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“Even the Happy Valley might be endured with such a companion.”—Rasselas, chap. xiii.

Mr. Rowl’s unspoken petition had certainly been granted. The nineteenth of March was an even finer afternoon than its predecessor—a thought too fine, indeed, for a fisherman whose heart had been set wholly upon sport. (But then Mr. Rowl’s heart was not so set.) The stream sang as it rippled under the little stone bridge whose presence almost raised it to the status of a river, and the birds were singing too in the coppice that topped the meadow on the farther side and then flung down a tributary line of thicket almost to the water. And all over this thicket, and everywhere else, the green was breaking in varying degrees of eagerness—a promise of what would reward the eye if one came again in a week or so. . . .

The young man on the bridge at present, however, had his back turned to all this display, since, leaning his arms on the parapet, he was looking meditatively down at the water. His fishing rod rested against the same support, for M. des Sablières had really been fishing conscientiously (though fruitlessly) in order to delude any one who might witness it (or possibly even himself) into the belief that this prearranged meeting with Miss Juliana Forrest was just a chance encounter.

If Miss Forrest came, that was; for to-day she might think better of her design. Of course, the conventions were not quite so easily outraged for an English girl as for a French; he knew that. Besides, she might have her lawful escort with her, since it was not likely that Sir Francis would allow her to walk back from Northover unaccompanied. In that case, did she intend to make the gentleman wait while she pointed out to a French prisoner her favourite passages in Rasselas? If so, having regard to his recent conversation with that prisoner, there might be interesting developments.

More possibly she meant to come unescorted, which, if “le Roi Soleil” learnt afterwards of their open-air study of English, might lead to more interesting ones still. Almost undoubtedly for his own sake, just possibly for Miss Forrest’s too, it would have been well to decline this encounter. But how could he put such an affront upon the lady who, whatever her motive, had been kind enough to propose it? Such a proceeding, especially after Sir Francis’s attempt to read him a lesson, would have been of a prudence to make M. Raoul-Marie-Amédée des Sablières blush all the rest of his life at the remembrance.

If le gros Mulholland accompanied her—and Raoul really did not see how on this, her last afternoon at Wanfield, she could avoid his escort—dare he throw that gentleman into the stream, as, after yesterday’s impertinence, he would so greatly enjoy doing? He dallied with the idea, leaning there on the bridge, knowing perfectly well that he could not do such a thing in Miss Forrest’s presence. D’ailleurs, Sir Francis was much the bigger of the two. But what a souse he would make going in! The poor little river would be completely dammed by le gros Mulholland . . . unfortunately it was not deep enough to drown him. . . . It was all very well to indulge in these pleasant fancies, but what of his future relations with Sir Francis, quite apart from any possible complications which might be imported into them by this afternoon’s interview with his ladylove, if he came to know of it? On one thing, however, Raoul was determined—that he was not going to be bullied by him out of his footing at Northover.

In the midst of these reflections he caught the sound of a light step approaching, and turned eagerly. In another moment Miss Juliana Forrest came round the corner of the bend . . . and she was unaccompanied.

Raoul swept off his hat and went to meet her at the end of the bridge. Miss Forrest wore a long close-fitting coat of cherry colour, edged all round and up the fronts with ermine, but from just below the bosom, where it was tied about with a ribbon, it fell a little apart, and showed her white cambric walking-dress. She was looking very charming, the more so that her own colour was undoubtedly a trifle heightened.

“Miss Forrest, as I live!” exclaimed the young man. “What pleasant surprises Fate can give an unlucky fisherman after all!”

Miss Juliana smiled, and coloured yet more at this disingenuous address. “You have not caught anything this afternoon, then, Monsieur? I am sorry.”

“You have no cause to pity me, Mademoiselle,” returned Raoul, looking at her and smiling too. He was still bareheaded; the breeze lifted his fine, dark, loosely curling hair, and the sunlight showed the laughter and vitality in his grey eyes with their rims of still darker grey. And suddenly Miss Forrest seemed to find the little bridge too bright a place to stand and talk with a young man, for she began to move across it.

“Mademoiselle,” said Raoul, moving with her, “you were going to point out to me the beauties of le docteur Johnson. But remember that I cannot accompany you up that path to the little wood. Only by the river may I disport myself—and that solely by permission of the good Mr. Bannister.”

She hesitated and looked down the stream. It was clean out of her way. Raoul read her thoughts quite well.

“I have never been along that path,” said the Honourable Juliana.

“You would find it quite dry,” observed Raoul, glancing at her thin footgear.

“Then I think I will take a turn there.”

“And I may have the privilege of accompanying you?” enquired Raoul. “Since Monsieur le docteur comes too,” he glanced at the reticule upon her arm—“and I have my fishing rod,” he added, laying hold of it.

Under the tutelage of these two chaperons, therefore, they left the bridge and started along the little track by the river bank, which was just wide enough for Juliana’s slender feet in their kid half-boots. Under Raoul’s the grass swished pleasantly, and for a moment or two that was the only sound the couple made.

Could Juliana Forrest herself have said what had caused her to do this thing? Hardly. Pique, a desire to show her betrothed that he could not dictate to her—a desire, in short, to read him a lesson? But it is of no use reading a person a lesson unless he is aware of the process, and Juliana, being conversant with Sir Francis’s movements this afternoon (which she had had no small share in determining) knew that he would not pass by Fawley Bridge. But she always had it in her power to tell him of what she had done, if she saw fit . . . since not for one moment did she regard this as a clandestine proceeding, to be hushed up. Miss Juliana Forrest did not condescend to behaviour of that sort; nor, certainly, had she been the least in the world in love with M. des Sablières, or he with her, would she have suggested handing over Rasselas in this manner. M. des Sablières was a friend, in whom she took a friend’s interest and whom she might meet whenever it seemed good to her.

So, after they had gone a short way, she opened her reticule and held out a small volume.

“Ah, the famous book!” said Raoul, and read off the title: “ ‘Rasselas, Prince of Abyssinia.’ Il était donc prince, le héros du bon docteur?”

Miss Forrest assented, and Raoul tucked his rod under his arm the better to examine the book as they walked slowly along.

“But he was a captive, then, in the hands of his enemies, this prince?” enquired the young Frenchman after a moment.

“A captive, but not in the hands of his enemies,” replied Miss Forrest. And she explained how, according to the author, it was customary for the children of the royal race of Abyssinia to be confined in a delightful valley until they should succeed to the throne.

Her hearer listened attentively, but he did not fail to mark at the same time the fineness of her profile, and the way her lashes lifted themselves after their downward sweep. How green the boughs were behind her head—and how good the air smelt!

“Well, this Rasselas cannot have had a pleasanter captivity than mine,” he observed at the end of this exposition. “You are all too kind to me here, Mademoiselle.” “All except le gros Mulholland,” he added to himself.

“Then I hope,” said Juliana gently, “that you can sometimes forget your captivity.”

In the flash of an eye the mobile visage had changed. “No, Mademoiselle, I never forget it,” said the young hussar quite simply.

“Yes, the restrictions are ridiculous,” agreed Miss Forrest sympathetically. “What is one mile along the turnpike to a man? You must often long to walk in the fields. And then that curfew. . . .”

They were at a standstill now. “It is not those little things,” said Raoul, shaking his head. “You, Mademoiselle, will understand me, I think, when I say that I did not put on the Emperor’s uniform in order to use this”—he indicated his fishing rod. “Every day I become older, is it not, doing nothing. Eight months have gone by——” He broke off.

“Eight months,” repeated Juliana, struck by his tone. “Eight months since Salamanca, your last battle—and the most terrible, perhaps?”

And there by the stream she looked at him with new eyes, realizing that he was, after all, a soldier, and, amusing and accommodating though he might be, evidently had a preference for a soldier’s life, with all its hazards.

“No, Mademoiselle,” he now replied, “not the most terrible. Salamanca, where I was taken prisoner, was the greatest battle in which I had the honour of participating, but Albuera, the year before, was more bloody.”

“Albuera!” exclaimed Juliana. “Was it not at Albuera that there was that terrible cavalry charge which almost wiped out I forget how many of our regiments in a few minutes—or so I have heard?”

“Yes,” said Raoul. “There was a sudden violent hail-storm . . . which helped us.” And he added, looking away: “You must try not to hate me too much, Mademoiselle—but I was in that charge.”

Juliana was not conscious of any violent aversion. “But I am sure that you, Monsieur des Sablières, were not one of the lancers who afterwards rode down and massacred our wounded! No, I forgot, of course you are not a lancer.”

“I hope,” said the young man, with rather a wry smile, “that is not the only ground on which you are sure of it?” Then he faced her squarely. “To tell the truth, Mademoiselle—and I am glad to be able to tell it—it was not French troops at all who were guilty of that atrocious conduct. It was the Poles who had just charged, the Lancers of the Vistula. But I cannot deny, to my shame, that it occurred. I—I was able to intervene in the case of one officer, and I was fortunately successful; but the Lancers were beside themselves, and it was not very easy. . . .” He broke off, looking meditative—back, Juliana could see, on the field of battle again.

“Oh, Monsieur des Sablières,” she exclaimed, “how grateful that officer must have been to you! Did you know his name?”

“We had no time to exchange cards, Mademoiselle,” said Raoul smiling. “He was, of course, made prisoner, and I did not see him again. I do not even know his regiment, except that it belonged to the brigade we had just charged. But do not let us talk of battles, since in doing so we must realize that we are enemies. . . .”

“Must we?” asked Juliana with a smile. “Even here?—Do you know, Monsieur, that from every officer returned from Spain whom I have ever met—and I have met not a few—I have heard the same praises of—the enemy?”

“Mademoiselle,” said Raoul bowing, “vous me rendez confus! May I say that that sentiment was not confined to one side? Yes, one exchanged courtesies—gifts sometimes; one even had one’s friendships with the foe.”

“As in the times of chivalry!” said Miss Forrest with sparkling eyes. “When I read those wonderful poems of Walter Scott’s—I wish I could lend you Marmion—I feel that if I had been born a man I should like to go to the wars. But there must be much hardship as well as glory. Tell me, Monsieur des Sablières, how long had you been in Spain before your capture?”

“About a year and eight months,” replied Raoul. “I joined my regiment, the Second Hussars, at the end of 1810; it was part of the First Corps, Marshal Victor’s, under Soult. And I was fortunate enough to be present at the battle of the Gebora, in February, 1811. Perhaps you may not have heard of it”—he permitted himself a rather malicious smile here—“for it was an undisputed French victory—against the Spaniards, bien entendu. At the Gebora—it is a river, Mademoiselle—we destroyed the army of Estremadura, and then Badajoz surrendered to us. (Oh, yes, I know that you have stormed it since Salamanca, but we had held it against you for more than a year.) Then came Albuera, of which I have spoken; then Marshal Soult joined Marmont, and both armies lay for a fortnight on one side of the River Caya, with Lord Wellington on the other. How I used to long for the attack!—but the day never came. At the Caya I was transferred to the Third Hussars, which formed part of Curto’s Light Cavalry Division in Marmont’s army, and being thenceforward with Marmont instead of with Soult, I came to be at Salamanca, and so—find myself here at Wanfield.”

“You were wounded at Salamanca, were you not?” asked Juliana. “I hope you received proper attention from our surgeons?”

“I was very well cared for indeed, thank you, Mademoiselle. And my wound was not serious; I was lame for a little, that was all.”

“And how did you come to England? It could not, I fear, have been an agreeable voyage.”

M. des Sablières’ mouth tightened a little. “No. It was horrible. We were crammed on the transport like sheep, and battened down most of the time. But at any rate it came to an end; and the conditions could not be helped; you took so many prisoners, alas, at Salamanca. But I gained some idea of the horrible conditions—which you must pardon me for saying could be avoided—under which so many of the less fortunate of us are rotting in your hulks to-day.”

“The hulks!” said Miss Forrest with a shiver. “Do not let us speak of them. I have heard things . . . no, too horrible! If they are true, they are a disgrace to us, to England!”

Raoul, touched that she could feel for misfortunes which she had never witnessed, and which in any case were suffered by enemies, was about to say something of the kind when he became aware that a man was walking along the more frequented path on the opposite side of the stream, and that he was not unobservant of them. He looked across and saw the Comte de Sainte-Suzanne.

Miss Juliana Forrest saw him too. For the second time since her coming her colour rose a little; for the second time she took an added beauty from it. She acknowledged the Comte’s salutation and Raoul did the same, unable to decide whether he could detect on his compatriot’s face, across the width of the stream, an indication of the surprise which he was probably feeling. In silence they both watched him continue his path away from the bridge, and Raoul suddenly remembered that at the beginning of this interview he had half expected somebody else to break in upon it, and realized too how completely he had since forgotten that anticipation. . . . As for Sainte-Suzanne, he was not the man to go gossiping.

“Tell me, Mademoiselle,” he said, for the sake of saying something, for a shadow of constraint seemed to have fallen across them both, “does this Rasselas,” he touched his pocket, “ever escape from his Happy Valley?”

“Yes,” replied Juliana, beginning to move in the direction of the bridge, “he makes a way out, and leaves it in the company of a sage and a lady.—But the lady is his sister,” she added, with the suspicion of a smile. “Do not expect to find a romance of love in so edifying a work as Rasselas. If you want that you must ask Miss Bentley to lend you Richardson.”

“But surely Monsieur le docteur Johnson could have rendered even a romance of love edifying?” protested the student. “Yet, perhaps, for purposes of escape a sister would be a more suitable companion. That is, some kinds of a sister—one like mine, for instance.”

“Ah, you have a sister, Monsieur?”

“Yes, Mademoiselle—au plus haut degré même. I mean that I have a twin sister.”

Miss Forrest was much interested; she had never met a twin, and said so. “Does your sister resemble you very much?”

“Not so much, perhaps, as one pea another in the same pod, which I believe is expected of twins,” answered Raoul, laughing, “but we have changed clothes, Adrienne and I, in our younger and wilder days, and no one has been much the wiser.” He smiled as at some reminiscence, and Juliana knew that he was thinking of his home. Presently, indeed, he began to speak of it a little: of his father, who was old, and old-fashioned in his ideas, not moving with the times but regretting the past—“yet a better father no one could have, Mademoiselle”; of his mother, loved by everyone who came near her, “and not least by me, as you can imagine. . . . I have not seen her for nearly two and a half years,” he went on. “I had leave from Spain once, in the winter, but there was not time to get farther than Bayonne—and we live in the Orléanais! My little mother was ailing; she could not undertake the journey; my father was anxious, and stayed with her. It was a great disappointment. But Adrienne came; she travelled all by herself across two-thirds of France, in the snow; the diligence broke down too, at Dax, but it would take more than that to stop her. So we met in Bayonne, on the jour des Rois, and were very happy—for twenty-four hours.”

They walked on in silence after that, Miss Forrest thinking how simple and modest he was under his lively exterior—this terrible Frenchman who had not made the slightest attempt to take advantage of her rashness—which proved that she had not been rash! So it was a great thing to him to meet his sister; but she could not help wondering a little whether there were not any other lady whom he would have liked to meet in Bayonne, on Twelfth Night.

The bridge was nearly reached again when she said suddenly, “Since I am going away to-morrow, may I ask you what I fear may sound an impertinent question?”

“Pray ask me anything, Mademoiselle. It could not be impertinent.”

“I have had it in my mind for some time,” confessed Juliana, looking down and playing with her reticule. “And now, the sight of old Monsieur de Sainte-Suzanne has revived it. How is it, Monsieur des Sablières, that you, a gentleman of a family no doubt as old as his, find yourself. . . .”

“Find myself an officer of the Emperor’s?” completed Raoul as she hesitated. “Mademoiselle, if when you say ‘find yourself,’ you think that it was due to an accident, or to necessity, I must tell you that it was not Fate but my own choice which has made me serve the greatest soldier that even France has produced. And I am not singular in that. He has many better-known names than mine on his rosters.”

“But when the choice has made you—though surely without your recognizing it or willing it—the enemy of your own class, your own traditions, your own King?”

Raoul looked intently at her. It was a strange coincidence to be taken to task for this delinquency two days running. Yet it was flattering that this young English lady should be sufficiently interested in him to demand an explanation when the action evidently caused her some embarrassment.

He tried to explain his position. They were at the bridge again by the time he had finished.

“France is young, Mademoiselle,” he urged in conclusion—“always young, although she is old! There is sap in her veins, even springing up. And it comes up, up from the root. My family is not a newcomer—not a graft on that tree; the new sap runs through it also. Now Monsieur de Sainte-Suzanne, though I respect him deeply for what he has suffered, I cannot but think of him and his fellows as dead boughs—dropped off. The Bourbons too—a withered branch; France does not need them any more. It is sad. I regret it—though less than my parents regret it, yet more than my sons will regret it when their time comes. Tout tombe, tout pousse à jamais; c’est la loi de la forêt.”

“Yes,” said the girl thoughtfully. “I understand a little better. You forgive the question, I hope . . . And now, I must go on my way.”

She held out her hand. Raoul des Sablières kissed it. “You have been, in everything, too good, Mademoiselle. I shall, I promise you, read every word of Rasselas with the care it deserves. I wish you an agreeable journey to-morrow.”

“The best I could wish you, Monsieur des Sablières,” said Juliana, looking at him with great kindness, “is that on my return I should find you gone on a journey across the Channel! But I suppose there is small chance of that?”

Raoul shook his head with a smile. “Yet there are consolations in every lot. I shall be able to restore your book to you.”

He assisted her over the stile, and watched her progress up the sloping meadow path, where he might not accompany her. When the cherry-colour and ermine had vanished over the brow he returned to the bridge and started to take his rod to pieces. But he had hardly got the first joints apart when he heard a faint scream from the direction of the meadow. Raoul did not wait for its repetition, but, dropping his rod, vaulted over the stile and ran up the path like a hare.

The cry came again as he ran, and joined to it his own name. “Je viens! je viens!” he called out, and burst into the thicket to find a rough-looking man struggling with Miss Juliana Forrest for the possession of her reticule.