Part 27

"And the French people have made this fiend their Emperor! Poor deluded fools! And he boasts that he will bring all Europe to his feet. And I think he will. So be it; the higher the eagle soars, the more crushing will be his fall when wounded. Ha! ha! So far my incantations have revealed the truth; I doubt not now they will be fulfilled in their entirety. I shall live to see his downfall and disgrace; then I will mock at him in his despair."

She turned her face towards the fire and gazed absently at the glowing embers; for the moment so lost in her reflection that she forgot that she was not alone.

With a start, she roused herself and faced St. Just, then laid her hand lightly on his arm.

"So he has entrusted you with papers for his agent." She spoke in her natural tone, without excitement; but, though the outward expression of her hatred was for the present satisfied, her longing for revenge was as intense as ever, and her determination.

St. Just assented. "That is so."

"And where are these papers?"

"In the lining of my cloak."

"And what do you intend to do with them?"

"Deliver them to the man, Perry, of course."

"Do you know their contents?"

"No."

"Do you mean to examine them?"

"I should not dream of it. I should not dare. I should be a traitor."

"And you would act as the instrument of this perfidious despot, our bitter enemy, in the advancement of his nefarious designs to keep the rightful King of France in exile, and its people holden in his iron grip! You would miss this opportunity of discovering his intentions and informing his opponents of them! Why, those papers may contain intelligence that may make, or mar him. It may be vital to our cause!" She bounded from the couch and faced him. Then she went on disdainfully. "And you would not dream of it; you would not dare; you would be a traitor! Oh! you craven, you poor-hearted creature! Is it blood that flows along your veins, or is it milk. Oh! to think that I should have given my heart to such a man!" Her voice was rising rapidly with her temper, and her face flushed red. "But I should dream of it; I should dare; and I should be no traitor; and I will see those papers!" Her words seemed to tumble over one another as she rushed them out, and the last ended almost in a shriek.

St. Just turned pale and shivered at her violence. He thought he had already plumbed the strength and depth of her emotions, but found them still unfathomable. Again he felt that he was helpless in her hands. Only personal violence would restrain her, and that he would not dream of.

"My dearest, what you ask for is impossible," he remonstrated, but his accents lagged behind his words.

"Impossible," she cried, "No, but certain; and I mean to have them."

And, before St. Just could say another word, she had seized his cloak, which had been flung across a chair hard by the door, and had darted from the room. Pursuit was useless, for she was fleet of foot and could easily out-run him. Almost before he knew that she was gone, he heard the key turned in the door outside, and her footsteps vanishing in the distance. He was a prisoner, until it should please her to release him.

His heart went down within him. What would be the upshot of what had just occurred? Would she restore the papers to him when she had mastered what was in them--perhaps made a copy of them? A grim smile came over him at the thought that this would be playing off on him the very trick that he himself had played upon Sir Henry Emerson.

Fool that he had been! Why could he not have delivered his papers to the hosier, Perry, before going to see his wife? Then this awful predicament would have been avoided. Again his insensate passion for this Delilah had made him betray his trust. And he had meant to be true this time--certainly so far as the delivery of this despatch. He cursed himself for not having foreseen that, when once Halima had discovered the object of his journey, she would do her best to make it futile, when, by so doing, she would baffle Buonaparte.

And now what could he do? Nothing against her will; she had him, so to speak, bound and gagged.

In a fit of desperation, he rushed to the bell and pulled it frantically; so violently, indeed, that he quickly broke it. But no one came in answer to his summons. Halima had given orders to the contrary. Also she had placed a strong man-servant at the door, with instructions to stop St. Just should he burst it open. He did try, but his efforts were in vain. Again and again he threw himself against it, but the door was strong and resisted every impulse.

Then he began to shout with all his strength, now employing threats and now entreaties. But still no one came to him. At last, he was compelled to cease for want of breath. Patience only seemed left to him, but how could he be patient?

He threw himself into a chair, worn out with his exertions, and abandoned himself to the bitterness of his thoughts. So bitter indeed were they, and so plunged in misery was he and so unhinged, that he could not have been safely entrusted with a lethal weapon; for probably that evening would have been his last. It was fortunate that Halima had removed his traveling cloak, for it contained a brace of loaded pistols.

The twilight deepened and glided into night, and then, wearied out, he fell asleep. Hour succeeded hour, until the night was nearly spent and dawn approached.

He did not hear a carriage pull up before the house, but, almost immediately afterwards, he felt himself roughly shaken. Opening his eyes, he saw a servant standing over him with a candle in his hand.

Without speaking, the man put into his hand a note, which ran as follows:

"Accompany the bearers whither they take you, without fear. Halima."

"Where is Madame?" he asked the servant.

"I do not know, Sir," the man replied respectfully, "she left home some hours ago, and has not yet returned."

Then he added, "The messengers await you, Sir, in a coach below."

Wondering, half sleepily, what would happen next, and caring little, for he had lost all hope, St. Just followed the servant to the door and stepped into the carriage, which, the rapid glance he gave it showed him, was a private one. Two Bow Street runners got in after him, and immediately the coach was driven off at a rapid trot. In a quarter of an hour, they reached the toll bar at Hyde Park Corner. The gate was opened at their approach, the coachman shouted something, and, without stopping they drove through. Ten minutes later, the carriage drew up before a house in Downing Street. St. Just was requested to get out, and his companions in his drive each thrust an arm through one of his and led him up the steps in front of the house, then up a flight of stairs and into a square room on the first floor. It was dimly lighted, for only one candle was burning on a table; so that St. Just could not see much of his surroundings; but he could distinguish folding doors on the side of the room that faced him.

The men asked him to be seated; then took their stand between him and the door. From beyond the folding doors, he could hear the hum of conversation and, amongst the voices, he fancied he could distinguish Halima's. He strained his ears and was now sure of it. Then, at any rate, no harm was meant to him.

Presently he heard the clock of the neighboring Horse Guards strike the fourth quarter, and then One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. He must have slept for many hours, then, at the house at Earl's Court.

Hardly had the last stroke died away, when the folding doors were opened, and Mr. Pitt, the Prime Minister, the Prince Regent, and, to St. Just's surprise, Halima entered the apartment. They were followed by a secretary. Plainly the Prince had not been to bed, for he was still habited in the uniform he had worn at dinner the night before; he still looked as if he had dined--or drunk "not wisely, but too well."

He ogled Halima, who gave him back a saucy glance; then he whispered something in the ear of Mr. Pitt, who told the "runners" to withdraw and wait outside the door.

Then Mr. Pitt, in a pleasant tone and courteous manner, asked St. Just to draw up to them and take a seat. The Regent seated himself on one side of a long table near the end, and Halima took a chair that faced him, the Premier placing himself at the top. The secretary took a place a little lower down, away from them.

"Mons. St. Just," said Mr. Pitt, addressing him, "your action in this matter does you credit. Madame, your wife, has informed me of your scruples in giving up the papers entrusted to you by your Government. In the circumstances they were natural; but I think you will find it to your advantage--in fact it seems to me your only course--now to follow our instructions and advice."

"Quite the only course; very much to your advantage; much obleeged to you," hiccoughed the Regent, at this point, with a hazy idea that he was forwarding the proceedings.

Mr. Pitt glanced at him contemptuously and went on: "The letters you sent us by Madame," and he pointed to a packet on the table, "have been copied. They will be duly delivered at their destination--Mr. Perry's--by Madame's servant"--he meant Mahmoud--"whom, we understand, Mr. Perry knows; therefore no suspicion will be aroused. The copies that have been made of them you will deliver in person to our Admiral, Lord Nelson. With that object you will be shipped on board H.M.S. La France"--seeing the look of surprise on St. Just's face--"a French vessel recently captured in the channel. You will have to run the gauntlet of whatever French ships may be found between here and Gibraltar, not far from which, I fancy, Lord Nelson will be met with. You may wonder why you have been selected for this mission, so I will satisfy you. We believe the despatches you brought from Paris to be genuine, to mean what they say. But, sometimes, such documents are penned and despatched in order that they may be seized by the enemy and so mislead him--to lead him into a trap. It, therefore, seems desirable to make you the messenger to Lord Nelson. If the information given here"--and he tapped the packet with his finger--"should be false, the Admiral will know how to deal with you."

This was pleasant hearing for St. Just. It seemed possible that he had escaped being shot as a traitor by French bullets, only to swing from a British yard-arm as a spy. But, for the moment, he said nothing; Mr. Pitt proceeded, "To be frank with you, you will be a hostage for the genuineness of your despatch. Now that you realize the position, perhaps you would like to express your opinion of the reliability of these documents. It might save us anxiety and yourself this voyage--and, perhaps--your neck, for the Admiral is a strict disciplinarian."

St. Just did realize the position; it was as clear as daylight.

"I can only say in reply to that," rejoined St. Just, "that I have not an idea what the despatch contains, nor whether it was written to mislead, or not. For the last eighteen months I have been imprisoned at Vincennes, and not a word of what took place in Europe during the whole time reached my ears. Three days ago I was released and sent here with these papers, and ordered to remain in England, awaiting fresh instructions. I know no more."

"I thoroughly believe you, Mons. St. Just," replied the Premier. "For all that, we like to be on the safe side; and I fear you will have to take this voyage. The papers are ready for Mons. St. Just, Mr. Sidney?" he wound up interrogatively to the Secretary.

"They are, Sir," was the reply.

St. Just sat sad and stupefied. Once more, he had no sooner rejoined his wife than he was to be torn away from her. Fate was indeed cruel to him.

Now Halima had so represented matters as to make it appear that he had betrayed his trust and voluntarily handed over the papers to the English Government; but with a show of opposition to protect himself from Napoleon's vengeance, should it come to his ears, and he, St. Just, fall into the Emperor's hands. But he had no mind to lie under such an imputation, and was on the point of making a vehement protest, and explaining that he was no party to Mr. Pitt's being in possession of the papers; that he had been robbed of them; when Halima, reading his intention in his face, first silenced him with a look, and, then getting up, went round to him. "Henri!" she murmured cooingly. Her accents brought back to him the memory of days of love and dalliance spent together in the luxurious house at Cairo; of nights out in the desert under the starlit sky; of moments when they had been in peril of their lives, and they two had been all in all to one another. His name, now uttered by her in her softest tones, that breathed of love, thrilled him from head to foot, and sent the blood leaping through his veins. The words he had meant to utter remained unspoken.

"Henri," she laid her hand gently on his arm, "be silent, if you love me. I read your thoughts. You would tell them how the papers reached their hands; that you had no part in the transaction. If you value your liberty, your life--and mine, for your death would be also mine--say nothing. It will not alter their resolve to send you. At present, they have trust in you; do nothing to destroy that trust. Even as it is, they have some little doubt, though I have worked hard for you.

"I pray that Buonaparte, in making you the bearer of despatches to his agents, has not played you false; for if aught is wrong, and they are a mere ruse, the English will shoot you like a dog. So be warned by me, cheri, for my sake, if you care not for yourself; for I cannot lose you. But there is no time for more. Farewell, my dearest. May Allah bring you safely to me again."

During this short murmured conversation, the others had withdrawn somewhat from St. Just and Halima, and were discussing something in low tones together, and signing papers. Halima glanced at them, and, seeing that she was unobserved, bent forward swiftly, and kissed him lightly and noiselessly on the cheek; then slid back rapidly to her seat.

St. Just sat motionless. He felt like one suddenly launched into the middle of a dream, in which all sorts of impossibilities and incongruities and anachronisms are jumbled up together, and yet, to the dreamer, have the semblance of reality and rationality. His brain was in a whirl. All the resolutions and fidelity to Napoleon, formulated in his cell at Vincennes, had taken wing, at the touch of a woman's hand, at the music of a woman's voice, at the imprint of a woman's lips. He scarcely knew what was going on about him.

He was roused from his reverie by the opening of one of the folding doors and the entrance of a young officer in the uniform of a Hussar. The young man bowed respectfully, but without servility, to the company; then, bringing his spurred heels sharply to attention, he stood erect awaiting orders. The Prime Minister addressed him in a clear, incisive tone, "Captain Anson, you will convey this gentleman," indicating St. Just, "and the papers with which you will be entrusted to Commander Fergusson of H.M.S. La France, now lying off Shoreham. You will travel as fast as your escort can cover the ground, for it is imperative that you reach the ship before twelve o'clock, at which hour she is to sail. It is vital that Mons. St. Just shall embark in her. You will, therefore, guard him carefully and hand him over with these papers to Captain Fergusson."

The officer bowed, and Mr. Pitt went on:--"The Regent has placed at your disposal one of his private traveling carriages. You will show this," handing him a paper, which he and the Regent had signed and stamped with the Royal Arms, "to all postmasters and others, so that you may take precedence of every one in the choice of horses.

"What escort did you bring?"

"Twenty men, Sir, in accordance with the instructions in your letter to the Colonel. I received his orders soon after six this morning, and I left Hounslow almost immediately."

"Egad, Sir, that is not bad work," put in the Regent, who, all this time, had been whispering to Halima.

"Take every care of Mons. St. Just," resumed the Premier. "Treat him with all courtesy and instruct Captain Fergusson to do the same. You will ride in the carriage with him, and will not permit him, on any pretext, to communicate with any one on the way. I have nothing more to add."

He bowed to Captain Anson; then leaned back in his chair.

The Regent pulled out his watch. "Damnation!" he exclaimed, "it's close on eight o'clock. Ah! I thought so." At that moment the Horse Guards clock began to strike that hour. "You must ride hard, gentlemen. You've sixty-two miles to cover in four hours. Come, I've done Brighton in the time; and you won't be stopped--except by highwaymen; but those gentlemen mostly work by night."

He laughed, and, leaning forward, began to recount an adventure of his own, in which a highwayman had figured, when he had been stopped upon the Brighton Road. But, while he was talking, the Hussar, bowing comprehensively all round, had led his prisoner from the room; the last thing they heard, as they paced the corridor, being the coarse laugh of the Regent and the words, "Damnation, impudent, eh, Pitt? Truth, upon honor; egad what impudent----"

The words died away, and, in a few seconds, St. Just found himself in the traveling carriage--a royal one. It was beautifully padded and with springs so carefully adjusted that, even on the roughest road, the jolting was almost imperceptible. Four horses were harnessed to it.

The royal-liveried postilions glanced curiously at their unusual "fares," the door was banged to, the escort surrounded the carriage, and then, at a word from the grizzled sergeant in command, the cavalcade set out.

*CHAPTER II.*

Headed by a portion of their escort, they started at a rapid trot, wheeled round the corner of Downing Street, then past the Houses of Parliament and across Westminster Bridge, and on to where the Brighton Road begins.

Soon they had passed the outskirts of the metropolis and were in the open country. Then they put on a spanking pace, over hill and down dale, the horses galloping on every level stretch of road and down all safe descents, and even up gentle rises. The carriage oscillated from side to side, with the speed at which they were traveling, but there was little jolting, for in those days the Brighton Road was famous for its high condition, and was as smooth almost as a billiard table.

Their first halting place was the White Hart at Reigate, where they stopped for a change of horses. Here Captain Anson left the carriage and, after placing a soldier at each door with orders to prevent St. Just from leaving the carriage or speaking to any one, returned almost immediately, followed by the obsequious landlord with a basket, a welcome sight to the prisoner in the carriage, who was famishing.

The escort were, after resting their horses, to return to their barracks at Hounslow, for it would have been impossible for the men, without remounts, to accompany the carriage all the way. Captain Anson ordered two of the troopers to mount to the box; then, all being ready, they rattled off again with their fresh team.

There was a bottle of wine in the basket, and certain appetizing viands, and, under their influence, the tongues of both the occupants of the carriage became unloosed; for, up to this time, there had been little conversation. But now Captain Anson, in particular, became quite talkative, relating many amusing anecdotes and giving St. Just an insight into fashionable life in London in the Regency. Thus the time occupied between Reigate and Crawley sped by without their noticing it, so that they reached the latter village when they thought that they had but just cleared the outskirts of Red Hill.

When they drew up before the George, the officer frowned, for, just in front of them, was another post-chaise; while, from the inn yard, some fresh horses were being led out.

Then St. Just heard the sound of angry voices in altercation. "Ah!" thought he, "a dispute about the horses, no doubt;" and in this he was correct. Next, some one tried to approach the carriage, but this the two troopers placed on guard prevented. The fresh team was quickly harnessed, and the carriage moved on again. In passing the inn door, St. Just noticed on the doorstep a swearing, gesticulating figure he well knew. It was Perry, the hosier of the Strand. For the first time since the commencement of his journey St. Just was glad to get away, for he had no wish to be recognized by his London friend; the circumstance would certainly have been communicated to Paris.

"Poor old chap," laughed Anson, while they were making the steep ascent leading to Hand Cross village, "I'm afraid we've upset him vastly, in borrowing his horses. He made no end of a hubbub and swore I should not have them, without your personal command."

"Mine?" asked the other in surprise; "What did he know about me?"

"Why?" laughed Captain Anson; "seeing the Royal carriage and liveries he thought the Regent was inside; the more so when I showed him my authority. It was all I could do to keep him from coming to the carriage to pay his respects to the Prince, whom, he said, he knew. I had to tell him that his Royal Highness was asleep, and that I would not permit him to be disturbed. I don't know who the fellow is, but he said he had important business with one Stephen Dumbell at Bolney, and that he must see him before noon; that all sorts of awful things would happen, if he didn't. I'm afraid Stephen Dumbell will have to possess his soul in patience, until his friend procures another team."

St. Just laughed too, but only in a half-hearted way, for Perry's appearance had filled him with uneasy thoughts. Again it came to him what an egregious act of folly it had been, his not having delivered his despatch before seeing Halima. Then all that had since happened, and his present predicament would have been avoided. It was possible, nay probable, that his dereliction of duty would have wide-spreading consequences; might even change the whole current of affairs in Europe. And why should Perry be leaving England so suddenly, for that he, like them, was making his way to Shoreham, St. Just felt certain.

He was glad to learn that Perry was unknown to Captain Anson, and he kept his own knowledge of him to himself.

Meanwhile the carriage rattled on; now descending at a breakneck pace the long decline that led to the pretty little hamlet of Bolney; then on past the Cross Roads, leaving on the right the road to sleepy Cowfold and the more active and larger, but hardly less old-fashioned Horsham.

On they dashed, past the grand old mansion of Hickstead, at that time approached, as was that of Cuckfield, by a fine avenue of trees, most of which have long disappeared, together with the monks who planted them.

On, on, on, and now it was in verity a race with time. Captain Anson thrust his head out of the carriage window. "Faster, faster!" he cried to the postillions. "A guinea each, if we arrive in time."

And, in answer to his appeal, the men plied vigorously whip and spur to the panting, sweating horses; and soon they were tearing long as fast as they could gallop over the bridge that spans the river Arun hard by Lancing. On, on, they sped and, at last, Shoreham loomed in view.