rothan.
There was to be no prevarication, no escape. De Rothan looked into
Jeremy's eyes, threw his coat aside, and drew his sword.

"Come, my little fellow!"

Their swords touched, and they were at it.

De Rothan was one of those long-armed, florid fighters, passionate and
skilful, whose very fierceness had flustered many a weaker man. He began
swaggeringly, to discover in the course of the first few passes with
what a grim master of sword craft he had to deal. This little,
hard-mouthed man was steady as a rock. He put De Rothan's savage and
murderous thrusts aside with an imperturbable confidence that was
pleasant to behold. Those who watched seemed to have no fear for Jeremy.
Stott took snuff with placid satisfaction. There were no sounds but the
tingling of the sword blades and the shuffling of the men's feet.

De Rothan became cautious of a sudden, and his forehead showed lines of
strain. Jeremy's eyes were not pleasant eyes to watch. The man was
untouchable and most damnably cool.

"Tsst--one for you----"

"No--but for you."

With one quick thrust Jeremy pricked De Rothan's forehead, and a red
mark showed between the brows. The savage egotism of the man seemed to
flare up in fury. He leapt back, brushed the blood aside, and then
sprang at Jeremy with a passionate desire to kill.

These fierce, passionate thrusts were his last. There was a flickering
of the blades in the moonlight, and then Jeremy's point went home. The
thrust had all the weight of his body behind it. De Rothan threw up his
arms, seemed to break at the middle, and fell forward on his face.

For a moment there was silence. No one moved, no one spoke. Then Jeremy
pulled up a tuft of grass and calmly wiped his sword.

"What's your verdict, Stott?"

The surgeon and Steyning turned De Rothan over. His eyelids twitched,
but that was all. They saw that he was dead.

"Right through the heart, sir."

"The price he played for. Jasper, lad, shake hands."

All four drew together, talking in undertones. Then Steyning marched off
along the beach in the direction of his men. He passed Parsloe and Nance
with a nod, but he did not speak to them.

There were pieces of driftwood lying along the shingle. Steyning told
two of the men to pick up pieces, and to follow him back along the
shore. Here, close to where De Rothan lay, they began to scrape a
shallow grave in the shingle above high-water mark. When the grave was
ready they lifted De Rothan into it, covered him with shingle, and set
up a piece of driftwood to mark the place.

There was a short silence. The men loitered, saying nothing, and looking
at Winter and Jasper Benham. Surgeon Stott was the first to speak.

"What about the three fellows yonder?"

"Poor devils! Lewes gaol or Rye Harbour? What do you say, Jasper?"

"Let them go."

"Good. That's what was in my heart."

They moved away from the place where De Rothan lay buried and Jasper
found himself alone with Nance. The moonlight was on the sea, and the
waves washed the shingle. The man and the girl held together, as though
they desired to be very close to one another after what had passed.

"It is finished, Nance."

She shivered slightly.

"How lonely it must be--there!"

"Dear heart, I cannot quarrel with the end."

She clung close to him, and her brown eyes filled with tears.



*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The House of Spies" ***

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