These Old Shades

“When I have told my story, and if you still wish it, I will take her away. Sit down, Fanny. The expression of outraged virtue is entirely wasted on me.”

She flounced into a chair.

“I think you are very unkind! If Edward comes in he will be furious.”

“Then let us hope that he will not come in. Your profile is enchanting, my dear, but I would sooner see both your eyes.”

“Oh, Justin!” She clasped her hands, anger forgotten. “You think it enchanting still? I vow, I thought I looked a positive fright when I looked in the mirror this morning! ’Tis age, I suppose. Oh, I am forgetting to be angry with you! Indeed, I am so thankful to see you again I cannot be cross! But you must explain, Justin.”

“I will start mine explanation, Fanny, with an announcement. I am not in love with Léonie. If you will believe that it will make matters more simple.” He tossed the fan on the couch, and drew out his snuff-box.

“But—but if you are not in love with her, why—what—Justin, I don’t understand! You are most provoking!”

“Pray accept my most humble apologies. I have a reason for adopting the child.”

“Is she French? Where did she learn to speak English? I wish you would explain!”

“I am endeavouring to do so, my dear. Allow me to say that you give me very little opportunity.”

She pouted.

“Now you are cross. Well, start, Justin! The child is pretty enough, I grant you.”

“Thank you. I found her in Paris one evening, clad as a boy, and fleeing from her unpleasant—er—brother. It transpired that this brother and his inestimable wife had made the child masquerade as a boy ever since her twelfth year. She was thus of more use to them. They kept a low tavern, you see.”

Fanny cast up her eyes.

“A tavern-wench!” She shuddered, and raised her scented handkerchief to her nose.

“Precisely. In a fit of—let us say—quixotic madness, I bought Léonie or Léon, as she called herself, and took her home with me. She became my page. I assure you she created no little interest in polite circles. It pleased me to keep her a boy for a time. She imagined that I was in ignorance of her sex. I became a hero to her. Yes, is it not amusing?”

“It is horrid! Of course the girl hopes to intrigue you. La, Justin, how can you be such a fool?”

“My dear Fanny, when you know Léonie a little better you will not accuse her of having designs upon me. She is in very truth the infant I call her. A gay, impertinent, and trusting infant. I have a notion that she regards me in the light of a grandparent. To resume: as soon as we arrived at Dover I told her that I knew her secret. It may surprise you to hear, Fanny, that the task was damnably hard.”

“It does,” said Fanny, frankly.

“I was sure it would. However, I did it. She neither shrank from me nor tried to coquette. You can have no idea how refreshing I found it.”

“Oh, I make no doubt you found it so!” retorted Fanny.

“I am glad that we understand one another so well,” bowed his Grace. “For reasons of mine own I am adopting Léonie, and because I will have no breath of scandal concerning her I bring her to you.”

“You overwhelm me, Justin.”

“Oh, I trust not! I believe you told me some months ago that our cousin by marriage, the unspeakable Field, had died?”

“What has that to do with it?”

“It follows, my dear, that our respected cousin, his wife, whose name I forget, is free. I have a mind to make her Léonie’s chaperon.”

“Lud!”

“And as soon as may be I will send her and Léonie down to Avon. The infant must learn to be a girl again. Poor infant!”

“That is all very well, Justin, but you cannot expect me to house the girl! I vow ’tis preposterous! Think of Edward!”

“Pray hold me excused. I never think of Edward unless I can help it.”

“Justin, if you are minded to be disagreeable——”

“Not at all, my dear.” The smile faded from his lips. Fanny saw that his eyes were unwontedly stern. “We will be serious for once, Fanny. Your conviction that I had brought my mistress to your house——”

“Justin!”

“I am sure you will forgive my plain speaking. That conviction, I say, was pure folly. It has never been my custom to compromise others by my numerous affairs, and you should know that I am sufficiently strict where you are concerned.” There was peculiar meaning in his voice, and Fanny, who had once been famed for her indiscretions, dabbed at her eyes.

“How c-can you be s-so unkind! I do not think you are at all nice to-day!”

“But I trust I have made myself plain? You realize that the child I have brought you is but a child?—an innocent child?”

“I am sorry for her if she is!” said her ladyship spitefully.

“You need not be sorry. For once I mean no harm.”

“If you mean her no harm how can you think to adopt her?” Fanny tittered angrily. “What do you suppose the world will say?”

“It will be surprised, no doubt, but when it sees that my ward is presented by the Lady Fanny Marling its tongue will cease to wag.”

Fanny stared at him.

“I present her? You’re raving! Why should I?”

“Because, my dear, you have a kindness for me. You will do as I ask. Also, though you are thoughtless, and occasionally exceedingly tiresome, I never found you cruel. ’Twere cruelty to turn my infant away. She is a very lonely, frightened infant, you see.”

Fanny rose, twisting her handkerchief between her hands. She glanced undecidedly at her brother.

“A girl from the back streets of Paris, of low birth——”

“No, my dear. More I cannot say, but she is not born of the canaille. You have but to look at her to see that.”

“Well, a girl of whom I know naught—foisted on me! I declare ’tis monstrous! I could not possibly do it! What would Edward say?”

“I am confident that you could, if you would, cajole the worthy Edward.”

Fanny smiled.

“Yes, I could, but I do not want the girl.”

“She will not tease you, my dear. I wish you to keep her close, to dress her as befits my ward, and to be gentle with her. Is it so much to ask?”

“How do I know that she will not ogle Edward, this innocent maid?”

“She is too much the boy. Of course, if you are uncertain of Edward——”

She tossed her head.

“Indeed, ’tis no such thing! ’Tis merely that I’ve no wish to house a pert, red-headed girl.”

His Grace bent to pick up his fan.

“I crave your pardon, Fanny. I’ll take the child elsewhere.”

Fanny ran to him, penitent all at once.

“Indeed and you shall not! Oh, Justin, I am sorry to be so disobliging!”

“You’ll take her?”

“I—yes, I’ll take her. But I don’t believe all you say of her. I’ll wager my best necklet she’s not so artless as she would have you think.”

“You would lose, my dear.” His Grace moved to the door into the antechamber, and opened it. “Infant, come forth!”

Léonie came, her cloak over her arm. At sight of her boy’s raiment Fanny closed her eyes as though in acute pain.

Avon patted Léonie’s cheek.

“My sister has promised to care for you until I can take you myself,” he said. “Remember, you will do as she bids you.”

Léonie looked shyly across at Fanny, who stood with primly set lips and head held high. The big eyes noted the unyielding pose, and fluttered up to Avon’s face.

“Monseigneur—please do not—leave me!” It was a despairing whisper, and it amazed Fanny.

“I shall come to see you very soon, my babe. You are quite safe with Lady Fanny.”

“I don’t—want you to go away! Monseigneur, you—you do not understand!”

“Infant, I do understand. Have no fear; I shall come back again!” He turned to Fanny, and bowed over her hand. “I have to thank you, my dear. Pray convey my greetings to the excellent Edward. Léonie, how often have I forbidden you to clutch the skirts of my coat?”

“—I am sorry, Monseigneur.”

“You always say that. Be a good child, and strive to bear with your petticoats.” He held out his hand, and Léonie dropped on one knee to kiss it. Something sparkling fell on to those white fingers, but Léonie turned her head away, surreptitiously wiping her eyes.

“F-Farewell, Mon—monseigneur.”

“Farewell, my infant. Fanny, your devoted servant!” He made a profound leg, and went out, shutting the door behind him.

Left alone with the small but forbidding Lady Fanny, Léonie stood as though rooted to the ground, looking hopelessly towards the shut door, and twisting her hat in her hands.

“Mademoiselle,” said Fanny coldly, “if you will follow me I will show you your apartment. Have the goodness to wrap your cloak about you.”

“Yes, madame.” Léonie’s lip trembled. “I am—very sorry, madame,” she said brokenly. A tiny sob escaped her, valiantly suppressed, and suddenly the icy dignity fell from Fanny. She ran forward, her skirts rustling prodigiously, and put her arms about her visitor.

“Oh, my dear, I am a shrew!” she said. “Never fret, child! Indeed, I am ashamed of myself! There, there!” She led Léonie to the sofa, and made her sit down, petting and soothing until the choked sobs died away.

“You see, madame,” Léonie explained, rubbing her eyes with her handkerchief. “I felt so—very lonely. I did not mean to cry, but when—Monseigneur—went away—it was so very dreadful!”

“I wish I understood!” sighed Fanny. “Are you fond of my brother, child?”

“I would die for Monseigneur,” said Léonie simply. “I am here only because he wished it.”

“Oh, my goodness gracious me!” said Fanny. “Here’s a pretty coil! My dear, be warned by me, who knows him! Have naught to do with Avon: he was not called Satanas for no reason.”

“He is not a devil to me. And I do not care.”

Fanny cast up her eyes.

“Everything is upside down!” she complained. Then she jumped up. “Oh, you must come up to my chamber, child. ’Twill be so droll to clothe you! See!” She measured herself against Léonie. “We are very much of a height, my love. Perhaps you are a little taller. Not enough to signify.” She fluttered to where Léonie’s cloak had fallen, caught it up, and wrapped it about her charge. “For fear lest the servants should see and chatter,” she explained. “Now come with me.” She swept out, one arm about Léonie’s waist, and, meeting her butler on the stairs, nodded condescendingly to him. “Parker, I have my brother’s ward come unexpectedly to visit me. Be good enough to bid them prepare the guest-chamber. And send my tirewoman to me.” She turned to whisper in Léonie’s ear. “A most faithful, discreet creature, I give you my word.” She led the girl into her bedroom, and closed the door. “Now we shall see! Oh, ’twill be most entertaining, I dare swear!” She kissed Léonie again, and was wreathed in smiles. “To think I was so dull! ’Pon rep, I owe my darling Justin a debt of gratitude. I shall call you Léonie.”

“Yes, madame.” Léonie recoiled slightly, fearing another embrace.

Fanny tripped to her wardrobe.

“And you must call me Fanny, my dear. Off with those—those dreadful clothes!”

Léonie glanced down at her slim figure.

“But, madame, they are very fine clothes! Monseigneur gave them to me.”

“Indelicate creature! Off with them, I say! they must be burned.”

Léonie sat down plump upon the bed.

“Then I will not take them off.”

Fanny turned, and for a moment they stared at one another. Léonie’s chin was tilted, her dark eyes flashed.

“You are very tiresome,” pouted Fanny. “What can you want with man’s attire?”

“I will not have them burned!”

“Oh, ’tis very well, my dear! Keep them if you will!” said Fanny hastily, and wheeled about as the door opened. “Here is Rachel! Rachel, this is Mademoiselle de Bonnard, my brother’s ward. She—she wants some clothes.”

The tirewoman gazed at Léonie in horrified wonder.

“So I should think, my lady,” she said austerely.

Lady Fanny stamped her foot.

“Wicked, insolent woman! Don’t dare to sniff! And if you say a word below-stairs, Rachel——”

“I would not so demean myself, your ladyship.”

“Mademoiselle—has come from France. She—she was compelled to wear those garments. It does not matter why. But—but now she wants to change them.”

“No, I do not,” said Léonie truthfully.

“Yes, yes, you do! Léonie, if you are disagreeable, I shall lose my temper!”

Léonie looked at her in some surprise.

“But I am not disagreeable. I only said——”

“I know, I know! Rachel, if you look like that, I vow I will box your ears!”

Léonie crossed one leg under her.

“I think I will tell Rachel everything,” she said.

“My dear! Oh, as you please!” Fanny flounced to a chair, and sat down.

“You see,” said Léonie gravely, “I have been a boy for seven years.”

“Lawks, miss!” breathed Rachel.

“What is that?” inquired Léonie, interested.

“It is nothing!” said Fanny sharply. “Go on, child.”

“I have been a page, Rachel, but now Monseign—I mean, the Duc of Avon—wants to make me his—his ward, so I have to learn to be a girl. I do not want to, you understand, but I must. So please will you help me?”

“Yes, miss. Of course I will!” said Rachel, whereupon her mistress flew up out of her chair.

“Admirable creature! Rachel, find linen! Léonie, I implore you, take off those breeches!”

“Don’t you like them?” inquired Léonie.

“Like them!” Fanny waved agitated hands. “They are monstrous improper! Take them off!”

“But they are of an excellent cut, madame.” Léonie proceeded to wriggle out of her coat.

“You must not—you positively must not speak of such things!” said Fanny earnestly. “’Tis most unseemly.”

“But, madame, one cannot help seeing them. If men did not wear them——”

“Oh!” Fanny broke into scandalized laughter. “Not another word!”

For the next hour Léonie was bundled in and out of garments, while Fanny and Rachel twisted and turned her, laced her and unlaced her, and pushed her this way and that. To all their ministrations she submitted patiently, but she displayed no interest in the proceedings.

“Rachel, my green silk!” commanded her ladyship, and held out a flowered petticoat to Léonie.

“The green, my lady?”

“The green silk that became me not, stupid girl! Quickly! ’Twill be ravishing with your red hair, my love!”

She seized a brush, and proceeded to arrange the tumbled curls. “How could you cut it? ’Tis impossible to dress your hair now. No matter. You shall wear a green riband threaded through, and—oh, hasten, Rachel!”

Léonie was put into the green silk. It was cut low across the chest, to her evident confusion, and spread over a great hoop below the waist.

“Oh, said I not that ’twould be ravishing?” cried Fanny, stepping back to look at her handiwork. “I cannot bear it! Thank goodness Justin is to take you into the country! You are far, far too lovely! Look in the mirror, ridiculous child!”

Léonie turned to see herself in the long glass behind her. She seemed taller, all at once, and infinitely more beautiful, with her curls clustering about her little pointed face, and her big eyes grave and awed. Her skin showed very white against the apple-green silk. She regarded herself in wonder, and between her brows was a troubled crease. Fanny saw it.

“What! Not satisfied?”

“It is very splendid, madame, and—and I look nice, I think, but——” she cast a longing glance to where her discarded raiment lay. “I want my breeches!”

Fanny flung up her hands.

“Another word about those breeches, and I burn them! You make me shudder, child!”

Léonie looked at her solemnly.

“I do not at all understand why you do not like——”

“Provoking creature! I insist on your silence! Rachel, take those—those garments away this instant! I declare I will not have them in my room.”

“They shall not be burned!” said Léonie challengingly.

Fanny encountered the fierce glance, and gave vent to a little titter.

“Oh, as you will, my love! Put them in a box, Rachel, and convey them to Mistress Léonie’s apartment. Léonie, I will have you look at yourself! Tell me, is it not a modish creation?” She went to the girl and twitched the heavy folds of silk into position.

Léonie regarded her reflection again.

“I think I have grown,” she said. “What will happen if I move, madame?”

“Why, what should happen?” asked Fanny, staring.

Léonie shook her head dubiously.

“I think something will burst, madame. Me perhaps.”

Fanny laughed.

“What nonsense! Why, ’tis laced so loosely that it might almost fall off you! Nay, never pick your skirts up so! Oh, heaven, child, you must not show your legs! ’Tis positively indecent!”

“Bah!” said Léonie, and, gathering up her skirts, walked carefully across the room. “Certainly I shall burst,” she sighed. “I shall tell Monseigneur that I cannot wear women’s clothes. It is as though I were in a cage.”

“Don’t say you’ll—burst—again!” implored Fanny. “’Tis a most unladylike expression.”

Léonie paused in her perambulations to and fro.

“Am I a lady?” she inquired.

“Of course you are! What else?”

The roguish dimple peeped out for the first time, and the blue eyes danced.

“Well, what now? Is it so funny?” asked Fanny, a trifle peevishly.

Léonie nodded.

“But yes, madame. And—and very perplexing.” She came back to the mirror, and bowed to her own reflection. “Bonjour, Mademoiselle de Bonnard! Peste, qu’elle est ridicule!”

“Who?” demanded Fanny.

Léonie pointed a scornful finger at herself.

“That silly creature.”

“’Tis yourself.”

“No.” said Léonie with conviction. “Never!”

“You are most provoking!” cried Fanny. “I have been at pains to dress you in my prettiest gown—yes, the very prettiest, though, to be sure, it became me not—and you say ’tis silly!”

“But no, madame. It is I who am silly. Could I not keep my breeches just for to-night?”

Fanny clapped her hands to her ears.

“I positively will not listen! Don’t dare to mention that word to Edward, I implore you!”

“Edward? Bah, what a name! Who is it?”

“My husband. A dear creature, I give you my word, but I faint to think of what he would feel an you spoke of breeches in his hearing!” Fanny gave a little gurgle of laughter. “Oh, how entertaining ’twill be to buy clothes for you! I quite love Justin for bringing you to me! And whatever will Rupert say?”

Léonie withdrew her gaze from the mirror.

“That is Monseigneur’s brother, n’est-ce pas?”

“The most provoking creature,” nodded Fanny. “Quite mad, you know. But then we Alastairs are all of us that. No doubt you have observed it?”

The big eyes twinkled.

“No, madame.”

“What! And you have—have lived with Avon for three months?” Fanny cast up her eyes. The sound of a shutting door somewhere below roused her to sudden activity. “There! That is Edward returned from White’s already! I think I will go down and—and talk to him while you rest. Poor child, I dare swear you are dreadfully fatigued?”

“N-no,” said Léonie. “But you will tell Mr. Marling that I have come, is it not so? And if he does not like it—and I do not think that he will—I can——”

“Fiddle!” said Fanny, blushing faintly. “No such thing, my love, I assure you. Edward will be enchanted! Of course he will, stupid child! A pretty thing ’twould be an I could not twist him round my finger. ’Twas only that I wanted you to rest, and indeed you shall! I vow you are nigh dropping with fatigue! Don’t try to argue with me, Léonie!”

“I am not arguing,” Léonie pointed out.

“No, well, I thought you might, and it makes me so cross! Come with me, and I will take you to your chamber.” She led Léonie to a blue guest-chamber, and sighed. “Ravishing!” she said. “I wish you were not quite so lovely. Your eyes are like those velvet curtains. I got them in Paris, my dear. Are they not exquisite? I forbid you to touch your dress while I am gone, mind!” She frowned direfully, patted Léonie’s hand, and was gone in a whirl of silks and laces, leaving Léonie alone in the middle of the room.

Léonie walked to a chair, and sat down carefully, heels together, and hands demurely clasped in her lap.

“This,” she told herself, “is not very nice, I think. Monseigneur has gone away, and I could never find him in this great, horrible London. That Fanny is a fool, I think. Or perhaps she is mad, as she said.” Léonie paused to consider the point. “Well, perhaps she is just English. And Edward will not like me to be here. Mon Dieu, I suppose he will think I am just une fille de joie. That is very possible. I wish Monseigneur had not gone.” This thought occupied her mind for some moments, and led to another. “I wonder what he will think of me when he sees me? That Fanny said I was lovely. Of course that is just silly, but I think I look a little pretty.” She rose, and planted her chair down before the mirror. She frowned upon her reflection, and shook her head. “You are not Léon: that is very certain. Only one little bit of you is Léon.” She bent forward to look at her feet, shod still in Léon’s shoes. “Hélas! Only yesterday I was Léon the page, and now I am Mademoiselle de Bonnard. And I am very uncomfortable in these clothes. I think too that I am a little frightened. There is not even M. Davenant left. I shall be forced to eat pudding, and that woman will kiss me.” She heaved a large sigh. “Life is very hard,” she remarked sadly.

CHAPTER XI

Mr. Marling’s Heart is Won

Lady Fanny found her husband in the library, standing before the fire and warming his hands. He was a medium-sized man, with regular features, and steady grey eyes. He turned as she entered the room, and held out his arms to her. Lady Fanny tripped towards him.

“Pray have a care for my gown, Edward. ’Tis new come from Cerisette. Is it not elegant?”

“Prodigious elegant,” agreed Marling. “But if it means that I must not kiss you I shall think it hideous.”

She raised china-blue eyes to his face.

“Just one then, Edward. Oh, you are greedy, sir! No, Edward, I’ll not be held. I’ve a monstrous exciting thing to tell you.” She shot him a sidelong glance, wondering how he would take her news. “Do you remember, my love, that I was so ennuyée to-day that I could almost have cried?”

“Do I not!” smiled Marling. “You were very cruel to me, sweet.”

“Oh no, Edward! I was not cruel! ’Twas you who were so very provoking. And then you went away, and I was so dull! But now it is all over, and I have something wonderful to do!”

Edward slipped an arm about her trim waist.

“Faith, what is it?”

“’Tis a girl,” she answered. “The most beautiful girl, Edward!”

“A girl?” he repeated. “What new whim is this? What do you want with a girl, my dear?”

“Oh, I didn’t want her! I never thought about her at all. How could I, when I’d not set eyes on her? Justin brought her.”

The clasp about her waist slackened.

“Justin?” said Marling. “Oh!” His voice was polite, but not enthusiastic. “I thought he was in Paris.”

“So he was, until a day or two ago, and if you are minded to be disagreeable, Edward, I shall cry. I am very fond of Justin!”

“Ay, dear. Go on with your tale. What has the girl, whoever she is, to do with Avon?”

“That is just the astonishing part of it!” said Fanny, her brow clearing as if by magic. “She is Justin’s adopted daughter! Is it not interesting, Edward?”

“What?” Marling’s arm fell away from her. “Justin’s what?”

“Adopted daughter,” she answered airily. “The sweetest child, my dear, and so devoted to him! I declare I quite love her already, although she is so lovely, and—oh, Edward, don’t be cross!”

Edward took her by the shoulders, and made her look up at him.

“Fanny, do you mean to tell me that Alastair had the effrontery to bring the girl here? And you were mad enough to take her in?”

“Indeed, sir, and why not?” she demanded. “A pretty thing ’twould be an I turned away my brother’s ward!”

“Ward!” Marling almost snorted.

“Yes, sir, his ward. Oh, I’ll not deny I thought the same as you when first I saw her, but Justin swore ’twas not so. And Edward, you know how strict Justin is with me. You can’t be cross! Why, ’tis but a child, and half a boy at that!”

“Half a boy, Fanny? What mean you?”

“She has been a boy for seven years,” said Fanny triumphantly. Then, as the lines about his mouth hardened, she stamped her foot angrily. “You’re very unkind, Edward! How dare you suppose that darling Justin would bring his light o’ love to my house? ’Tis the stupidest notion I ever heard! He wants me to chaperon the child until he can prevail upon Madam Field to come. What if she has been a boy? Pray what has that to say to anything?”

Marling smiled unwillingly.

“You must admit that for Justin to adopt a girl——”

“Edward, I truly believe that he means no ill! Léonie has been his page—Oh, now you are shocked again!”

“Well, but——”

“I won’t hear a word!” Fanny put up her hands to his mouth. “Edward, you’ll not be angry, and hard?” she coaxed. “There’s some mystery about Léonie, I feel sure, but—oh, my dear, you have only to look in her eyes! Now listen to me, dear Edward!”

He imprisoned her hands in his, drawing her to the couch.

“Very well, my dear, I’ll listen.”

Fanny seated herself.

“Dearest Edward! I knew you’d be kind! You see, Justin came here to-day with Léonie, dressed as a boy. I was so enchanted! I never imagined that Justin was in England! Oh, and he has a fan! You cannot conceive anything so absurd, dear! Though indeed I believe they are become quite the most fashion——”

“Ay, Fanny, but you were to explain about this girl—Léonie.”

“I was explaining,” she protested, pouting. “Well, he sent Léonie into another room—my dear, I think she positively worships him, poor child—and he begged me to keep her with me for a few days because he does not want there to be a shadow of scandal attached to her. And I am to clothe her, and oh, Edward, will it not be entertaining? She has red hair, and black eyebrows, and I have given her my green silk. You cannot imagine how quite too tiresomely lovely she is, though perhaps she would look better in white.”

“Never mind that, Fanny. Go on with your story.”

“To be sure. It seems that Justin found her in Paris—only then he thought she was a boy—and she was being ill-treated by some tavern-keeper. So Justin bought her and made her his page. And he says that he has a fondness for her, and will make her his ward. And oh, Edward, I have just thought how wonderfully romantic ’twould be an he married her! But she is only a child, and dreadfully boyish. Only fancy!—she insisted on keeping her breeches! Now Edward, say that you will be nice to her, and that I may keep her! Say it, Edward, say it!”

“I suppose you must keep her,” he said reluctantly. “I cannot turn her out. But I do not like it.”

Fanny embraced him.

“It doesn’t signify in the least, Edward. You will fall in love with her, and I shall be jealous.”

“There’s no fear of that, you little rogue,” he said, and gave her hand a quick squeeze.

“No, and I am so glad. And now go and put on that new puce coat. ’Tis prodigious modish, and I want you to look very nice tonight.”

“Are we not dining out?” he asked. “I thought——”

“Dining out! Good gracious, Edward, and that child a visitor, and only just arrived! No indeed!” With that she rustled out of the room, full of a new importance.

An hour later when Marling sat in the withdrawing-room awaiting his wife, the door was flung open, and Fanny sailed in. Behind her came Léonie, hesitantly. Edward rose quickly, staring.

“My love,” said Fanny, “this is my husband, Mr. Marling. Edward, Mademoiselle de Bonnard.”

Marling bowed; so also did Léonie, but paused in the act of doing so.

“I must curtsy, is it not so? Bah, what skirts!” She smiled shyly up at Edward. “Please pardon me, m’sieur. I have not learned to curtsy yet.”

“Give him your hand, child,” commanded Fanny.

The small hand was extended.

“Please, why?” asked Léonie.

Marling kissed her finger-tips punctiliously, and released them. Léonie’s cheeks were tinged with colour, and she looked doubtfully up at him.

“Mais, m’sieur”—she began.

“Mademoiselle?” In spite of himself Marling smiled.

“C’est peu convenable,” explained Léonie.

“No such thing,” said Fanny briskly. “Gentlemen do always kiss the lady’s hands. Remember that, my love. And now my husband will give you his arm to the dining-room. Lay but the tips of your fingers on it, like that. What ails you now, child?”

“It is nothing, madame. Only that I am not at all myself. I think that I look very strange.”

“Tell the silly child that it is not so, Edward,” sighed her ladyship.

Edward found that he was patting Léonie’s hand.

“My dear, ’tis as my lady says. You look very proper and charming.”

“Ah bah!” said Léonie.

CHAPTER XII

His Grace of Avon’s Ward

A fortnight later, when Léonie was practising a court curtsy before the mirror in her room, Fanny entered with the announcement that Avon had come at last. Léonie arose from her curtsy with more haste than grace.

“Monseigneur!” she cried, and would have flown from the room, had it not been for Fanny, who resolutely barred her passage. “Let me go, let me go! Where is he?”

“’Pon rep, Léonie, that is no way to receive a gentleman!” said her ladyship. “To run downstairs like a hoydenish miss, with your hair in a tangle, and your gown caught up! Come back to the mirror.”

“Oh, but——”

“I insist!”

Léonie came reluctantly and was passive while Fanny arranged her gown of primrose silk, and combed out the unruly curls.

“Léonie, you tiresome creature, where is your riband?”

Léonie fetched it meekly.

“I do not like to feel a riband in my hair,” she complained. “I would rather——”

“It is of no consequence at all,” said Fanny severely. “I am determined you shall look your best. Shake out your petticoat, and pick up your fan. And if you dare to run forward in an unmaidenly way I shall be so mortified——”

“Let me go now! Please, I am ready!”

“Then follow me, child, so!” Out swept Fanny, and down the stairs. “Remember! A decorous curtsy, my love, and give him your hand to kiss.” As she spoke she opened the door into the withdrawing-room.

“Bah!” said Léonie.

His Grace was standing by the window, looking out.

“So my sister has not induced you to stop saying ‘bah’?” he said, and turned. For a moment he said nothing, but stood looking at his ward. “Infant, it is very well,” he said at last, slowly.

Léonie sank into a curtsy, talking all the time.

“I must do this because madame says so, and you bade me do as she told me, Monseigneur, but oh, I would rather bow to you!” She rose gracefully, and danced forward. “Monseigneur, Monseigneur, I thought that you would never come! I am so very pleased to see you!” She caught his hand to her lips. “I have been good and patient, and now will you take me, please?”

“Léonie!”

“Well, but madame, I want so much for him to take me.”

Avon raised his eyeglass.

“Stand still, child. Fanny, I kiss your hands and feet. I am almost surprised at the miracle you have wrought.”

“Monseigneur, do you think that I am nice?” asked Léonie, tiptoeing before him.

“It’s an inadequate word, child. You are no longer Léon.”

She sighed, shaking her head.

“I wish I were Léon still. Monseigneur, do you understand what it is to be put into petticoats?”

Fanny started, and frowned direfully.

“Naturally I do not, my beautiful ward,” Justin answered gravely. “I can imagine that, after the freedom of your breeches, petticoats are a little cramping.”

Léonie turned triumphantly to Fanny.

“Madame, he said it! You heard him? He spoke of breeches!”

“Léonie—Justin, I’ll not have you let her bewail her—her breeches—as she is for ever doing! And don’t, don’t say bah, Léonie!”

“She has fatigued you, my dear? I believe I warned you that she was something of a rogue.”

Fanny relented.

“Indeed, and we love her dearly! I could wish that you would leave her with us longer.”

Léonie took a firm hold on Avon’s coat sleeve.

“You won’t, will you, Monseigneur?”

He disengaged himself.

“My infant, you must strive to be more polite. One would infer that you had been unhappy with Lady Fanny.”

“Yes, Monseigneur, very unhappy. It is not because she is not kind, for she has been very kind to me, but I belong to you.”

Over her head Justin looked mockingly at his sister.

“It distresses you, my dear? I believe you are right, Léonie. I have come to fetch you.”

She was all smiles at once.

“Voyons, now I am happy! Where will you take me, Monseigneur?”

“Into the country, child. Ah, the worthy Edward! Your devoted servant, Edward.”

Marling had entered quietly. Stiffly he returned Avon’s bow.

“I would have a word with you an it please you, Alastair,” he said.

“But does it please me?” wondered his Grace. “No doubt you wish to speak concerning my ward?”

Edward looked annoyed.

“In private, sir.”

“Quite unnecessary, my dear Edward, I assure you.” He flicked Léonie’s cheek with one careless finger. “Mr. Marling has no doubt warned you that I am no fit companion for the young and—ah—innocent, infant?”

“No-no.” Léonie tilted her head. “I know all about that, you see. Me, I am not very innocent, do you think?”

“That will do, Léonie!” hastily interposed Fanny. “You’ll drink a dish of Bohea with me, Justin? Léonie shall be ready to accompany you to-morrow. Léonie, my love, I have left my handkerchief in your room. Be so good as to fetch it for me. And Edward may go too. Yes, Edward, please!” So she drove them out, and turned again to her brother. “Well, Justin, I’ve done as you desired me.”

“Admirably, my dear.”

Her eyes twinkled.

“At no small cost, Justin.”

“It is no matter, Fanny.”

She eyed him irresolutely.

“What now, Justin?”

“Now I take her to Avon.”

“With Cousin Field?”

“But could you doubt it?” He bowed.

“Easily.” She curled her lip. “Justin, what is it you intend? You’ve some scheme, I know. I’ll believe you mean no ill by Léonie.”

“It is always wise to believe the worst of me, Fanny.”

“I confess I don’t understand you, Justin. ’Tis most provoking.”

“It must be,” he agreed.

She drew nearer, coaxing him.

“Justin, I do wish that you would tell me what is in your mind!”

He took a pinch of snuff, and shut the box with a snap.

“You must learn, my dear Fanny, to curb your curiosity. Suffice it that I am as a grandfather to that child. It should suffice.”

“It does, in part, but I do so want to know what scheme you have in your head!”

“I am sure you do, Fanny,” he said sympathetically.

“You are very horrid,” she pouted. A sudden smile came. “Justin, what new whim is this? Léonie speaks of you as of a strict governor. ’Tis for ever ‘Monseigneur would not like me to do that,’ or ‘Do you think that Monseigneur would mind?’ It’s not like you, my dear.”

“An I knew less of the world’s ways I should no doubt be a more lenient guardian,” he said. “As it is, Fanny—” He shrugged, and drew his fan from one of his great pockets.

Léonie came back into the room, holding up her gown with one little hand.

“I could not find your handkerchief, madame,” she began, and then saw Avon’s fan. A look of disapproval came over her face; there was a measure of reproof in the candid blue eyes. Avon smiled.

“You will grow accustomed to it, my child.”

“Never,” said Léonie positively. “It does not please me at all.”

“But then,” murmured his Grace, “I do not use it to please you.”

“Pardon, Monseigneur!” she answered contritely, and peeped at him through her lashes. The irresistible dimple quivered.

“She’ll snare him,” thought Fanny. “She is all too fascinating.”

———«»——————«»——————«»———

Justin took his ward down to Avon by coach the following day, in company with Madam Field, on whose amiable vapidity Léonie looked with scant respect. Justin was quick to read her opinion of the lady, and when they arrived at Avon, took her aside.

“This,” said Léonie buoyantly, “is a nice house. I like it.”

“I am rejoiced to hear you say so,” replied his Grace ironically.

Léonie looked round the panelled hall, with its carven chairs, its paintings, and tapestry, and the gallery above.

“Perhaps it is a little sombre,” she said. “Who is this gentleman?” She went to a suit of armour, and regarded it with interest.

“It is not a gentleman at all, my infant. It is the armour one of my ancestors wore.”

“Vraiment?” She wandered away to the foot of the stairs, and inspected an ancient portrait. “Is this another ancestor, this foolish woman?”

“A very famous one, my dear.”

“She has a stupid smile,” Léonie remarked. “Why was she famous? What for?”

“Principally for her indiscretions. Which reminds me, child, that I want to speak to you.”

“Yes, Monseigneur?” Léonie was staring now at a shield which hung above the fireplace. “‘J’y serai’. That is French.”

“Your intelligence is remarkable. I wish to speak to you of my cousin, Madam Field.”

Léonie looked at him over her shoulder, grimacing.

“May I say what I think, Monseigneur?”

He sat down on the great carved table, swinging his eyeglass.

“To me, yes.”

“She is just a fool, Monseigneur.”

“Indubitably. And therefore, my infant, you must not only bear with her folly, but you must be at pains to cause her no trouble.”

Léonie seemed to debate within herself.

“Must I, Monseigneur?”

Justin looked at her, and recognized the naughty twinkle in her eye.

“Because I will it so, my child.”

The little straight nose wrinkled.

“Oh, eh bien!”

“I thought so,” remarked Avon beneath his breath. “It is a promise, Léonie?”

“I do not think that I will promise,” Léonie temporized. “I will try.” She came and stood before him. “Monseigneur, it is very kind of you to bring me to this beautiful place, and to give me everything just as though I were not the sister of an innkeeper. Thank you very much.”

Justin looked at her for a moment, and his lips twisted in a curious smile.

“You think me a paragon of all the virtues, don’t you, ma fille?”

“Oh no!” she answered candidly. “I think it is only to me that you are kind. With some women you are not good at all. I cannot help knowing these things, Monseigneur!”

“And yet, child, you are content to remain with me?”

“But of course!” she answered in some surprise.

“You are full of trust,” he remarked.

“Of course,” she said again.

“This,” said Avon, looking at the rings on his hand, “is a new experience. I wonder what Hugh would say?”

“Oh, he would pull down his mouth, so! and shake his head. I think he is sometimes not very wise.”

He laughed, and laid a hand on her shoulder.

“I never thought, ma fille, to take unto me a ward so much after mine own heart. I beg you will be careful not to shock Madam Field.”

“But with you I may say what I please?”

“You always do,” he replied.

“And you will stay here?”

“For the present. I have to attend to your education, you see. There are things you have to learn that I can best teach you.”

“What, par example?”

“To ride?”

“On a horse? Vraiment?”

“The prospect pleases you?”

“Yes, oh yes! And will you teach me to fight with a sword, Monseigneur?”

“It’s not a ladylike occupation, ma fille.”

“But I do not always want to be a lady, Monseigneur! If I may learn to fight with a sword I will try very hard to learn the other silly things.”

He looked down at her, smiling.

“I believe you are trying to drive a bargain with me! What if I will not teach you to fence?”

She dimpled.

“Why, then I fear I shall be very stupid when you teach me to curtsy, Monseigneur. Oh, Monseigneur, say you will! Please say it quickly! Madame is coming.”

“You force my hand,” he bowed. “I will teach you, imp.”

Madam Field entered the hall in time to see her charge execute a neat step-dance. She murmured expostulations.

CHAPTER XIII

The Education of Léonie

The Duke remained at Avon for over a month, during which time Léonie applied herself energetically to the task of becoming a lady. Madam Field’s ideal of this estate was luckily not Avon’s. He had no wish to see his ward sitting primly over her stitchery, which was just as well, perhaps, for after the first attempt Léonie declared that nothing would induce her to ply a needle. Madam Field was a little flustered by this defection, and by Léonie’s taste for sword-play, but she was far too good-natured and indefinite to do more than murmur nervous remonstrances. She stood very much in awe of her cousin, and although she was by birth an Alastair she felt herself to be a wholly inferior creature. She had been happy enough with her husband, an obscure gentleman with a taste for farming, but she knew that in the eyes of her family she had disgraced herself by marrying him. This had not troubled her much while he lived, but now that he was dead, and she had returned to what had once been her own milieu, she was uncomfortably conscious of the step downwards that she had taken in her foolish youth. She was rather frightened of Avon, but she liked to live in his house. When she looked about her, at faded tapestries, at stretches of velvet lawns, at portraits innumerable, and crossed swords above the doorway, she remembered anew the glory of past Alastairs, and some almost forgotten chord stirred within her.

Léonie was enchanted by Avon Court, and demanded to know its history. She walked with Justin in the grounds, and learned how Hugo Alastair, coming with the Conqueror, settled there, and built himself a fair dwelling, which was destroyed in the troublous times of King Stephen; how it was built again by Sir Roderick Alastair; how he was given a barony, and prospered, and how the first Earl, under Queen Mary, pulled down the old building and erected the present house. And she learned of the bombardment that partially destroyed the West Wing, when Earl Henry held all for the King against the usurper Cromwell, and was rewarded for it at the Restoration by a dukedom. She saw the sword of the last Duke, the same that he had used in tragic ’15, for King James III, and heard a small part of Justin’s own adventures, ten years ago, for King Charles III. Justin touched but lightly on this period of his life; his work in that attempt, Léonie guessed, had been secret and tortuous, but she learned that the true King was Charles Edward Stuart, and learned to speak of the little war-like man on the throne as Elector George.

Her education at Justin’s hands was a source of interest and amusement to her. Up in the long picture gallery he taught her to dance, with an eagle eye for the smallest fault, or the least hint of awkwardness in her bearing. Madam Field came to play on the spinet for them, and watched with an indulgent smile while they trod each stately measure. She reflected that she had never seen her unapproachable cousin so human, as with this laughing sprite of a girl. They danced the minuet, and the long lines of ancestors gazed down upon them indulgently.

Avon made Léonie practise her curtsy, and made her combine her pretty roguishness with some of the haughtiness that characterized my Lady Fanny. He showed her how to extend her hand for a man to kiss, how to use her fan, and how to place her patches. He would walk with her in the pleasaunce, teaching every rule of deportment until she was word perfect. He insisted that she should cultivate a certain queenliness of bearing. She soon learned, and would rehearse her newest lesson before him, enjoying herself hugely, radiant if she earned a word of praise.

She could already ride, but astride only. She was disgusted with the side-saddle, and for a while rebelled against it. For the space of two days her will held fast against Avon’s, but his frigid politeness disarmed her, and on the third day she came to him with head hanging, and faltered:

“I am sorry, Monseigneur. I—I will ride as you wish.”

So they rode together in the grounds until she had mastered this new art, and then they went out over the countryside, and those who saw the Duke beside this beautiful girl cast knowing glances at each other, and shook their heads wisely, for they had seen other beautiful girls with Avon.

Bit by bit the Court, so long bereft of a mistress, began to wear a more cheerful air. Léonie’s glad young spirit pervaded it; she flung back heavy curtains, and consigned ponderous screens to the lumber room. Windows were opened to let in the wintry sun, and bit by bit the oppressive solemnity of the place disappeared. Léonie would have none of the stern neatness that was wont to reign there. She tumbled prim cushions, pushed chairs out of place, and left books lying on odd tables, caring nothing for Madam Field’s shocked protests. Justin permitted her to do as she pleased; it amused him to watch her gyrations, and he liked to hear her give orders to his expressionless lackeys. Clearly she had the habit of command: unusual she might be, but never did she exhibit any lack of breeding.

Her lessons were soon put to the test. On one occasion he said suddenly:

“We will suppose, Léonie, that I am the Duchess of Queensberry, and that you have just been presented to me. Show me how you would curtsy.”

“But you cannot be a duchess, Monseigneur,” she objected. “That is ridiculous. You don’t look like a duchess! Let us pretend you are the Duke of Queensberry.”

“The Duchess. Show me the curtsy.”

Léonie sank down and down.

“Like this: low, but not so low as to the Queen. This is a very good curtsy I am doing, n’est-ce pas?”

“It is to be hoped you would not talk all the time,” said his Grace. “Spread out your skirts, and do not hold your fan like that. Show me again.”

Léonie obeyed meekly.

“It is very difficult to remember everything,” she complained. “Now let us play at piquet, Monseigneur.”

“Presently. Curtsy now to—Mr. Davenant.”

She swept her skirts right regally, and with head held high extended one small hand. Avon smiled.

“Hugh is like to be amazed,” he remarked. “It’s very well, ma fille. Curtsy now to me.”

At that she sank down with bent head, and raised his hand to her lips.

“No, my child.”

She rose.

“That is the way I do it, Monseigneur. I like it.”

“It is incorrect. Again, and the proper depth. You curtsied then as to the King. I am but an ordinary mortal, remember.”

Léonie searched in her mind for a fitting retort.

“Lawks!” she said vaguely.

His Grace stiffened, but his lips twitched.

“I—beg—your—pardon?”

“I said lawks,” said Léonie demurely.

“I heard you.” His Grace’s voice was cold.

“Rachel said it,” Léonie ventured, peeping up at him. “She is Lady Fanny’s maid, you know. You do not like it?”

“I do not. I should be glad if you would refrain from modelling your conversation on that of Lady Fanny’s maid.”

“Yes, Monseigneur. Please, what does it mean?”

“I have not the slightest idea. It is a vulgarity. There are many sins, ma belle, but only one that is unforgivable. That is vulgarity.”

“I won’t say it again,” promised Léonie. “I will say instead—tiens, what is it?—Tare an’ ouns!”

“I beg you will do no such thing, ma fille. If you must indulge in forceful expressions confine them to ’pon rep, or merely Lud!”

“Lud? Yes, that is a pretty one. I like it. I like Lawks best, though. Monseigneur is not angry?”

“I am never angry,” said Avon.

At other times he fenced with her, and this she enjoyed most of all. She donned shirt and breeches for the pastime, and displayed no little aptitude for the game. She had a quick eye and a supple wrist, and she very soon mastered the rudiments of this manly art. The Duke was one of the first swordsmen of the day, but this in no wise discomposed Léonie. He taught her to fence in the Italian manner, and showed her many subtle passes which he had learned abroad. She experimented with one of them, and since his Grace’s guard, at that moment, was lax, broke through. The button of her foil came to rest below his left shoulder.

“Touché,” said Avon. “That was rather better, infant.”

Léonie danced in her excitement.

“Monseigneur, I have killed you! You are dead! you are dead!”

“You display an unseemly joy,” he remarked. “I had no notion you were so bloodthirsty.”

“But it was so clever of me!” she cried. “Was it not, Monseigneur?”

“Not at all,” he said crushingly. “My guard was weak.”

Her mouth dropped.

“Oh, you let me do it!”

His Grace relented.

“No, you broke through, ma fille.”

Sometimes he talked to her of personalities of the day, explaining who this was, and who that, and how they were related.

“There is March,” he said, “who will be Duke of Queensberry. You have heard me speak of him. There is Hamilton, who is famous for his wife. She was one of the Miss Gunnings—beauties, my dear, who set London by the ears not so many years ago. Maria Gunning married Coventry. If you want wit, there is Mr. Selwyn, who has quite an inimitable way with him. And we must not forget Horry Walpole: he would hate to be forgotten. He lives in Arlington Street, child, and wherever you go you may be sure of meeting him. In Bath I believe Nash still reigns. A parvenu, infant, but a man of some genius. Bath is his kingdom. One day I will take you there. Then we have the Cavendish—Devonshire, my dear; and the Seymours, and my Lord Chesterfield, whom you will know by his wit, and his dark eyebrows. Whom else? There is my Lord of Bath, and the Bentincks, and his Grace of Newcastle, of some fame. If you want the Arts you have the tedious Johnson: a large man, my dear, with a larger head. He is not worth your consideration. He lacks polish. There is Colley Cibber, one of our poets, Mr. Sheridan, who writes plays for us, and Mr. Garrick, who acts them; and a score of others, In painting we have Sir Joshua Reynolds, who shall paint you, perhaps, and a great many others whose names elude me.”

Léonie nodded.

“Monseigneur, you must write their names down for me. Then I shall remember.”

“Bien. We come now to your own country. Of the Blood Royal we have the Prince de Condé, who is now, as I reckon, twenty years of age—ŕ peu prčs. There is the Comte d’Eu, son of the Duc de Maine, one of the bastards, and the Duc de Penthičvre, son of yet another bastard. Let me see. Of the nobility there is M. de Richelieu, the model of true courtesy, and the Duc de Noailles, famed for the battle of Dettingen, which he lost. Then we have the brothers Lorraine-Brionne, and the Prince d’Armagnac. My memory fails me. Ah yes, there is M. de Belle-Isle, who is the grandson of the great Fouquet. He is an old man now. Tiens, almost I had forgot the estimable Chavignard—Comte de Chavigny, child—a friend of mine. I might go on for ever, but I will not.”

“And there is Madame de Pompadour, is there not, Monseigneur?”

“I spoke of the nobility, ma fille,” said his Grace gently. “We do not count the cocotte amongst them. La Pompadour is a beauty of no birth, and wit—a little. My ward will not trouble her head with any such.”

“No, Monseigneur,” said Léonie abashed. “Please tell me some more.”

“You are insatiable. Well, let us essay. D’Anvau you have seen. A little man, with a love of scandal. De Salmy you have also seen. He is tall and indolent, and hath somewhat of a reputation for sword-play. Lavoulčre comes of old stock, and doubtless has his virtues even though they have escaped my notice. Marchérand has a wife who squints. I need say no more. Château-Mornay will amuse you for half an hour, no longer. Madame de Marguéry’s salons are world-famed. Florimond de Chantourelle is like some insect. Possibly a wasp, since he is always clad in bright colours, and always plagues one.”

“And M. de Saint-Vire.”

“My very dear friend Saint-Vire. Of course. One day, infant, I will tell you all about the so dear Comte. But not to-day. I say only this, my child—you will beware of Saint-Vire. It is understood?”

“Yes, Monseigneur, but why?”

“That also I will tell you one day,” said his Grace calmly.

CHAPTER XIV

The Appearance on the Scene of Lord Rupert Alastair

When Avon left the country Léonie was at first disconsolate. Madam Field was not an exhilarating companion, as her mind ran on illness and death, and the forward ways of the younger generation. Fortunately the weather became warmer, and Léonie was able to escape from the lady into the park, well-knowing that Madam was not fond of any form of exercise.

When she rode out Léonie was supposed to have a groom in attendance, but she very often dispensed with this formality, and explored the countryside alone, revelling in her freedom.

Some seven miles from Avon Court lay Merivale Place, the estate of my Lord Merivale, and his beautiful wife, Jennifer. My lord had grown indolent of late years, and my lady, for two short seasons London’s toast, had no love for town life. Nearly all the year they lived in Hampshire, but sometimes they spent the winter in Bath, and occasionally, my lord being smitten with a longing for the friends of his youth, they journeyed to town. More often my lord went alone on these expeditions, but he was never away for long.

It was not many weeks before Léonie rode out in the direction of the Place. The woods that lay about the old white house lured her, and she rode into them, looking around with great interest.

The trees were sprouting new leaves, and here and there early spring flowers peeped up between the blades of grass. Léonie picked her way through the undergrowth, delighting in the wood’s beauty, until she came to where a stream bubbled and sang over the rounded stones on its bed. Beside this stream, on a fallen tree-trunk, a dark lady was seated, with a baby playing on the rug at her feet. A small boy, in a very muddied coat, was fishing hopefully in the stream.

Léonie reined in short, guiltily aware of trespass. The youthful fisherman saw her first, and called to the lady on the tree-trunk.

“Look, mamma!”

The lady looked in the direction of his pointing finger, and raised her brows in quick surprise.

“I am very sorry,” Léonie stammered. “The wood was so pretty—I will go.”

The lady rose, and went forward across the strip of grass that separated them.

“It’s very well, madam. Why should you go?” Then she saw that the little face beneath the hat’s big brim was that of a child, and she smiled. “Will you not dismount, my dear, and bear me company a while?”

The wistful, uncertain look went out of Léonie’s eyes. She dimpled, nodding.

“S’il vous plaît, madame.”

“You’re French? Are you staying here?” inquired the lady.

Léonie kicked her foot free of the stirrup, and slid to the ground.

“But yes, I am staying at Avon. I am the—bah, I have forgotten the word!—the—ward of Monseigneur le Duc.”

A shadow crossed the lady’s face. She made a movement as though to stand between Léonie and the children. Léonie’s chin went up.

“I am not anything else, madame, je vous assure. I am in the charge of Madame Field, the cousin of Monseigneur. It is better that I go, yes?”

“I crave your pardon, my dear. I beg that you will stay. I am Lady Merivale.”

“I thought you were,” confided Léonie. “Lady Fanny told me of you.”

“Fanny?” Jennifer’s brow cleared. “You know her?”

“I have been with her two weeks, when I came from Paris. Monseigneur thought it would not be convenable for me to be with him until he had found a lady suitable to be my gouvernante, you see.”

Jennifer, in the past, had had experience of his Grace’s ideas of propriety, and thus she did not see at all, but she was too polite to say so. She and Léonie sat down on the tree-trunk while the small boy stared round-eyed.

“No one likes Monseigneur, I find,” Léonie remarked. “Just a few perhaps. Lady Fanny, and M. Davenant, and me, of course.”

“Oh, you like him, then?” Jennifer looked at her wonderingly.

“He is so good to me, you understand,” explained Léonie. “That is your little son?”

“Yes, that is John. Come and make your bow, John.”

John obeyed, and ventured a remark:

“Your hair is quite short, madam.”

Léonie pulled off her hat.

“But how pretty!” exclaimed Jennifer. “Why did you cut it?”

Léonie hesitated.

“Madame, please will you not ask me? I am not allowed to tell people. Lady Fanny said I must not.”

“I hope ’twas not an illness?” said Jennifer, with an anxious eye to her children.

“Oh no!” Léonie assured her. Again she hesitated. “Monseigneur did not say I was not to tell. It was only Lady Fanny, and she is not always very wise, do you think? And I do not suppose that she would want me not to tell you, for you were at the convent with her, n’est-ce pas? I have only just begun to be a girl, you see, madame.”

Jennifer was startled.

“I beg your pardon, my dear?”

“Since I was twelve I have always been a boy. Then Monseigneur found me, and I was his page. And—and then he discovered that I was not a boy at all, and he made me his daughter. I did not like it at first, and these petticoats still bother me, but in some ways it is very pleasant. I have so many things all my own, and I am a lady now.”

Jennifer’s eyes grew soft. She patted Léonie’s hand.

“You quaint child! For how long do you think to stay at Avon?”

“I do not quite know, madame. It is as Monseigneur wills. And I have to learn so many things. Lady Fanny is to present me, I think. It is nice of her, is it not?”

“Prodigious amiable,” Jennifer agreed. “Tell me your name, my dear.”

“I am Léonie de Bonnard, madame.”

“And your parents made the—the Duke your guardian?”

“N-no. They have been dead for many years, you see. Monseigneur did it all himself.” Léonie glanced down at the babe. “Is this also your son, madame?”

“Yes, child, this is Geoffrey Molyneux Merivale. Is he not beautiful?”

“Very,” said Léonie politely. “I do not know babies very well.” She rose, and picked up her plumed hat. “I must go back, madame. Madame Field will have become agitated.” She smiled mischievously. “She is very like a hen, you know.”

Jennifer laughed.

“But you’ll come again? Come to the house one day, and I will present my husband.”

“Yes, if you please, madame. I should like to come. Au revoir, Jean; au revoir, bébé!”

The baby gurgled, and waved an aimless hand. Léonie hoisted herself into the saddle.

“One does not know what to say to a baby,” she remarked. “He is very nice, of course,” she added. She bowed, hat in hand, and, turning, made her way back along the path down which she had come, to the road.

Jennifer picked up the baby, and, calling to John to follow, went through the wood and across the gardens to the house. She relinquished the children to their nurse, and went in search of her husband.

She found him in the library, turning over his accounts, a big, loose-limbed man, with humorous grey eyes, and a firm-lipped mouth. He held out his hand.

“Faith, Jenny, you grow more lovely each time I look upon you,” he said.

She laughed, and went to sit on the arm of his chair.

“Fanny thinks us unfashionable, Anthony.”

“Oh, Fanny——! She’s fond enough of Marling at heart.”

“Very fond of him, Anthony, but she is modish withal, and likes other men to whisper pretty things in her ear. I fear that I shall never have the taste for town ways.”

“My love, if I find ‘other men’ whispering in your ear——”

“My lord!”

“My lady?”

“You are monstrous ungallant, sir! As if they—as if I would!”

His hold about her tightened.

“You might be the rage of town, Jenny, an you would.”

“Oh, is that your will, my lord?” she teased. “Now I know that you are disappointed in your wife. I thank you, sir!” She slipped from him, and swept him a mock curtsy.

My lord jumped up and caught her.

“Rogue, I am the happiest man on earth.”

“My felicitations, sir. Anthony, you have had no word from Edward, have you?”

“From Edward? Nay, why should I?”

“I met a girl to-day in the woods who has stayed with the Marlings. I wondered whether he had written to tell you.”

“A girl? Here? Who was she?”

“You’ll be surprised, my lord. She is a very babe, and—and she says she is the Duke’s ward.”

“Alastair?” Merivale’s brow wrinkled. “What new whim can that be?”

“I could not ask, of course. But is it not strange that—that man—should adopt her?”

“Perchance he is a reformed character, my love.”

She shivered.

“He could never be that. I feel so sorry for this child—in his power. I asked her to come and see me one day. Was it right of me?”

He frowned.

“I’ll have no dealings with Alastair, Jenny. I am not like to forget that his Grace saw fit to abduct my wife.”

“I wasn’t your wife then,” she protested. “And—and this child—this Léonie—is not like that at all. I should be so pleased if you would let her come.”

He made her a magnificent leg.

“My lady, you are mistress in your own house,” he said.

So it was that when next Léonie rode over to Merivale she was received gladly both by Jennifer and her lord. She was rather shy at first, but her nervousness fled before Merivale’s smile. Over a dish of Bohea she made gay conversation, and presently turned to her host.

“I wanted to meet you, milor’,” she said cheerfully. “I have heard much—oh, much—about you!”

Merivale sat bolt upright.

“Who in the world——?” he began uneasily.

“Lady Fanny, and Monseigneur, a little. Tell me, m’sieur, did you really stop Lord Harding’s coach——?”

“For a wager, child, for a wager!”

She laughed.

“Aha, I knew! And he was very angry, was he not? And it had to be kept secret, because in—in dip-lo-mat-ic circles it——”

“For heaven’s sake, child!”

“And now you are called The Highwayman!”

“No, no, only to my intimates!”

Jennifer shook her head at him.

“Oh, my lord! Go on, Léonie. Tell me some more. The wretch has grossly deceived me, I’ll have you know.”

“Mademoiselle,” said Merivale, wiping his heated brow, “have pity!”

“But tell me,” she insisted. “Was it not very exciting to be a highwayman for one night?”

“Very,” he said gravely. “But not at all respectable.”

“No,” she agreed. “One does not always want to be respectable, I think. Me, I am a great trial to everybody, because I am not respectable at all. It seems that a lady may do many bad things and still be respectable, but if one speaks of such things as breeches then one is unladylike. I find it very hard.”

His eyes danced. He tried to suppress a laugh, and failed.

“Faith, you must come often to see us, mademoiselle! ’Tis not often we meet such a charming little lady.”

“You must come to see me next,” she answered. “That is right, is it not?”

“I am afraid——” began Jennifer uncomfortably.

“His Grace and I do not visit,” ended Merivale.

Léonie flung up her hands.

“Oh, parbleu! Every one I meet is the same! It does not surprise me that sometimes Monseigneur is wicked when everybody is so unkind to him.”

“His Grace has a way of making it difficult for one to be—er—kind to him,” said Merivale grimly.

“M’sieur,” answered Léonie with great dignity, “it is not wise to speak thus of Monseigneur to me. He is the only person in the whole world who cares what happens to me. So you see I will not listen to people who try to warn me against him. It makes something inside me get all hot and angry.”

“Mademoiselle,” said Merivale, “I crave your pardon.”

“I thank you, m’sieur,” she said gravely.

She came often to Merivale after that, and once dined there with Madam Field, who had no knowledge of the rift between Avon and Merivale.

A fortnight passed, bringing no word from Justin, but at the end of it a travelling coach, loaded with baggage, arrived at Merivale, and a tall young exquisite leaped out. He was admitted into the house and met by Jennifer, who laughed when she saw him, and held out both her hands.

“Why, Rupert! Have you come to stay?”

He kissed her hands, and then her cheek.

“Devil take it, Jenny, you’re too lovely, ’pon my soul you are! Lord, here’s Anthony! I wonder if he saw?”

Merivale gripped his hand.

“One of these days, Rupert, I’ll teach you a lesson,” he threatened. “What’s to do? You’ve brought enough baggage for three men.”

“Baggage? Nonsense, man! Why, there’s only a few things there, I give you my word! One must dress, y’know, one must dress. Anthony, what’s this fandangle about Justin? Fanny’s devilish mysterious, but the tale’s all over town that he’s adopted a girl! Stap me, but that’s——” He broke off, remembering Jennifer’s presence. “I’ve come down to see for myself. God knows where Justin is! I don’t.” He looked sharply at Merivale, consternation in his face. “He’s not at Avon, is he?”

“Calm yourself,” soothed Merivale. “He is not here.”

“Praise the Lord for that. Who is the girl?”

“A pretty child,” Merivale answered guardedly.

“Ay, I’d have guessed that. Justin had ever a nice taste in——” Again he stopped. “Thunder an’ turf, I beg your pardon, Jenny! I’d forgot! Demmed careless of me!” He looked ruefully at Merivale. “I must always be saying the wrong thing, Tony. It’s this rattle-pate of mine, and what with the bottle—well, well!”

Merivale led him into the library, where a lackey came to them presently, bringing wine. Rupert settled his long length in a chair and drank deeply.

“Truth to tell, Tony,” he said confidently, “I’m more at ease when the ladies are not present. My tongue runs away with me, burn it! Not but what Jenny’s a devilish fine woman,” he added hastily. “The wonder is that you admit me into your house. When one thinks ’twas my brother ran off with Jenny——” He shook his head comically.

“You’re always welcome,” smiled Merivale. “I’ve no fear that you’ll seek to abduct Jenny.”

“Lord, no! I’m not saying that I haven’t trifled somewhat with women now and then—one has to, y’know. Honour of the name, my boy—but I’ve no real taste for ’em, Tony, none at all.” He refilled his glass. “’Tis a queer thing, when you come to think on’t. Here am I, an Alastair, with never an intrigue to my name. I feel it sometimes,” he sighed, “’tis as though I were no true Alastair. Why, there’s never been one of us——”

“I’d not crave the vice, Rupert,” said Merivale dryly.

“Oh, I don’t know! There’s Justin, now, and wherever he is there is sure to be some wench. I’m not saying aught against him, mind you, but we don’t love one another overmuch. I’ll say one thing for him, though: he’s not mean. I daresay you’ll not believe me, Tony, but since he came into that fortune of his I’ve not been in a sponging house once.” He looked up with some pride. “Not once.”

“It’s marvellous,” Merivale agreed. “And have you really come down to see Léonie?”

“Is that her name? Ay, what else?”

The grey eyes began to twinkle.

“I thought mayhap ’twas to see myself and Jennifer?”

“Oh, of course, of course!” Rupert assured him, sitting up hurriedly. He saw the twinkle, and sank back again. “Devil take you, Tony, you’re laughing at me! Ay, I’d a mind to see Justin’s latest. Is she alone at the Court?”

“No, with a cousin of yours. Madam Field.”

“What, not old cousin Harriet? Lud, what will Justin be at next? He’s got his eye fixed to the proprieties this time, eh?”

“I believe it’s true that she is no more than his ward.”

Rupert cocked one incredulous eyebrow.

“For which reason, my dear fellow, you’ll either treat her with becoming respect, or journey back to town.”

“But, Tony—Damn it, you know Justin!”

“I wonder if any of us do? I know this child.”

“I’ll see for myself,” said Rupert. He chuckled. “I’d give something to see Justin’s face when he finds I’ve been poaching on his land! Not that I want to anger him; he’s devilish unpleasant when he’s crossed.” He paused, frowning prodigiously. “You know, Tony, I often wonder what he feels about me. He’s fond of Fanny, I’ll swear. He was devilish strict with her in the old days—never think it, would you?—But me—He gives me a handsome allowance these days, yet it’s seldom he has a friendly word for me.”

“Do you want a friendly word from him?” inquired Merivale, smoothing a wrinkle from his satin sleeve.

“Oh well! He’s my brother, y’know! Queer part of it is he used to take precious good care what happened to me when I was a youngster. He was always a damned smooth-tongued icicle, of course. I don’t mind telling you, Tony, I’m still something nervous of him.”

“I don’t pretend to understand him, Rupert. I used to think there was good in him somewhere. The child—Léonie—worships him. Have a care to what you say in her presence!”

“My dear fellow, it’s not likely I’d say aught——”

“It’s more than likely,” retorted Merivale. “Addle-pated young scamp!”

“Now stap me, that’s not fair!” cried Rupert, heaving himself up. “Scamp, did you say? What about the High Toby, my boy, eh?”

Merivale flung up his hand.

“Touché! For the love of heaven, Rupert, don’t spread that tale about town!”

Rupert smoothed his ruffled hair, and managed to assume an expression of vast superiority.

“Oh, I’m not such a fool as you think, Tony, I assure you!”

“Well, thank God for that!” answered Merivale.

CHAPTER XV

Lord Rupert Makes the Acquaintance of Léonie

Rupert rode over to the Court the very next day and heralded his arrival by a prolonged peal on the door bell, accompanied by several resounding knocks. Léonie was seated by the fire in the hall, and the commotion startled her a little. When the butler came to admit the visitor she rose, and peeped round the corner of the screen to see who it was. A gay, boisterous voice met her ears.

“Hey, Johnson! Not dead yet? Where’s my cousin?”

“Oh, it’s you, my lord?” said the old man. “’Tis no one else would make such a thundering on the door, to be sure. Madam’s within.”

Rupert strode past him into the hall. At sight of Léonie regarding him in some trepidity from the fireplace he swept off his hat and bowed.

“Your pardon, mamzelle. Thunder an’ turf, what’s come over the place?” He cast an astonished glance about him. “It’s been like a tomb for centuries, and now——!”

“It’s my Lord Rupert, madam,” explained Johnson, apologetically. He frowned severely at his young master. “Ye can’t stay here, my lord. This is his Grace’s ward. Mistress Léonie de Bonnard.”

“I’m at Merivale, old sobersides,” said the graceless Rupert. “If you say I’m to go, mamzelle, I will.”

Léonie’s nose wrinkled in perplexity.

“Rupert? Oh, you are the brother of Monseigneur!”

“Mon——? Oh, ay, ay! That’s it!”

Léonie skipped forward.

“I am very pleased to see you,” she said politely. “Now I curtsy and you kiss my hand, n’est-ce pas?”

Rupert stared.

“Ay, but——”

“Eh bien!” Léonie sank, and rose, and held out her small hand. Rupert kissed it punctiliously.

“I never before was told by a lady to kiss her hand,” he remarked.

“I should not have said it?” she asked anxiously. “Voyons, these things are very difficult to learn! Where is Monseigneur, please?”

“Lord, I don’t know, my dear! Ours is no united household, I give you my word!”

Léonie looked at him gravely.

“You are the young Rupert. I know. I have heard tell of you.”

“Not a might of good, I’ll be bound. I’m the scapegrace of the family.”

“Oh no! I have heard people speak of you in Paris, and I think they like you very much.”

“Do they, by Gad? Do you come from Paris, my dear?”

She nodded.

“I was Monseigneur’s pa——” She clasped her hands over her mouth, and her eyes danced.

Rupert was greatly intrigued. He cast a shrewd glance at her short curls.

“Pa——?”

“I must not say. Please do not ask me!”

“You were never his page?”

Léonie stared down at her toes.

“Here’s a romance!” said Rupert, delighted. “His page, by all that’s marvellous!”

“You must not tell!” she said earnestly. “Promise!”

“Mum as a corpse, my dear!” he answered promptly. “I never thought to stumble on such a fairy tale! What are you doing cooped up here?”

“I am learning to be a lady, milor’.”

“Milor’ be damned, saving your presence! My name’s Rupert.”

“Is it convenable for me to call you that?” she inquired. “I do not know these things, you see.”

“Convenable, my dear? I pledge you my word it is! Are you not my brother’s ward?”

“Y-es.”

“Eh bien, then, as you’d say yourself! Fiend seize it, here’s my cousin!”

Madam Field came down the stairs, peering out of her short-sighted eyes.

“Well, to be sure! And is it indeed you, Rupert?” she exclaimed.

Rupert went forward to meet her.

“Ay, cousin, it’s myself. I hope I see you in your customary good health?”

“Save for a trifling touch of the gout. Léonie! You here?”

“I presented myself, cousin. I believe I am something in the nature of an uncle to her.”

“An uncle? Oh no, Rupert, surely not!”

“I will not have you for an uncle,” said Léonie with her nose in the air. “You are not enough respectable.”

“My love!”

Rupert burst out laughing.

“Faith, I’ll none of you for a niece, child. You are too saucy.”

“Oh no, Rupert!” Madam assured him. “Indeed, she is very good!” She looked at him doubtfully. “But, Rupert, do you think you should be here?”

“Turning me from mine own roof, cousin?”

“I protest, I did not mean——”

“I am come to make the acquaintance of my brother’s ward, cousin, as is fitting.” His voice was convincing. Madam’s brow cleared.

“If you say so, Rupert—Pray where are you staying?”

“At Merivale, cousin, by night, but here, an it please you, by day.”

“Does—does Justin know?” ventured Madam.

“Do you suggest that Alastair would object to my presence, cousin?” demanded Rupert in righteous indignation.

“Oh no, indeed! You misunderstood me! I make no doubt ’tis monstrous dull for Léonie to have only me to bear her company. Perhaps you will sometimes ride out with her? The child will leave her groom at home, which is vastly improper, as I have told her many times.”

“I’ll ride with her all day!” promised Rupert jovially. “That is if she will have me.”

“I should like it, I think,” said Léonie. “I have never met anyone tout comme vous.”

“If it comes to that,” said Rupert, “I’ve never met a girl like you.”

Madam Field sighed, and shook her head.

“I fear she will never become quite as I should wish,” she said sadly.

“She’ll be the rage of town,” Rupert prophesied. “Will you walk with me to the stables, Léonie?”

“I will get a cloak,” she nodded, and ran lightly upstairs.

When she returned Madam Field had delivered a short lecture to Rupert, and had extracted a promise from him that he would behave with suitable decorum towards Léonie.

As soon as they had left the house, Léonie, dancing along beside Rupert with little excited steps, looked up at him with her confiding smile.

“I have thought of a plan,” she announced. “Suddenly it came to me! Will you please fight me with a sword?”

“Will I do what?” ejaculated Rupert, stopping short.

She stamped an impatient foot.

“Fight with swords! Fence!”

“Thunder an’ turf, what next? Ay, I’ll fence with you, rogue.”

“Thank you very much! You see, Monseigneur began to teach me, but then he went away, and Madam Field does not fence at all. I asked her.”

“You should ask Anthony Merivale to teach you, my dear. Justin’s good, I’ll admit, but Anthony nearly worsted him once.”

“Aha! I knew there was a mystery! Tell me, did Monseigneur intrigue himself with miladi Jennifer?”

“Ran off with her in Anthony’s teeth, my dear!”

“Vraiment? She would not like that, I think.”

“Lord no! But what woman would?”

“I should not mind,” said Léonie calmly. “But Lady Merivale—ah, that is another thing! Was she married then?”

“Devil a bit. Justin’s not often in an affair with a married woman. He wanted to marry her.”

“It would not have done,” she said wisely. “She would have wearied him. Milor’ then came to the rescue?”

“Ay, and tried to fight Justin ŕ outrance. Marling stopped it. Never was there such a scene! They don’t speak now, y’know. Damned awkward, seeing that we’ve known Merivale since we were children. Marling don’t love Justin overmuch either.”

“Oh!” Léonie was scornful. “He is a kind man, that one, but of a dullness!”

“Ay, but ’tis enough to make a man sober to be wedded to Fanny, I can tell you.”

“I think your family is very strange,” she remarked. “Everyone in it hates everyone else. Oh no, Lady Fanny sometimes loves Monseigneur!”

“Well, you see, we’d a spitfire for mother,” Rupert explained. “And the old Duke was no saint, the Lord knows! ’Tis no wonder we grew up like snarling dogs.”

They had arrived at the stables, where Rupert’s horse had been taken. He spoke to one of the grooms, hailing him good-naturedly, and went to inspect the few horses that were there. By the time they returned to the house he and Léonie might have known one another for years. Rupert was delighted with his brother’s ward, and had already decided to remain some time at Merivale. A girl who was as outspoken as a boy, and who evidently did not expect him to make love to her, was something quite new to Rupert. A month ago he had danced attendance on Mistress Julia Falkner; he was weary of the pastime, and had determined to eschew feminine company. But Léonie, with her friendliness and her quaint ways, would be a pleasant amusement, he thought. She was very young, too, and his loves had hitherto been older than himself. He promised himself a few weeks’ gaiety unspoiled by any fear that he would be entrapped into marriage.

He came again next day, and was informed by the lackey who admitted him that Léonie awaited him in the picture gallery. Thither went he, and found her wandering round in coat and breeches, inspecting his ancestors.

“By Gad!” he exclaimed. “You—you rogue!”

She turned quickly, and laid a finger on her lips.

“Where is madame?”

“Cousin Harriet? I’ve not seen her. Léonie, you should always wear those clothes. They suit you, ’pon my soul they do!”

“I think so too,” she sighed. “But if you tell madame she will be agitated, and she will say that it is unmaidenly. I brought the foils up.”

“Oh, we’re to fence, are we, Amazon?”

“You said you would!”

“As you will, as you will! Damme, I’d like to see Julia’s face an she knew!” He chuckled impishly.

She nodded. He had told her of Mistress Falkner already.

“I do not suppose that she would like me,” she observed. She swept a hand round, indicating the many portraits. “There are a great number of people in your family, are there not? This one is nice. He is like Monseigneur, a little.”

“Lord, child, that’s old Hugo Alastair! Devilish rakehelly fellow! They’re a damned gloomy lot, all of ’em, and everyone has a sneer on his face for all the world like Justin himself. Come and look at this one; it’s my respected parent.”

Léonie looked up into Rudolph Alastair’s dissipated countenance.

“He does not please me at all,” she said severely.

“Never pleased anyone, my dear. Here’s her Grace. She was French like yourself. Lord, did you ever see such a mouth? Fascinating, y’know, but a temper like the fiend.”

Léonie moved on to where the last picture hung. An awed look came into her eyes.

“And this is—Monseigneur.”

“It was done a year ago. Good, eh?”

The hazel eyes under their drooping lids looked mockingly down on them.

“Yes, it is good,” said Léonie. “He does not always smile just so. I think he was not in a nice humour when that was painted.”

“Fiendish, ain’t he? Striking, of course, but Lord, what a damned mask of a face! Never trust him, child, he’s a devil.”

The swift colour flooded Léonie’s cheeks.

“He is not. It is you who are a gr-r-reat stupid!”

“But it’s true, my dear. I tell you he’s Satan himself. Damme, I ought to know!” He turned just in time to see Léonie seize one of the foils. “Here! What will you be at——?” He got no further, but leaped with more speed than dignity behind a chair, for Léonie, her eyes flaming, was bearing down upon him with the rapier poised in a distinctly alarming manner. Rupert hoisted the chair, and held it to keep Léonie at arm’s length, a look of comical dismay on his face. Then, as Léonie lunged across the chair he took to his heels and fled down the gallery in laughing panic, Léonie close behind him. She drove him into a corner, where he had perforce to stay, using his chair as a protection.

“No, no! Léonie, I say! Hey, you nearly had me! The button’ll come off for a certainty! Devil take it, it’s monstrous! Put it down, you wild-cat! Put it down!”

The wrath died out of Léonie’s face. She lowered the foil.

“I wanted to kill you,” she said calmly. “I will if you say things to me like that of Monseigneur. Come out. You are cowardly!”

“I like that!” Rupert put the chair down cautiously. “Put that damned foil down, and I’ll come.”

Léonie looked at him, and suddenly began to laugh. Rupert came out of the corner, smoothing his ruffled hair.

“You looked so very funny!” gasped Léonie.

Rupert eyed her gloomily. Words failed him.

“I would like to do it again, just to see you run!”

Rupert edged away. A grin dawned.

“For the Lord’s sake don’t!” he begged.

“No, I won’t,” Léonie said obligingly. “But you are not to say those things——”

“Never again! I swear I won’t! Justin’s a saint!”

“We will fence now, and not talk any more,” said Léonie regally. “I am sorry I frightened you.”

“Pooh!” said Rupert loftily.

Her eyes twinkled.

“You were frightened! I saw your face. It was so fun——”

“That’ll do,” said Rupert. “I was taken unawares.”

“Yes, that was not well done of me,” she said. “I am sorry, but you understand I have a quick temper.”

“Yes, I understand that,” grimaced Rupert.

“It is very sad, n’est-ce pas? But I am truly sorry.”

He became her slave from that moment.

CHAPTER XVI

The Coming of the Comte de Saint-Vire

The days sped past, and still the Duke did not come. Rupert and Léonie rode, fenced, and quarrelled together like two children, while, from afar, the Merivales watched, smiling.

“My dear,” said his lordship, “she reminds me strangely of someone, but who it is I cannot for the life of me make out.”

“I don’t think I have ever seen anyone like her,” Jennifer answered. “My lord, I have just thought that ’twould be a pretty thing if she married Rupert.”

“Oh, no!” he said quickly. “She is a babe, for sure, but, faith, she’s too old for Rupert!”

“Or not old enough. All women are older than their husbands, Anthony.”

“I protest I am a staid middle-aged man!”

She touched his cheek.

“You are just a boy. I am older by far.”

He was puzzled, and a little worried.

“I like it so,” she said.

Meanwhile at Avon Léonie and her swain made merry together. Rupert taught Léonie to fish, and they spent delightful days by the stream and returned at dusk, tired and wet, and unbelievably dirty. Rupert treated Léonie as a boy, which pleased her, and he told her endless tales of Society which also pleased her. But most of all she liked him to remember scraps of recollection of his brother. To these she would listen for hours at a time, eyes sparkling, and lips parted to drink in every word.

“He is—he is grand seigneur!” she said once, proudly.

“Oh, ay, every inch of him! I’ll say that. He’ll count no cost, either. He’s devilish clever, too.” Rupert shook his head wisely. “Sometimes I think there’s nothing he don’t know. God knows how he finds things out, but he does. All pose, of course, but it’s damned awkward, I give you my word. You can’t keep a thing secret from him. And he always comes on you when you least expect him—or want him. Oh, he’s cunning, devilish cunning.”

“I think you do like him a little,” Léonie said shrewdly.

“Devil a bit. Oh, he can be pleasant enough, but it’s seldom he is! One’s proud of him, y’know, but he’s queer.”

“I wish he would come back,” sighed Léonie.

Two days later Merivale, on his way to Avon village, met them, careering wildly over the country. They reined in when they saw him and came to him. Léonie was flushed and panting, Rupert was sulky.

“He is a great stupid, this Rupert,” Léonie announced.

“She has led me a fine dance this day,” Rupert complained.

“I do not want you with me at all,” said Léonie, nose in air.

Merivale smiled upon their quarrel.

“My lady said a while ago that I was a boy, but ’fore Gad you make me feel a greybeard,” he said. “Farewell to ye both!” He rode on to the village, and there transacted his business. He stopped for a few minutes at the Avon Arms, and went into the coffee-room. In the doorway he ran into a tall gentleman who was coming out.

“Your pardon, sir,” he said, and stared in amazement. “Saint-Vire! Why, what do ye here, Comte? I’d no notion——”

Saint-Vire had started back angrily, but he bowed now, and if his tone was not cordial, at least he was polite.

“Your servant, Merivale. I had not thought to see you here.”

“Nor I you. Of all the queer places in which to meet you! What brings you here?”

Saint-Vire hesitated for a moment.

“I am on my way to visit friends,” he said, after a while. “They live—a day’s journey north of this place. My schooner is at Portsmouth.” He spread out his hands. “I am forced to break my journey to recover from a slight indisposition which attacked me en route. What would you? One does not wish to arrive souffrant at the house of a friend.”

Merivale thought the story strange, and Saint-Vire’s manner stranger still, but he was too well-bred to show incredulity.

“My dear Comte, it’s most opportune. You will give me the pleasure of your company at dinner at Merivale? I must present you to my wife.”

Again it seemed that Saint-Vire hesitated.

“Monsieur, I resume my journey to-morrow.”

“Well, ride out to Merivale this evening, Comte, I beg of you.”

Almost the Comte shrugged.

“Eh bien, m’sieur, you are very kind. I thank you.”

He came that evening to Merivale and bowed deeply over Jennifer’s hand.

“Madame, this is a great pleasure. I have long wished to meet the wife of my friend Merivale. Is it too late to felicitate, Merivale?”

Anthony laughed.

“We are four years married, Comte.”

“One has heard much of the beauty of Madame la Baronne,” Saint-Vire said.

Jennifer withdrew her hand.

“Will you be seated, monsieur? I am always glad to see my husband’s friends. For where are you bound?”

Saint-Vire waved a vague hand.

“North, madame. I go to visit my friend—er—Chalmer.”

Merivale’s brow creased.

“Chalmer? I don’t think I know——”

“He lives very much in seclusion,” explained Saint-Vire, and turned again to Jennifer. “Madame, I think I have never met you in Paris?”

“No, sir, I have not been outside mine own country. My husband goes there sometimes.”

“You should take madame,” Saint-Vire smiled. “You we see often, n’est-ce pas?”

“Not so often as of yore,” Merivale answered. “My wife has no taste for town life.”

“Ah, one understands then why you stay not long abroad these days, Merivale!”

Dinner was announced, and they went into the adjoining room. The Comte shook out his napkin.

“You live in most charming country, madame. The woods here are superb.”

“They are finer about Avon Court,” said Anthony. “There are some splendid oaks there.”

“Ah, Avon! I am desolated to hear that the Duc is away. I hoped—but it is not to be.”

In the recesses of Merivale’s brain memory stirred. Surely there had been some scandal, many years ago?

“No, Avon, I believe, is in London. Lord Rupert is staying with us—he is at the Court now, dining with Madame Field, and Mademoiselle de Bonnard, the Duke’s ward.”

Saint-Vire’s hand, holding the wine-glass, shook a little.

“Mademoiselle de——?”

“Bonnard. You knew that Avon had adopted a daughter?”

“I heard some rumour,” the Comte said slowly. “So she is here?”

“For a time only. She is to be presented soon, I think.”

“Vraiment?” The Comte sipped his wine. “No doubt she is ennuyée here.”

“I think she is well enough,” Merivale answered. “There is much to amuse her at Avon. She and that scamp, Rupert, have taken to playing at hide-and-seek in the woods. They are naught but a pair of children!”

“Aha?” Saint-Vire slightly inclined his head. “And the Duc is, you say, in London?”

“I cannot say for sure. None ever knows where he will be next. Léonie expects him daily, I think.”

“I am sorry to have missed him,” said Saint-Vire mechanically.

After dinner he and Merivale played at piquet together and soon Rupert came striding in, and stopped dead upon the threshold at sight of the visitor.

“Thun—— Your very devoted, Comte,” he said stiffly, and stalked over to where Jennifer was seated. “What’s that fellow doing here?” he growled in her ear.

She laid a finger on her lips.

“The Comte was just saying that he is sorry to have missed seeing your—your brother, Rupert,” she said clearly.

Rupert stared at Saint-Vire.

“Eh? Oh, ay! My brother will be heartbroken, I assure you, sir. Did you come to pay him a visit?”

A muscle quivered beside the Comte’s heavy mouth.

“No, milor’. I am on my way to visit friends. I thought maybe to see M. le Duc on my way.”

“Pray let me be the bearer of any message you may wish to send him, sir,” said Rupert.

“Cela ne vaut pas la peine, m’sieur,” said the Comte politely.

No sooner had he taken his leave of them than Rupert scowled upon his host.

“Devil take you, Tony, why did you ask that fellow here? What’s he doing in England? ’Pon my soul, it’s too bad that I should have to meet him, and be civil!”

“I noticed no civility,” remarked Merivale. “Was there some quarrel between him and Alastair?”

“Quarrel! He’s our worst enemy, my dear! He insulted the name! I give you my word he did! What, don’t you know? He hates us like the devil! Tried to horse-whip Justin years ago.”

Enlightenment came to Merivale.

“Of course I remember! Why in the world did he pretend he wanted to meet Alastair?”

“I don’t like him,” Jennifer said, troubled. “His eyes make me shiver. I think he is not a good man.”

“What puzzles me,” said Rupert, “is why he should be the living spit of Léonie.”

Merivale started up.

“That is it, then! I could not think where I had seen her like! What does it all mean?”

“Oh, but she is not like him!” protested Jennifer. “’Tis but the red hair makes you say so. Léonie has a sweet little face!”

“Red hair and dark eyebrows,” said Rupert. “Damme, I believe there’s more in this than we think! It’s like Justin to play a deep game, stap me if it isn’t!”

Merivale laughed at him.

“What game, rattle-pate?”

“I don’t know, Tony. But if you’d lived with Justin for as many years as I have you wouldn’t laugh. Justin hasn’t forgot the quarrel, I’ll swear! He never forgets. There’s something afoot, I’ll be bound.”

CHAPTER XVII

Of a Capture, a Chase, and Contusion

“Oh, parbleu!” Léonie said in disgust. “This Rupert he is always late, the vaurien!”

“My dearest love,” Madam Field reproved her. “That expression! Indeed, it is not becoming in a young lady! I must beg of you——”

“To-day I am not a lady at all,” said Léonie flatly. “I want Monseigneur to come.”

“My dear, it is hardly proper in you to——”

“Ah, bah!” said Léonie, and walked away.

She went to her own apartment, and sat disconsolately down at the window.

“It is two weeks since Monseigneur wrote,” she reflected. “And then he said, I come soon now. Voyons, this is no way to keep that promise! And Rupert is late again.” A sparkle came into her eyes. She jumped up. “I will have a game with Rupert,” she said.

With this intention she pulled her boy’s raiment out of the cupboard, and struggled out of her skirts. Her hair had grown, but it was not yet long enough to be confined in the nape of her neck by a riband. It clustered about her head still in a myriad soft curls. She brushed it back from her forehead, dressed herself in shirt and breeches and coat, and, catching up her tricorne, swaggered downstairs. Luckily Madam Field was nowhere to be seen, so she escaped without let or hindrance into the garden. It was the first time she had ventured out of doors in her boy’s gear, and since it was an illicit pleasure her eyes twinkled naughtily. Rupert, with all his laxity, had in him a quaint streak of prudery, as she knew.

He would of a certainty be shocked to see her parading the grounds thus clad, and as this was precisely what she wanted she set out in the hope of meeting him, making for the woods that ran down towards the road.

Half-way across the big meadow that separated her from the woodland she espied Rupert coming from the stables, carrying his hat under his arm, and whistling jauntily. Léonie cupped her hands about her mouth.

“Ohé, Rupert!” she called gleefully.

Rupert saw her, stood still a moment, and then came striding towards her.

“Fiend seize it, what will you be at next?” he shouted. “’Pon my soul, it’s scandalous, stap me if it’s not! Home with you, you hoyden!”

“I shall not, Milor’ Rupert!” she cried tauntingly, and danced away. “You cannot make me!”

“Can I not, then?” called Rupert, and, dropping his hat, broke into a run.

Léonie straightway dived into the wood, and fled as for her life, for she knew very well that if he caught her Rupert would have no hesitation in picking her up and carrying her back to the house.

“Wait till I catch you!” threatened Rupert, crashing through the undergrowth. “Damme, I’ve torn my ruffle, and the lace cost me fifteen guineas! Plague take it, where are you?”

Léonie sent a mocking cry echoing through the wood, and ran on, listening to Rupert’s blundering progress behind her. She led him in and out of trees, through bushes, round in circles, and over the stream, always keeping just out of sight, until she found herself coming out into the road. She would have turned and doubled back, had she not chanced to see a light travelling coach standing near by. She was surprised, and tiptoed to peep at it over a low thorn-bush. In the distance she heard Rupert’s voice, half-exasperated, half-laughing. She threw back her head to call to him, and, as she did so, saw to her amazement the Comte de Saint-Vire, walking quickly up one of the paths that led through the wood. He was frowning, and his heavy mouth pouted. He looked up, and as his glance fell upon her the frown went from his face, and he came hurrying towards her.

“I give you good morrow, Léon the Page,” he said, and the words bit. “I had hardly hoped that I should find you thus soon. The luck is with me this round, I think.”

Léonie retreated a little. Avon’s warning was in her mind.

“Bonjour, m’sieur,” she said, and wondered what he was doing in the Duke’s grounds, or why he was in England at all. “Did you go to see Monseigneur?” she asked, with wrinkled brow. “He is not here.”

“I am desolated,” said Saint-Vire sarcastically, and came right up to her. She shrank, and, in a fit of inexplicable panic, called to Rupert.

“Rupert, Rupert, ŕ moi!”

Even as she cried Saint-Vire’s hand was over her mouth and his other arm about her waist. Struggling madly she was swept from the ground and borne at a run to where the coach stood waiting. Without compunction she bit deeply into the hand over her mouth. There was a muttered oath, the hand flinched a little, and she jerked her head away to shriek again.

“Rupert, Rupert, on m’enporte! Ŕ moi, ŕ moi, ŕ moi!”

His voice came to her, nearer at hand.

“Who—what——? What the devil——?”

She was flung then into the coach, sprang up like a small fury, but was thrust roughly back again. She heard Saint-Vire give an order to the coachman; then he jumped in beside her, and the coach lurched forward.

Rupert came plunging into the road, hot and dishevelled, just in time to see the coach disappear round the bend in the road, in the direction of the village.

He had suspected at first that Léonie was only teasing him, but her second cry had held a note of genuine alarm, while now there was no sign of her. With characteristic impetuosity he went headlong down the road in pursuit of the coach, never stopping to consider the wisdom of returning to the stables for his horse. Full-tilt he went, hatless, with torn ruffles, and wig askew. The coach was out of sight, but he ran on until he was blown. Then he dropped into a walk. When he had got his breath back he ran again, and had a grin for the comic figure he knew he must be cutting. He had no idea who had seized Léonie, or why, but he felt certain that she was in that coach. His fighting spirit was aroused, and, incidentally, his love of adventure: he determined to catch the coach if it cost him his life. So, alternately running and walking, he came at last to the straggling village, three miles distant, and, seeing the first cottage, broke once more into a weary jog-trot.

The blacksmith was working in his yard, and looked up in astonishment as Rupert’s well-known figure approached.

“Hey, there!” Rupert panted. “A coach—passed this way. Where went—it?”

The smithy rose and touched his forelock.

“Yes, my lord.”

“Devil take you! The coach!”

“Yes, my lord, yes,” said the puzzled smith.

“Did—it—pass here?” demanded Rupert in stentorian tones.

Light broke upon the smith.

“Why, yes, your lordship, and stopped at the Arms. ’Tis gone this twenty minutes.”

“Curse it! Whither?”

The smith shook his head.

“Beg pardon, your lordship, but I was not watching.”

“You’re a fool,” said Rupert, and plodded on.

The landlord of the Avon Arms was more communicative. He came bustling out to meet his young lordship, and threw up his hands at sight of him.

“My lord! Why, your lordship has lost his hat! Your coat, sir——”

“Never mind my coat,” said Rupert. “Where went that coach?”

“The French gentleman’s coach, sir?”

Rupert had collapsed on to the settle, but he sat bolt upright now.

“French? French? So that’s it, is it? Oho, M. le Comte! But what the deuce does he want with Léonie?”

The landlord looked at him sympathetically, and waited for him to explain.

“Ale!” said Rupert, sinking back again. “And a horse, and a pistol.”

The landlord was more perplexed than ever, but he went off to fetch ale in a large tankard. Rupert disposed of it speedily, and drew a deep breath.

“Did the coach stop here?” he demanded. “Did you see my brother’s ward in it?”

“Mistress Léonie, my lord? No, indeed! The French gentleman did not alight. He was in a mighty hurry, sir, seemingly.”

“Scoundrel!” Rupert shook his fist, scowling.

Mr. Fletcher retreated a pace.

“Not you, fool,” said Rupert. “What did the coach stop for?”

“Why, sir, the reckoning was not paid, and the moossoo had left his valise. The servant jumps off the box, comes running in here to settle the reckoning with me, snatches up the valise, and was out of the place before I’d time to fetch my breath. They’re queer people, these Frenchies, my lord, for there was me never dreaming the gentleman proposed to leave to-day. Driving hell for leather, they was, too, and as good a team of horses as ever I see.”

“Rot his black soul!” fumed Rupert. “The devil’s in it now, and no mistake. A horse, Fletcher, a horse!”

“Horse, sir?”

“Burn it, would I want a cow? Horse, man, and quickly!”

“But, my lord——”

“Be hanged to your buts! Go find me a horse and a pistol!”

“But, my lord, I’ve no riding horses here! Farmer Giles hath a cob, but——”

“No horse? Damme, it’s disgraceful! Go and fetch the animal the smith’s shoeing now! Away with you!”

“But, my lord, that is Mr. Manvers’ horse, and——”

“Devil take Mr. Manvers! Here, I’ll go myself! No, stay ! A pistol, man.”

The landlord was upset.

“My lord, it’s a touch of the sun must have got into your head!”

“Sun at this time of the year?” roared Rupert, thoroughly exasperated. “Go find me a pistol, sirrah!”

“Yes, my lord, yes!” said Fletcher, and retreated in haste.

Rupert set off down the road to the blacksmith’s, and found him whistling to himself as he worked.

“Coggin! Coggin, I say!”

The blacksmith paused.

“Yes, my lord?”

“Hurry with that shoe, my man! I want the horse.”

Coggin stared, open-mouthed.

“But—but ’tis not one of his Grace’s horses, sir——”

“Tare an’ ouns, would his Grace own such a brute? Do ye take me for a fool?”

“But ’tis Mr. Manvers’ roan, your lordship!”

“I don’t care if ’tis the devil’s own chestnut!” cried Rupert. “I want it, and that’s enough! How long before you have that shoe on?”

“Why, sir, twenty minutes, or maybe longer.”

“A guinea for you if you hasten!” Rupert searched in his pockets and produced two crowns. “And ask it of Fletcher,” he added, stowing the crowns away again. “Don’t sit staring at me, man! Hammer that shoe on, or I’ll take the hammer to knock sense into your head withal! Stap me if I won’t!”

Thus adjured, the smith set to with a will.

“The groom’s walked on to Fawley Farm, my lord,” he ventured presently. “What will your honour have me say to him when he comes back?”

“Tell him to present Lord Rupert Alastair’s compliments to Mr. Manvers—who the devil is Mr. Manvers?—and thank him for the loan of his horse.” Rupert walked round the animal, inspecting its points. “Horse, is it? Cow-hocked bag of bones! A man’s no right to own a scarecrow like this! You hear me, Coggin?”

“Yes, my lord. Certainly, sir!”

“Hurry with that shoe, then, and fetch the animal up to the Arms.” Away went Rupert up the road again to the inn, where he found Fletcher awaiting him with a large pistol.

“’Tis loaded, sir,” Fletcher warned him. “Indeed, my lord, and are you sure your lordship is well?”

“Never mind! Which way did the coach go?”

“Making for Portsmouth, sir, as I judge. But surely to goodness your lordship isn’t of a mind to chase it?”

“What else, fool? I want a hat. Produce me one.”

Fletcher resigned himself to the inevitable.

“If your lordship would condescend to take my Sunday beaver——”

“Ay, ’twill suffice. Make out the reckoning and I’ll pay—er—when I return. Damn that fellow Coggin! Will he be all night at his work? They’ve nigh on an hour’s start of me already!”

But Coggin came presently, leading the roan. Rupert stowed his pistol away in the saddle holster, tightened the girths, and sprang into the saddle. The smith gave vent to a last appeal.

“My lord, Mr. Manvers is a testy gentleman, and indeed——”

“To hell with Mr. Manvers, I’m sick of the fellow!” said Rupert, and rode off at a canter.

The borrowed horse was no fiery charger, as Rupert soon discovered. It cherished its own ideas as to a suitable pace to maintain, and managed to do so for the most part, to its own satisfaction and Rupert’s disgust. Thus it was close on four in the afternoon when he came at last into Portsmouth, and both he and his mount were very weary.

He rode at once to the quay, and learned that the private schooner anchored there for the past three days had set sail not an hour ago. Rupert dashed Mr. Fletcher’s hat on the ground.

“Blister me, I’m too late!”

The harbour-master eyed him in polite surprise, and picked up the hat.

“Tell me now,” said Rupert, dismounting. “Was it a French scoundrel embarked?”

“Ay, sir, ’twas a foreign gentleman with red hair, and his son.”

“Son?” ejaculated Rupert.

“Ay, sir, a sick lad it was. The moossoo said he was suffering from a fever. He carried him on board like one dead, all muffled up in a great cloak. I said to Jim here, ‘Jim,’ I said, ‘it’s a shame to take the boy on board, ill as he is, that it is.’”

“Drugged, by Gad!” exclaimed Rupert. “I’ll have his blood for this! Taken her to France, has he! Now, what in thunder does he want with her? Hi, you! When does the next packet sail for Le Havre?”

“Why, sir, there’s no boat for the likes of you till Wednesday,” said the harbour-master. Rupert’s ruffles might be torn, and his coat muddied, but the harbour-master knew a gentleman when he saw one.

Rupert glanced ruefully down his person.

“The likes of me, eh? Well, well!” He pointed with his whip to a ramshackle vessel laden with bales of cloth “Where is she bound for?”

“For Le Havre, sir, but ’tis only a trading ship, as your honour sees.”

“When does she sail?”

“To-night, sir. She’s lain here two days too long already, waiting for the wind to turn, but she’ll be away with the tide soon after six.”

“That’s the ship for me,” said Rupert briskly. “Where’s her master?”

The harbour-master was perturbed.

“’Tis but a dirty old boat, sir, and never a——”

“Dirty? So am I dirty, damn it!” said Rupert. “Go find me the master, and tell him I want a passage to France this night.”

So off went the harbour-master, to return anon with a burly individual in homespun, with a great black beard. This gentleman eyed Rupert stolidly, and, removing the long clay pipe from his mouth, rumbled forth two words.

“Twenty guineas.”

“What’s that?” said Rupert. “Not a farthing more than ten, you rogue!”

The bearded gentleman spat deliberately into the sea, but vouchsafed no word. A dangerous light came into Rupert’s eyes. He tapped the man on the shoulder with his riding-whip.

“Fellow, I am Lord Rupert Alastair. You shall have ten guineas off me and for the rest I’ll see you damned.”

The harbour-master pricked up his ears.

“I was hearing, my lord, that his Grace has the Silver Queen anchored in Southampton Water.”

“The devil fly away with Justin!” exclaimed Rupert wrathfully. “He was always wont to have her here!”

“Maybe, sir, if you was to ride to Southampton——”

“Ride to hell! I’d find them painting her, like as not. Come now, fellow, ten guineas!”

The harbour-master took his colleague aside, and whispered urgently. Presently he turned, and addressed Rupert.

“I am saying, my lord, as how fifteen guineas is a fair price.”

“Fifteen guineas it is!” said Rupert promptly, thinking of the two crowns in his pocket. “I shall have to sell the horse.”

“Six o’clock we sets sail, and don’t wait for nobbut,” growled the captain, and walked off.

Rupert rode into the town, and by good fortune was able to sell Mr. Manvers’ roan for the sum of twenty guineas. The sale being accomplished he went to the inn on the quayside, and refreshed himself with a wash, and a bowl of punch. Thus fortified he boarded the sailing vessel, and sat himself down on a coil of rope, thoroughly enjoying the adventure, and not a little amused.

“’Fore Gad, I never was in such a mad chase!” he remarked to the sky. “Here’s Léonie spirited off by Saint-Vire, the Lord knows why, or where, for that matter—and myself hot on the scent with five crowns in my pocket, and the landlord’s hat on my head. And what am I going to do when I find the chit?” He pondered deeply. “It’s a plaguey queer business, so it is,” he decided. “Justin’s at the back of it, I’ll be bound. And where the devil is Justin?” Suddenly he flung back his head and laughed. “Damme, I’d give something to see old cousin Harriet’s face when she finds me gone off with Léonie! Hey, hey, here’s a pretty coil, to be sure, for, faith, I don’t know where I am, and I don’t know where Léonie is, nor she where I am, and at Avon they don’t know where any of us are!”

CHAPTER XVIII

The Indignation of Mr. Manvers

Madam Field was worried, for it was after six in the evening and neither Léonie nor Rupert had returned. Considerably flustered at length Madam sent a messenger to Merivale to inquire whether the truants were there. Half an hour later the lackey returned, with Merivale riding beside him. Merivale went swiftly to the withdrawing-room, and as soon as he entered Madam Field sprang up.

“Oh, Lord Merivale! Oh, and have you brought the child home? I have been in such a taking, for I never saw her after eleven in the morning, or maybe ’twas later, or perhaps a little earlier—I cannot say for sure. And never a sign of Rupert, so I thought mayhap they were with you——”

Merivale broke into the flood of words.

“I’ve not seen either of them since this morning when Rupert set out to come here,” he said.

Madam’s jaw dropped. She let fall her fan, and began to cry.

“Oh dear, oh dear, and Justin telling me to have a care to her! But how could I tell, for sure ’twas his own brother! Oh, my lord, can they—can they have eloped?”

Merivale laid his hat and whip on the table.

“Eloped? Nonsense, madam! Impossible!”

“She was ever a wild piece,” wept Madam. “And Rupert so scatter-brained! Oh, what shall I do, my lord? What shall I do?”

“Pray madam, dry your tears!” begged Merivale. “I am convinced there’s naught so serious in this as an elopement. For God’s sake, madam, calm yourself.”

But Madam, to his dismay, went into a fit of the vapours. My lord turned to the servant.

“Ride back to Merivale, my man, and request my lady to join me here,” he ordered, with an uneasy eye on the prostrate lady. “And—and send madam’s abigail here! Mayhap the children are playing some trick on us,” he muttered to himself. “Madam, I beg you will not alarm yourself unduly!”

Madam Field’s maid came running with salts, and presently the lady recovered somewhat, and lay upon the couch calling on heaven to witness that she had done her best. To all Merivale’s questions she could only reply that she had had no notion of such wickedness, and what Justin would say she dared not think. Came my Lady Merivale, in her chaise, and was ushered into the withdrawing-room.

“Madam! Why, madam, what is this? Anthony, have they not returned? Fie, they are trying to frighten us! Depend upon it, that is it! Never fret, madam, they’ll return soon.” She went to the agitated chaperon, and began to chafe her hands. “Pray, madame, hush. It’s no such great matter, I am sure. Mayhap they have lost their way somewhere, for they are out riding you may be sure.”

“My dear, Rupert knows every inch of the country,” Merivale said quietly. He turned again to the lackey. “Be good enough to send to the stables and see whether my lord and Mistress Léonie have taken the horses.”

Ten minutes later the man returned with the news that Lord Rupert’s horse was in a loose-box, and had been there all day. Whereupon Madam had a fresh attack of the vapours, and Merivale frowned.

“I don’t understand this,” he said. “If they had eloped——”

“Oh, Anthony, can they have done that?” Jennifer cried aghast. “Oh no, surely! Why, the child can think of no one but the Duke, and as for Rupert——”

“Listen!” said my lord sharply, and raised his hand.

Outside they heard horses, and the scrunch of wheels on gravel. Madam started up.

“Heaven be praised, they have come back!”

With one accord Anthony and Jennifer deserted the ailing lady, and hurried into the hall. The great front-door stood open, and into the house stepped his Grace of Avon, elegant in a coat of fine purple velvet, laced with gold, a many-caped greatcoat, over all, worn carelessly open, and polished top-boots on his feet. He paused on the threshold and raised his eyeglass to survey the Merivales.

“Dear me!” he said languidly. “An unexpected honour. Your ladyship’s devoted servant.”

“Oh lord!” said Merivale, for all the world like a rueful boy.

His Grace’s lips quivered, but Jennifer blushed fiery red. Merivale went forward.

“You must deem this an unwarranted intrusion, Duke,” he began stiffly.

“Not at all,” bowed his Grace. “I am charmed.”

Merivale returned the bow.

“I was summoned to Madam Field’s assistance,” he said. “Otherwise I should not be here, believe me.”

Leisurely the Duke divested himself of his greatcoat, and shook out the ruffles.

“But shall we not repair to the withdrawing-room?” he suggested. “You are saying, I think, that you came to my cousin’s assistance?” He led the way to the withdrawing-room, and bowed them in. Madam Field, seeing him, gave a shriek, and fell back upon her cushions.

“Oh, mercy, ’tis Justin!” she cried.

Jennifer went to her.

“Hush, madam! Calm yourself!”

“You appear to be strangely afflicted, cousin,” remarked his Grace.

“Oh Justin—oh cousin! I had no notion! So innocent they seemed! I can scarce believe——”

“Innocent! Of course they were!” snorted Merivale.

“Have done with this elopement foolery! It’s mere child’s talk!”

“Oh Anthony, do you think so indeed?” said Jennifer thankfully.

“I do not wish to seem importunate,” said the Duke, “but I should like an explanation. Where, may I ask, is my ward?”

“That,” said Merivale, “is the very root of the matter.”

The Duke stood very still.

“Indeed!” he said softly. “Pray continue. Cousin, I must request you to cease your lamentations.”

Madam’s noisy sobs abated. She clutched Jennifer’s hand, and sniffed dolefully.

“I know nothing more than this,” said Merivale. “She and Rupert have been absent since eleven of the clock this morning.”

“Rupert?” said his Grace.

“I should have told you that Rupert has been staying with us these past three weeks.”

“You amaze me,” said Avon. His eyes were as hard as agates. He turned, and put his snuff-box down on the table. “The mystery would seem to be solved,” he said evenly.

“Sir!” It was Jennifer who spoke. His Grace looked at her indifferently. “If you are thinking that—that they have eloped, I am sure—oh, I am sure that ’tis not so! Such a notion was never in either of their heads!”

“So?” Avon looked from one to the other. “Pray enlighten me!”

Merivale shook his head.

“Faith, I cannot. But I would stake mine honour that there’s been no thought of love between them. They are the veriest children and even now I suspect they may be playing a trick on us. More than that——” He paused.

“Yes?” said Avon.

Jennifer broke in.

“Sir, the child can talk of no one but yourself!” she said impetuously. “You have all her—her adoration!”

“So I thought,” answered Avon. “But one may be mistaken. I believe there is a saying that youth will to youth.”

“It’s no such thing,” Merivale averred. “Why, they are for ever quarrelling! Moreover they have taken no horses. Mayhap they are hiding somewhere to frighten us.”

A footman came to them.

“Well?” Avon spoke without turning his head.

“Mr. Manvers, your Grace, who desires speech with my Lord Rupert.”

“I have not the pleasure of Mr. Manvers’ acquaintance,” said the Duke, “but you may admit him.”

Entered a little wiry gentleman with red cheeks, and bright, angry eyes. He glared at the assembled company, and, singling out the Duke, rapped forth a question.

“Are you Lord Rupert Alastair, sir?”

“I am not,” said his Grace.

The irate little man rounded on Merivale.

“You, sir?”

“My name is Merivale,” Anthony replied.

“Then where is Lord Rupert Alastair?” demanded Mr. Manvers, in a voice of baffled rage.

His Grace took snuff.

“That is what we should all like to know,” he said.

“Damme, sir, do you think to play with me?” fumed Mr. Manvers.

“I have never played with anyone,” said the Duke.

“I am come here to find Lord Rupert Alastair! I demand speech with him! I want an explanation of him!”

“My dear sir,” said Avon. “Pray join our ranks! We all want that.”

“Who the devil are you?” cried the exasperated little man.

“Sir,” bowed his Grace. “I believe I am the devil. So they say.”

Merivale was shaken with silent laughter. Mr. Manvers turned to him.

“Is this a mad-house?” he asked. “Who is he?”

“He is the Duke of Avon,” said Merivale unsteadily.

Mr. Manvers pounced on Avon again.

“Ah! Then you are Lord Rupert’s brother!” he said vindictively.

“My misfortune, sir, believe me.”

“What I demand to know is this!” said Mr. Manvers. “Where is my roan?”

“I haven’t the least idea,” said his Grace placidly. “I am not even sure that I know what you are talking about.”

“Faith, I’m sure I don’t!” chuckled Merivale.

“My roan horse, sir! Where is it? Answer me that!”

“I fear you will have to hold me excused,” said the Duke. “I know nothing about your horse. In fact, I am not, at the moment, interested in your horse—roan or otherwise.”

Mr. Manvers raised his fists heavenwards.

“Interested in it!” he spluttered. “My horse has been stolen!”

“You have all my sympathy,” yawned his Grace. “But I fail to see what concern it is of mine.”

Mr. Manvers thumped the table.

“Stolen, sir, by your brother, Lord Rupert Alastair, this very day!”

His words brought about a sudden silence.

“Continue!” requested his Grace. “You interest us now exceedingly. Where, when, how, and why did Lord Rupert steal your horse?”

“He stole it in the village, sir, this morning! And I may say, sir, that I consider it a gross impertinence! a piece of insolence that infuriates me! I am a calm man, sir, but when I receive such a message from a man of birth, of title——”

“Oh, he left a message, did he?” interposed Merivale.

“With the blacksmith, sir! My groom rode over on the roan to the village, and, the horse casting a shoe, he took him to the smith, very properly! While Coggin was shoeing the animal my fellow walked on to Fawley to execute my commands.” He breathed heavily. “When he returned, the horse was gone! The smith—damn him for a fool!—tells me that Lord Rupert insisted on taking the horse—my horse, sir!—and left his compliments for me, and his—his thanks for the loan of my horse!”

“Very proper,” said his Grace.

“Damme, sir, it’s monstrous!”

A gurgling laugh came from Jennifer.

“Oh, was there ever such a boy?” she cried. “What in the world should he want with your horse, sir?”

Mr. Manvers scowled at her.

“Exactly, madam! Exactly! What did he want with my horse? The man’s mad, and should be clapped up! Coggin tells he came running into the village like one demented, with no hat on his head! And not one of those gaping fools had the sense to stop him from seizing my horse! A set of idiots, sir!”

“I can well believe it,” said Avon. “But I do not yet see how your information can help us.”

Mr. Manvers fought with himself.

“Sir, I am not come here to help you!” he raged. “I have come to demand my horse!”

“I would give it you had I it in my possession,” said his Grace kindly. “Unfortunately Lord Rupert has your horse.”

“Then I want its recovery!”

“Do not distress yourself!” Avon advised him. “No doubt he will return it. What I wish to know is, why did Lord Rupert want your horse, and where did he go?”

“If that dolt of a landlord is to be believed,” said Mr. Manvers, “he has gone to Portsmouth.”

“Fleeing the country, evidently,” murmured his Grace. “Was there a lady with Lord Rupert?”

“No, there was not! Lord Rupert went off at a disgraceful pace in pursuit of a coach, or some such nonsense.”

The Duke’s eyes widened.

“Almost I begin to see daylight,” he said. “Proceed.”

Merivale shook his head.

“I’m all at sea,” he confessed. “The mystery grows.”

“On the contrary,” his Grace replied gently. “The mystery is very nearly solved.”

“I don’t understand you—any of you!” exploded Mr. Manvers.

“That was not to be expected,” said Avon. “Lord Rupert, you say, went to Portsmouth in pursuit of a coach. Who was in that coach?”

“Some damned Frenchman, Fletcher said.”

Merivale started; so also did Jennifer.

“Frenchman?” Merivale echoed. “But what did Rupert——”

His Grace was smiling grimly.

“The mystery,” he said, “is solved. Lord Rupert, Mr. Manvers, borrowed your horse to go in pursuit of M. le Comte de Saint-Vire.”

Merivale gasped.

“You knew he was here, then?”

“I did not.”

“Then how a’ God’s name——?”

Again the Duke took snuff.

“Shall we say—intuition, my dear Anthony?”

“But—but why did Rupert pursue Saint-Vire? And—and what was Saint-Vire doing on the road to Portsmouth? He told he was journeying north to visit a friend! This goes beyond me!”

“What I want to know,” Jennifer said, “is, where is Léonie?”

“Ay, that’s the question,” nodded Merivale.

“Your pardon, sir,” interjected Mr. Manvers, “but the question is, where is my horse?”

They turned to the Duke for enlightenment.

“Léonie,” said the Duke, “is by now on the way to France, in company with the Comte de Saint-Vire. Rupert, I imagine, is also on his way to France, for I do not suppose he was in time to intercept them. Mr. Manvers’ horse is in all probability at Portsmouth. Unless, of course, Rupert has taken it to France with him.”

Mr. Manvers collapsed into the nearest chair.

“Taken—taken my horse to France, sir? Oh, it’s monstrous! it’s monstrous!”

“For God’s sake, Avon, be more explicit!” begged Merivale. “Why has Saint-Vire run off with Léonie? He had not even seen her!”

“On the contrary,” said Avon, “he has seen her many times.”

Jennifer rose to her feet.

“Oh, sir, he will not harm her?”

“No, he will not harm her, my lady,” Avon replied, and there was a glint in his eyes. “You see, there will be no time for that. He has Rupert hard on his heels—and me.”

“You’ll go?”

“Of course I shall go. Follow my example, and place your trust in Rupert. It seems I shall live to be grateful to him yet.”

“Alastair, what in God’s name does all this mean?” demanded Merivale. “Rupert himself swore there was a mystery as soon as he saw Léonie’s likeness to Saint-Vire.”

“So Rupert saw that? I appear to have underrated Rupert’s intelligence. I believe I can satisfy your curiosity. Come with me into the library, my dear Merivale.”

Past enmity was forgotten. Anthony went to the door. Mr. Manvers sprang up.

“But all this doesn’t help me to my horse!” he said bitterly.

With his hand on the door Avon paused, and looked back.

“My good sir,” he said haughtily, “I am weary of your horse. It has served its turn, and shall be restored to you.” He went out with Merivale, and shut the door behind him. “So. One moment, Anthony. Johnson!”

The butler came forward.

“Your Grace?”

“Bid them harness Thunderbolt and Blue Peter to the curricle at once, place my large valise in it, and tell one of the women to pack some clothes for Mistress Léonie. Within half an hour, Johnson.”

“Very good, your Grace,” bowed the old man.

“And now, Merivale, this way.”

“By Gad, you’re a cool devil!” exclaimed Merivale, and followed him to the library.

His Grace went to his desk and extracted from it a brace of gold-mounted pistols.

“Briefly, Anthony, the matter is this: Léonie is Saint-Vire’s daughter.”

“I never knew he had a daughter!”

“No one knew. You thought he had a son, perhaps?”

“Yes. Well, naturally! I’ve seen the boy many times.”

“He is no more Saint-Vire’s son than you are,” said his Grace, snapping the breech of one of his pistols. “His name is Bonnard.”

“Good God, Alastair, do you mean to tell me that Saint-Vire had the audacity to exchange the children? Because of Armand?”

“I am delighted to find that you understand the situation so well,” said the Duke. “I beg you will let it go no further, for the time is not yet.”

“Very well, but what a piece of villainy! Does he know that you know?”

“I had best tell you the whole story,” sighed Avon.

When they at length emerged from the library Merivale’s face was a study of mingled emotions, and he appeared to be speechless. Jennifer met them in the hall.

“You are going, sir? You—you will bring her back?”

“That I cannot say,” Avon replied. “She will be safe with me, my lady.”

Her eyes fell.

“Yes, sir, I feel that that is so.”

His Grace looked at her.

“You surprise me,” he said.

She put her hand out, hesitating.

“She has told me so much. I cannot but be sure of your—kindness.” She paused. “Sir, what—what lies between you and me is past, and should be forgotten.”

His Grace bowed over her hand; his lips were smiling.

“Jenny, if I said that I had forgotten you would be offended.”

“No,” she answered, and a laugh trembled in her voice. “I should be glad.”

“My dear, I desire nothing better than to please you.”

“I think,” she said, “that there is one now who holds a greater place in your heart than ever I held.”

“You err, Jenny. I have no heart,” he replied.

A silence fell. It was broken by a lackey.

“Your Grace, the curricle waits.”

“How will you cross?” Merivale asked.

“In the Silver Queen. She lies in Southampton Water. Unless Rupert has already commandeered her. If that should chance to be so, I suppose I must hire a vessel.”

Mr. Manvers came up.

“Sir, I will not stay with that woman who has the vapours,” he said. “It is very well for you to say you are weary of my horse, but I want its instant recovery!”

The Duke had donned his great-cloak, and now he picked up his hat and gloves.

“My Lord Merivale will be charmed to assist you,” he said, with the glimmering of a smile. He bowed low to them all, and was gone.

CHAPTER XIX

Lord Rupert Wins the Second Trick

Léonie awoke, sighing. Nausea threatened to overwhelm her, and for a few minutes she lay with closed eyes, in semi-consciousness. By degrees she shook off the effects of the drug, and struggled up, a hand to her head. She looked about her in bewilderment, and found that she was on a couch in a strange apartment, alone. Bit by bit memory came, and she got up, and went to the window.

“Tiens!” she said, looking out. “Where am I now? I do not know this place. It is the sea.” She stared at the harbour in bewilderment. “That man gave me an evil drink, I remember. And I went to sleep, I suppose. Where is this wicked Comte? I think that I bit him very hard, and I know that I kicked him. And then we came to that inn—where was it?—miles and miles from Avon—and he brought me coffee.” She chuckled. “And I threw it at him. How he did swear! Then he brought more coffee, and he made me drink it. Faugh! Coffee, he called it? Pig-wash! What then? Peste, I do not know anything more!” She turned to look at the clock on the mantelpiece, and frowned. “Mon Dieu, what is this?” She went to the clock, and regarded it fixedly. “Sotte!” she addressed it. “How can you be noon? It was noon when he made me drink that evil pig-wash. Tu ne marches pas.”

The steady ticking gave her the lie. She put her head on one side.

“Comment? Voyons, I do not understand this at all. Unless—” her eyes widened—“Am I in to-morrow?” she wondered. “I am in to-morrow! That man made me go to sleep, and I have slept all day and night! Sacré bleu, but I am angry with that man! I am glad that I bit him. Doubtless he means to kill me, but why? Perhaps Rupert will come and save me, but I think that I will save myself, and not wait for Rupert, for I do not want to be killed by this Comte.” She considered. “No, mayhap he does not want to kill me. But if he does not—Grand Dieu, can it be that he elopes with me? No, that is not possible, because he believes I am a boy. And I do not think that he can love me very much.” Her eyes twinkled impishly. “Now I will go,” she said.

But the door was fast, and the windows too small to allow her to escape through them. The twinkle died, and the small mouth set mutinously.

“Parbleu, mais c’est infame! He locks me in, enfin! Oh, I am very angry!” She laid her finger on her lips. “If I had a dagger I would kill him, but I have no dagger, tant pis. What then?” She paused. “I am a little frightened, I think,” she confessed. “I must escape from this wicked person. It will be better, perhaps, if I am still asleep.”

Footsteps sounded. Quick as thought Léonie returned to her couch, covered herself with her cloak, and lay down, with closed eyes. A key grated in the lock, and someone entered. Léonie heard Saint-Vire’s voice.

“Bring déjeuner here, Victor, and do not let any enter. The child still sleeps.”

“Bien, m’sieur.”

“Now, who is Victor?” wondered Léonie. “It is the servant, I suppose. Dieu me sauve!”

The Comte came to her side, and bent over her, listening to her breathing. Léonie tried to still the uncomfortably hard beating of her heart. Evidently the Comte noticed nothing unusual, for he moved away again. Presently Léonie heard the chink of crockery.

“It is very hard that I must listen to this pig-person eating, when I am so hungry,” she reflected. “Oh, but I will make him very sorry!”

“When will m’sieu have the horses put to?” inquired Victor.

“Oho!” thought Léonie. “We travel further, then!”

“There is no need for haste now,” Saint-Vire answered. “That young fool, Alastair, would not follow us to France. We will start at two.”

Léonie’s eyes nearly flew open. She restrained herself with an effort.

“Le misérable.” she thought savagely. “Am I in Calais? No, for this is of a certainty not Calais. Perhaps I am at Le Havre. I do not immediately see what I am to do, but certainly I will go on being asleep. We went to Portsmouth, then. I think that Rupert will come, if he saw the way we went, but I must not wait for him. I would like to bite that man again. Diable, I am in great danger, it seems! I have a very cold feeling in my inside, and I wish that Monseigneur would come. That is foolishness, of course. He does not know that anything has happened to me. Ah, bah! Now this pig-person eats, while I starve! Certainly I will make him sorry.”

“The lad sleeps overlong, m’sieur,” Victor said. “He should wake soon now.”

“I do not expect it,” Saint-Vire replied. “He is young, and I gave him a strong dose. There is no cause for alarm, and it suits my purpose better if he sleeps for a while yet.”

“Sans doute!” thought Léonie. “So that was it! He drugged me! He is of a wickedness! I must breathe more heavily.”

Time went lagging by, but at length there came some commotion without, and Victor entered the room again.

“The coach awaits, m’sieur. Shall I take the boy?”

“I will. You have paid the reckoning?”

“Yes, m’sieur.”

Saint-Vire went to Léonie and lifted her. She was limp in his hold.

“I must let my head fall back, so! And my mouth open a little, thus! Voyons, I am being very clever! But I do not in the least know what comes to me. This man is a fool.”

She was carried out, and put into the coach, and propped up with cushions.

“You will make for Rouen,” Saint-Vire said. “En avant!”

The door was shut, Saint-Vire settled himself beside Léonie, and the coach rolled forward.

Léonie set her wits to work.

“This becomes more and more difficult. I do not see that I can do anything but continue to sleep while this man sits beside me. Presently we shall stop to change horses, for these are not good, I think. Perhaps this pig-person will get out then. If he thinks I am asleep he will do that, for he will want to eat again. But still I do not see how I am to escape. I will say a prayer to the Bon Dieu to show me a way.”

Meanwhile the coach travelled on at a fair rate, and the Comte took a book from his pocket and began to read it, glancing occasionally at the inert figure beside him. Once he felt Léonie’s pulse, and seemed to be satisfied, for he sank back into his corner and resumed his reading.

They must have been over an hour on the road when it happened. There was a terrific bump, a lurch, shouts and the stamping of frightened horses, and the coach toppled slowly into the ditch, so that the door by Léonie was only a yard from the hedge. She was flung violently against the side of the coach, with Saint-Vire atop of her, and it was only by a supreme effort of will that she refrained from throwing out a hand to save herself.

Saint-Vire struggled up, and wrenched at the off-side door, calling to know what was the matter. Victor’s voice answered.

“The near back wheel, m’sieur! We have one of the horses down, and a trace broken!”

Saint-Vire swore roundly, and hesitated, glancing at his captive. Once more he bent over her, listening to her breathing and then jumped down into the road, shutting the door behind him. Léonie heard him join in the męlée without, and scrambled up. Cautiously she opened the door that leaned drunkenly to the hedge, and slipped out, crouching low. The men were at the horses’ heads, and Saint-Vire was hidden from her sight by one of the plunging leaders. Bent almost double she fled down the road, keeping to the ditch, and, coming presently upon a gap in the high hedge, pushed her way through it into the field beyond. She was hidden now from the road, but she knew that at any moment Saint-Vire might discover her escape, and she ran on, dizzy and trembling, back along the way they had come, looking wildly round for some hiding-place. The field stretched away on either side; the bend in the road was some hundred yards further on, and there was no sign of human habitation, or friendly woodland.

Then in the distance she heard the sound of a horse’s hoofs on the hard road, galloping from the direction of Le Havre. She peeped through the hedge, wondering whether she dared call upon this furious rider to stop and assist her. The horse came round the bend. She saw a familiar blue coat, muddied over, a torn ruffle, and a dark handsome young face, flushed and excited.

She tore her way through the hedge, flew out into the road, and waved her hands.

“Rupert, Rupert, j’y suis!” she shrieked.

Rupert pulled up, wrenching his horse back upon its haunches, and let out a whoop of triumph.

“Quick! Oh, quick!” Léonie panted, and ran to his stirrup.

He hoisted her up before him.

“Where is he? Where’s that black scoundrel?” he demanded. “How did you——”

“Turn, turn!” she commanded. “He is there, with that coach, and there are three others! Oh, quickly, Rupert!” She pulled the horse round, but Rupert held it in still.

“No, damme, I’ll have his blood, Léonie. I’ve sworn——”

“Rupert, there are three with him, and you have no sword! Now he has seen! Nom de Dieu, en avant!”

He looked over his shoulder, undecided. Léonie saw Saint-Vire snatch a pistol from his pocket, and drove her heels into the horse’s flanks with all her might. The animal leaped forward; something sang past Léonie’s cheek, scorching it; there was a terrific oath from Rupert, and the horse bolted with them down the road. A second explosion came, and Léonie felt Rupert lurch in the saddle, and heard the quick intake of his breath.

“Touché, b’gad!” he gasped. “On with you, you madcap!”

“Laisse moi, laisse moi!” she cried, and snatched the bridle from him, urging the frightened horse round the bend. “Hold to me, Rupert, it is well now.”

Rupert could still laugh.

“Well, it is? Gad—what a—chase! Steady, steady! There’s—lane—further down—turn into it—never reach—Le Havre.”

She twisted the bridle round her little hands, and pulled gallantly.

“He will mount one of those horses,” she said, thinking quickly. “And he will ride to Le Havre. Yes, yes, we will turn down the lane; Rupert, mon pauvre, are you badly hurt?”

“Right shoulder—’tis naught. There—should be—village. There’s the lane! Steady him, steady him! Good girl! Hey, what an adventure!”

They swept into the lane, saw cottages ahead, and a farm. Of impulse Léonie pulled up her mount, turned aside to the hedge, and made the horse push through into the fields. Then on she drove him, cross-country, at a canter.

Rupert was swaying in the saddle.

“What—will you be at?” he said hoarsely.

“Laisse moi!” she repeated. “That is too near the road. He would be sure to look for us. I go further.”

“Damme, let him look for us! I’ll put a bullet through his black heart, so I will!”

Léonie paid no heed, but rode on with a wary eye on the look-out for shelter. Rupert, she knew, was losing blood fast, and could not long endure. To the right, in the distance, she saw a church spire, and made for it, a cold fear in her heart.

“Have courage, Rupert! Hold to me, and it will be very well!”

“Ay, I’m well enough,” said Rupert faintly. “Courage be damned! It’s not I who’d run away! Burn it, I can’t get my hand to the hole he’s made in me! Gently, gently, and ’ware rabbit-holes!”

A mile further the village was reached, a little peaceful haven, with its church sitting placidly by. Men working on the fields stared in amazement at the fleeing couple, but they rode on into the cobbled street, and up it till they came upon a tiny inn, with a swinging board over the door, and stables lying tumble-down about the yard.

Léonie reined in, and the horse stood quivering. An ostler gaped at them, mop in hand.

“You there!” Léonie called imperiously. “Come and help m’sieur to the ground! Quickly, great fool! He is wounded by—by highwaymen!”

The man looked fearfully down the road, but, seeing no dread footpad, came to do Léonie’s bidding. Then the landlord bustled out to see what was toward, an enormous man with a scratch wig on his head, and a twinkle in his eye. Léonie held out her hand to him.

“Ah, la bonne chance!” she cried. “Aid, m’sieur, I beg of you! We were travelling to Paris, and were set upon by a party of footpads.”

“Tare an’ ouns!” said Rupert. “Do you think I’d run from a parcel of greasy footpads? Think of another tale, for the love of God!”

The landlord slipped an arm about his lordship, and lifted him down. Léonie slid to the ground, and stood trembling.

“Mon Dieu, what an escape!” said the landlord. “These footpads! You, Hector! Take m’sieur’s legs, and help me bear him to a guest-chamber.”

“Devil take you, leave my legs alone!” swore Rupert. “I can—I can walk!”

But the landlord, a practical man, saw that he was almost fainting, and bore him without more ado up the stairs to a little chamber under the eaves. He and the ostler laid his lordship on the bed, and Léonie fell on her knees beside him.

“Oh, but he is wounded to death!” she cried. “Help me with his coat!”

Rupert opened his eyes.

“Fiddle!” he said, and sank into unconsciousness.

“Ah, an Englishman!” cried the landlord, struggling with his lordship’s tight-fitting coat.

“An English milor’,” nodded Léonie. “I am his page.”

“Tiens! One would know it was a great gentleman. Ah, the fine coat so spoiled! The shirt we must tear.” He proceeded to do so, and, turning my lord to his side, laid bare the wound. “It needs a surgeon, bien sűr. Hector shall ride to Le Havre. These highwaymen!”

Léonie was busy staunching the blood.

“Yes, a surgeon!” She started. “Ah, but Le Havre! He will be—they will pursue us there!” She turned to the landlord. “Hector must know naught of us if he is questioned!”

The landlord was bewildered.

“No, no, they would not dare! The highwaymen keep to the open country, my child.”

“It—they were not—highwaymen,” Léonie confessed, blushing. “And I am not really Lord Rupert’s page.”

“Hein? What is this?” demanded the landlord.

“I—I am a girl,” said Léonie. “I am the ward of the English Duc of Avon, and—and Lord Rupert is his brother!”

The landlord stared from one to the other, and a mighty frown came.

“Ah, I see well! It is an elopement! Now I will tell you, mademoiselle, that I do not——”

“But no!” Léonie said. “It is that the—the man who pursues us stole me from the house of Monseigneur le Duc, and he drugged me, and brought me to France, and I think he would have killed me. But Milor’ Rupert came swiftly, and our coach lost a wheel, and I slipped out, and ran and ran and ran! Then milor’ came, and the man who stole me fired at him, and—and that is all!”

The landlord was incredulous.

“Voyons, what tale is this you tell me?”

“It is quite true,” sighed Léonie, “and when Monseigneur comes you will see that it is as I say. Oh please, you must help us!”

The landlord was not proof against those big, beseeching eyes.

“Well, well!” he said. “You are safe here, and Hector is discreet.”

“And you won’t let—that man—take us?”

The landlord blew out his cheeks.

“I am master here,” he said. “And I say that you are safe. Hector shall ride to Le Havre for a surgeon, but as for this talk of Ducs!” He shook his head indulgently, and sent a wide-eyed serving maid to fetch Madame, and some linen.

Madame came swiftly, a woman as large about as her husband, but comely withal. Madame cast one glance at Lord Rupert, and issued sharp orders, and began to rend linen. Madame would listen to nobody until she had tightly bound my Lord Rupert.

“Hé, le beau!” she said. “What wickedness! That goes better now.” She laid a plump finger to her lips, and stood billowing, her other hand on her hip. “He must be undressed,” she decided. “Jean, you will find a nightshirt.”

“Marthe,” interposed her husband. “This boy is a lady!”

“Quel horreur!” remarked Madame placidly. “Yes, it is best that we undress him, le pauvre!” She turned, and drove the peeping maid out, and Léonie with her, and shut the door on them.

Léonie wandered down the stairs and went out into the yard. Hector was already gone on his way to Le Havre; there was no one in sight, so Léonie sank wearily on to a bench hard by the kitchen window, and burst into tears.

“Ah, bah!” she apostrophized herself fiercely. “Bęte! Imbécile! Lâche!”

But the tears continued to flow. It was a damp, drooping little figure that met Madame’s eye when she came sailing out into the yard.

Madame, having heard the strange story from her husband, was properly shocked and wrathful. She stood with arms akimbo, and began severely:

“This is a great wickedness, mademoiselle! I would have you know that we——” She broke off, and went forward. “But no, but no, ma petite! There is nothing to cry about. Tais toi, mon chou! All will go well, trust Maman Marthe!” She enfolded Léonie in a large embrace, and in a few minutes a husky voice said, muffled:

“I am not crying!”

Madame shook with fat chuckles.

“I am not!” Léonie sat up. “But oh, I think I am very miserable, and I wish Monseigneur were here, for that man will surely find us, and Rupert is like one dead!”

“It is true then that there is a Duc?” Madame asked.

“Of course it is true!” said Léonie indignantly. “I do not tell lies!”

“An English Duc, alors? Ah, but they are of a wildness, these English! But thou—thou art French, little cabbage!”

“Yes,” said Léonie. “I am so tired I cannot tell you all now.”

“It is I who am a fool!” Madame cried. “Thou shalt to bed, mon ange, with some hot bouillon, and the wing of a fowl. That goes well, hein?”

“Yes, please,” Léonie answered. “But there is Milor’ Rupert, and I fear that he will die!”

“Little foolish one!” Madame scolded. “I tell thee—moi qui te parle—that it is well with him. It is naught. A little blood lost; much weakness—and that is all. It is thou who art nigh dead with fatigue. Now thou shalt come with me.”

So Léonie, worn out with the terrors and exertions of the past two days, was tucked up between cool sheets, fed, crooned over, and presently left alone to sleep.

When she awoke, the morning sun streamed in at the window, and sounds of bustle came from the street below. Madame was smiling at her from the doorway.

She sat up and rubbed her eyes.

“Why—why it is morning!” she said. “Have I slept so long?”

“Nine of the clock, little sluggard. It is better now?”

“Oh, I am very well to-day!” Léonie said, and threw back the blankets. “But Rupert—the doctor——?”

“Doucement, doucement, said I not that it was naught? The doctor came when thou wert asleep, my cabbage, and in a little minute the bullet was out, and no harm done, by the grace of the good God. Milor’ lies on his pillows, and calls for food, and for thee.” Madame chuckled. “And when I bring him good broth he snatches the wig from his head, and demands red beef, as they have it in England. Dépęches toi, mon enfant.”

Twenty minutes later Léonie went dancing into Rupert’s chamber, and found that wounded hero propped up by pillows, rather pale, but otherwise himself. He was disgustedly spooning Madame’s broth, but his face brightened at the sight of Léonie.

“Hey, you madcap! Where in thunder are we now?”

Léonie shook her head.

“That I do not know,” she confessed. “But these people are kind, n’est-ce pas?”

“Deuced kind,” Rupert agreed, then scowled. “That fat woman won’t bring me food, and I’m devilish hungry. I could eat an ox, and this is what she gives me!”

“Eat it!” Léonie commanded. “It is very good, and an ox is not good at all. Oh, Rupert, I feared you were dead!”

“Devil a bit!” said Rupert cheerfully. “But I’m as weak as a rat, confound it. Stap me if I know what we’re at, the pair of us! What happened to you? And why by all that’s queer did Saint-Vire run off with you?”

“I do not know. He gave me an evil drug, and I slept for hours and hours. He is a pig-person. I hate him. I am glad that I bit him, and threw the coffee over him.”

“Did you, b’gad? Blister me if I ever met such a lass! I’ll have Saint-Vire’s blood for this, see if I don’t!” He wagged his head solemnly, and applied himself to the broth. “Here am I chasing you to God knows where, with never a sou in my pocket, nor a sword at my side, and the landlord’s hat on my head! And what they’ll be thinking at home the Lord knows! I don’t!”

Léonie curled herself up on the bed, and was requested not to sit on his lordship’s feet. She shifted her position a little, and related her adventures. That done, she demanded to know what had befallen Rupert.

“Blessed if I know!” said Rupert. “I went haring after you as far as the village, and learned the way you went. So I got me a horse, and set off for Portsmouth. But the luck was against me, so it was! You’d set sail an hour since, and the only boat leaving the harbour was a greasy old tub—well, well! What did I do then? ’Pon my soul I almost forget! No, I have it! I went off to sell the horse. Twenty meagrely guineas was all he fetched, but a worse——”

“Sold one of Monseigneur’s horses?” exclaimed Léonie.

“No, no ’twas a brute I got at the blacksmith’s, owned by—burn it, what’s the fellow’s name—Manvers!”

“Oh, I see!” said Léonie, relieved. “Go on. You did very well, Rupert!”

“Not so bad, was it?” said Rupert modestly. “Well, I bought a passage on the old tub, and we got in at Le Havre at one, or thereabouts.”

“We did not leave Le Havre until two! He thought you would not follow, and he said that he was safe enough now!”

“Safe, eh? I’ll show him!” Rupert shook his fist. “Where was I?”

“At Le Havre,” Léonie prompted.

“Oh, ay, that’s it! Well, by the time I’d paid this fee and that, my guineas were all gone, so off I went to sell my diamond pin.”

“Oh! It was such a pretty pin!”

“Never mind that. The trouble I had to get rid of the damned thing you’d scarce believe. ’Pon my soul, I believe they thought I’d stolen it!”

“But did you sell it?”

“Ay, for less than half its worth, rot it! Then I skipped off to the inn to inquire of you, and to get me something to eat. Thunder and turf, but I was hungry!”

“So was I!” sighed Léonie. “And that pig-person ate and ate!”

“You put me out,” said Rupert severely. “Where was I? Oh yes! Well, the landlord told me that Saint-Vire was gone off by coach to Rouen at two o’clock, so the next thing I had to do was to hire a horse to be after you again. That’s all there is to it, and devilish good sport it was! But where we are now, or what we’re to do, beats me!”

“The Comte will come, do you not think?” Léonie asked anxiously.

“I don’t know. He can’t very well snatch you when I’m here. I wish I knew what the plague he wants with you. Y’know, this is mighty difficult, for we haven’t either of us a notion what the game is we’re playing.” He frowned, thinking. “Of course, Saint-Vire may come to steal you again. He’ll have ridden back to Le Havre first, depend on’t, and when he finds we’ve not been there he may scour the country-side, for he knows he hit me, and it’s likely we’d be hiding somewhere near.”

“What are we to do?” asked Léonie, with pale cheeks.

“What, not afraid, are you? Damn it, he can’t walk off with you under my very nose!”

“Oh, he can, Rupert, he can! You are so weak you cannot help me!”

Rupert made an effort to hoist himself up, and failed dismally. He lay fuming.

“Well, damme, I can fire!”

“But we have no gun!” objected Léonie. “At any moment he may come, and these people will never be able to keep him out.”

“Pistol, child, pistol! Lord, what will you say next? Of course we have one! D’ye take me for a fool? Feel in the pockets of my coat.”

Léonie jumped down from the bed, and dragged my lord’s coat from the chair. She produced Mr. Fletcher’s unwieldy pistol from one of its pockets, and brandished it gleefully.

“Rupert, you are very clever! Now we can kill that pig-person!”

“Hi, put it down!” commanded Rupert in some alarm. “You know naught of pistols, and we’ll have an accident if you fiddle with it! The thing’s loaded and cocked!”

“I do know about pistols!” said Léonie indignantly. “You point it, so! And pull this thing.”

“For God’s sake, put it down!” cried Rupert. “You’re levelling the damned thing at me, silly chit! Put it on the table beside me, and find my purse. It’s in my breeches pocket.”

Léonie laid the pistol down reluctantly, and rummaged anew for the purse.

“How much have we?” Rupert asked.

Léonie emptied the guineas on to the bed. Three rolled on to the floor, and one dropped into Rupert’s broth with a splash.

“’Pon my soul, you are a careless minx!” said Rupert, fishing for the coin in his bowl. “There’s another gone now, under the bed!”

Léonie dived after the errant guineas, retrieved them, and sat down on the bed to count them.

“One, two, four, six, and a louis—oh, and another guinea, and three sous, and——”

“That’s not the way! Here, give ’em to me! There’s another gone under the bed, burn it!”

Léonie was grovelling under the bed in search of the coin when they heard the clatter of wheels outside.

“What’s that?” said Rupert sharply. “Quick! To the window!”

Léonie extricated herself with difficulty, and ran to the window.

“Rupert, ’tis he! Mon Dieu, mon Dieu, what are we to do?”

“Can you see him?” Rupert demanded.

“No, but there is a coach, and the horses are steaming! Oh listen, Rupert!”

Voices were heard below, expostulating. Evidently Madame was guarding the staircase.

“Saint-Vire, I’ll bet a monkey!” said Rupert. “Where’s that pistol? Plague take this broth!” He threw the bowl and the rest of its contents on to the floor, settled his wig straight, and reached out a hand for the pistol, a very grim look on his drawn young face.

Léonie darted forward and seized the weapon.

“You are not enough strong!” she said urgently. “See, you have exhausted yourself already! Leave me! I will shoot him dead!”

“Here, no, I say!” expostulated Rupert. “You’ll blow him to smithereens! Give it to me! Fiend seize it, do as I say!”

The commotion below had subsided a little, and footsteps could be heard mounting the stairs.

“Give that pistol to me, and get you to the other side of the bed,” ordered Rupert. “By Gad, we’ll see some sport now! Come here!”

Léonie had backed to the window, and stood with the pistol levelled at the door, her finger crooked about the trigger. Her mouth was shut hard, and her eyes blazed. Rupert struggled impatiently to rise.

“For God’s sake, give it to me! We don’t want to kill the fellow!”

“Yes, we do,” said Léonie. “He gave me an evil drug.”

The door opened.

“If you come one step into the room I will shoot you dead!” said Léonie clearly.

“And I thought that you would be pleased to see me, ma fille,” said a soft drawling voice. “I beg you will not shoot me dead.” Great-coated, booted and spurred, not a hair of his elegant wig out of place, his Grace of Avon stood upon the threshold, quizzing-glass raised, a faint smile curling his thin lips.

Rupert gave a shout of laughter, and collapsed on to his pillows.

“Thunder and turf, but I never thought I’d live to be thankful for the sight of you, Justin!” he gasped. “Stap me if I did!”

CHAPTER XX

His Grace of Avon Takes Command of the Game

The colour came flooding back to Léonie’s cheeks.

“Monseigneur!” she gasped, and flew across the room towards him, laughing and crying at once. “Oh, Monseigneur, you have come, you have come!” She landed breathless in his arms, and clung to him.

“Why, ma fille!” said his Grace gently. “What is all this? Did you doubt I should come?”

“Take that pistol from her,” recommended Rupert faintly, but with a smile.

The pistol was pressed to his Grace’s heart. He removed it from Léonie’s clutch, and pocketed it. He looked down at the curly head with a curious smile, and presently stroked it.

“My dear infant, you must not cry. Come, it is in very truth Monseigneur! There is nothing to frighten you.”

“Oh, I am n-not frightened!” said Léonie. “I am so very glad!”

“Then I beg you will signify your gladness in a more becoming manner. May I ask what you are doing in those clothes?”

Léonie kissed his hand, and mopped her eyes.

“I like them, Monseigneur,” she said, with a twinkle.

“I doubt it not.” Avon went past her to the bed, and bent over it, laying his cool white hand over Rupert’s galloping pulse. “You are hurt, boy?”

Rupert managed to smile.

“It’s naught. A hole in my shoulder, plague take it!”

His Grace produced a flask from one pocket, and put it to Rupert’s lips. Rupert drank, and the blue shade went from about his mouth.

“I believe I have to thank you,” said the Duke, and removed a pillow. “You did well, my child. In fact, you have surprised me. I am in your debt.”

Rupert flushed.

“Pooh, ’twas nothing! I did precious little. ’Twas Léonie got us off. ’Fore Gad, I’m devilish pleased to see you, Justin!”

“Yes, so you remarked.” His Grace put up his quizzing-glass and eyed the coins that lay scattered over the bed. “What, may I ask, is all this wealth?”

“Oh, that’s our money, Monseigneur!” said Léonie. “We were counting it when you came.”

“Our money!” ejaculated Rupert. “That’s rich, ’pon my soul it is! There’s some on the floor still.”

“And what,” said his Grace, turning to the broken bowl, “is this?”

“Rupert did it,” said Léonie. “It is his broth, but when we heard you coming he threw it on the floor.”

“My appearance seems to have produced a strange effect upon you,” remarked his Grace. “Can either of you tell me where is my very dear friend Saint-Vire?”

Rupert struggled up on his elbow.

“Tare an’ ouns, how did you know ’twas he?”

His Grace put him back on his pillows.

“It is my business always to know, Rupert.”

“Well, I always swore you were at the bottom of it! But how the deuce did you find out that he’d got Léonie? Where were you? How did you guess I was after them?”

“Yes, and how did you know where to find us?” asked Léonie. “Why did he take me?”

The Duke took off his greatcoat, and smoothed a wrinkle from the velvet sleeve beneath.

“You bewilder me, my children. One question at a time, I beg of you.”

“How did you know who had run off with Léonie?”

The Duke sat down by the bed, and snapped his fingers to Léonie, who came at once to sit at his feet.

“It was really quite simple,” he said.

“Simple, was it, egad! Then for the love of God, Justin, tell us what we’ve been doing, for I’ll be hanged if I know!”

Avon twisted his rings.

“Oh, I think you do!” he said. “Léonie was abducted by a very pretty rogue, and you rescued her.”

“She rescued herself,” chuckled Rupert.

“Yes. I did,” Léonie nodded. “When the wheel came off I slipped out of the coach, and ran down the road. Then Rupert came.”

“Yes, but there’s more to it than that,” interrupted Rupert. “What did Saint-Vire want with Léonie? Do you know that?”

“I do, my dear boy.”

“Well, I think it was a great piece of impudence,” said Léonie. “Why did he want me?”

“My children, you cannot expect me to tell you all my secrets.”

“But, Monseigneur, I do not see that that is fair! We have been on a big adventure, and we have done it all by ourselves, and we do not know what it is about in the very least, and now you will not tell us!”

“I think you might tell us, Justin,” said Rupert. “We can be discreet, you know.”

“No, my children. My opinion of your discretion is not so great as my opinion of your courage and resource. By the way, what did you do with Mr. Manvers’ roan?”

Rupert stared.

“Lord, is there anything you don’t know? Who told you that?”

“Mr. Manvers himself,” replied the Duke. “I arrived at Avon on the evening of the day you—er—left. Mr. Manvers came to retrieve his property.”

“Curse his impudence!” said Rupert. “I left him a message! Does the fellow think I’m not to be trusted with a horse?”

“That was rather the impression he gave me,” said his Grace. “What did you do with it?”

“Well, to tell the truth, I sold it,” replied Rupert, grinning.

The Duke lay back in his chair.

“Then I very much fear that Mr. Manvers will be satisfied with nothing less than our lives,” he sighed. “Pray do not imagine that I disapprove of your action, but I should like to know why you disposed of this roan thus speedily?”

“Well, you see, I’d no money,” explained Rupert. “I forgot I’d my pin to sell. Besides, what else could I do with the animal? I didn’t want to bring it to France.”

The Duke looked at him in some amusement.

“Did you set out on this venture penniless?” he inquired.

“No, I’d a couple of crowns in my pocket,” Rupert answered.

“You make me feel incredibly old,” complained his Grace. He smiled down at Léonie. “What happened to you, my infant?”

“Oh, I was just teasing Rupert!” Léonie replied buoyantly. “That is why I am in these clothes. I put them on to make him angry. And I ran away from him into the wood, and that pig-person was there——”

“One moment, my infant. You will pardon my ignorance, but I do not know who the—er—pig-person is meant to be.”

“Why, the wicked Comte!” said Léonie. “He is a pig-person, Monseigneur.”

“I see. I do not think I admire your choice of adjective, though.”

“Well, I think it is a very good name for him,” said Léonie, unabashed. “He seized me, and threw me into his coach, and I bit him till there was blood.”

“You distress me, child. But proceed.”

“I called to Rupert as loud as I could, and I kicked the pig-person——”

“The Comte de Saint-Vire.”

“Yes, the pig-person—on his legs a great many times. He did not like it at all.”

“That,” said his Grace, “does not altogether surprise me.”

“No. If I had had my dagger I would have killed him, for I was very angry—oh, but very angry! But I had no dagger, so I could only call to Rupert.”

“The Comte de Saint-Vire has yet something to be thankful for,” murmured his Grace. “He little knows the temper of my ward.”

“Well, but would not you have been angry, Monseigneur?”

“Very, infant; but continue.”

“Oh, you know the rest, Monseigneur! He gave me an evil drink—pig-wash! He called it coffee.”

“Then let us also call it coffee, child, I beg of you. I can support ‘pig-person’, but ‘pig-wash’ I will not endure.”

“But it was, Monseigneur! I threw it at him, and he swore.”

His Grace regarded her inscrutably.

“You seem to have been a pleasant travelling companion,” he remarked. “What then?”

“Then he brought more pig—coffee, and he made me drink it. It was drugged, Monseigneur, and it made me go to sleep.”

“Poor infant!” His Grace tweaked one curl. “But a most indomitable infant withal.”

“There is nothing more to tell you, Monseigneur. I woke up next day at the inn at Le Havre, and I pretended to be asleep. Then the coach broke, and I escaped.”

“And what of Rupert?” The Duke smiled across at his brother.

“Faith, I don’t think I stopped running till I came here!” said Rupert. “I am still something out of breath.”

“Oh, Rupert was very clever!” Léonie struck in. “Monseigneur, he even sold his diamond to follow me, and he came to France in a dirty old boat, without a hat or a sword!”

“Nonsense, silly chit, Fletcher gave me his Sunday beaver. You talk too much, Léonie. Stop it!”

“I do not talk too much, do I, Monseigneur? And it is as I say. I do not know what would have happened to me but for Rupert.”

“Nor I, ma fille. We owe him a very big debt of gratitude. It is not often that I put my faith in another, but I did so these last two days.”

Rupert blushed and stammered.

“’Twas Léonie did it all. She brought me here, wherever we are. Where are we, Justin?”

“You are at Le Dennier, some ten miles from Le Havre, my children.”

“Well, that’s one mystery solved at all events!” said Rupert. “Léonie went ’cross country till the head turned on my shoulders. Oh, she diddled Saint-Vire finely, I give you my word!”

“But if you had not come I could not have got away,” Léonie pointed out.

“If it comes to that,” said Rupert, “the Lord alone knows what would have happened if you’d not caught us, Justin.”

“I understand that my bloodthirsty ward would have shot the so dear Comte—er—dead.”

“Yes, I would,” Léonie averred. “That would have taught him a lesson!”

“It would indeed,” agreed his Grace.

“Will you shoot him for me, please, Monseigneur?”

“Certainly not, infant. I shall be delighted to see the dear Comte.”

Rupert looked at him sharply.

“I’ve sworn to have his blood, Justin.”

His Grace smiled.

“I am before you, my dear, by some twenty years, but I bide my time.”

“Ay, so I guessed. What’s your game, Avon?”

“One day I will tell you, Rupert. Not to-day.”

“Well, I don’t envy him if you’ve your claws on him,” said Rupert frankly.

“No, I think he is not to be envied,” said his Grace. “He should be here soon now. Infant, a trunk has been carried to your chamber. Oblige me by dressing yourself once more ŕ la jeune fille. You will find a package sent by my Lady Fanny, which contains, I believe, a sprigged muslin. Put it on: it should suit you.”

“Why, Monseigneur, did you bring my clothes?” cried Léonie.

“I did, my child.”

“By Gad, you’re an efficient devil!” remarked Rupert. “Come, Justin! Tell us your part in the venture.”

“Yes, Monseigneur, please!” Léonie seconded.

“There is very little to tell,” sighed his Grace. “My share in the chase is woefully unexciting.”

“Let’s have it!” requested Rupert. “What brought you down to Avon so opportunely? Damme, there’s something uncanny about you, Satanas, so there is!”

Léonie fired up at that.

“You shall not call him by that name!” she said fiercely. “You only dare to do it because you are ill and I cannot fight you!”

“My esteemed ward, what is this lamentable talk of fighting? I trust you are not in the habit of fighting Rupert?”

“Oh no, Monseigneur, I only did it once! He just ran and hid behind a chair. He was afraid!”

“Small wonder!” retorted Rupert. “She’s a wild-cat, Justin. It’s Have-at-you! before you know where you are, ’pon my oath it is!”

“It seems I stayed away too long,” said his Grace sternly.

“Yes, Monseigneur, much, much too long!” said Léonie, kissing his hand. “But I was good—oh, many times!”

His Grace’s lips twitched. At once the dimple peeped out.

“I knew you were not really angry!” Léonie said. “Now tell us what you did.”

The Duke flicked her cheek with one finger.

“I came home, my infant, to find my house invaded by the Merivales, your duenna being prostrate with the vapours.”

“Bah, she is a fool!” said Léonie scornfully. “Why was Milor’ Merivale there?”

“I was about to tell you, my dear, when you interrupted me with your stricture upon my cousin. My Lord and Lady Merivale were there to help find you.”

“Faith, it must have been a merry meeting!” put in the irrepressible Rupert.

“It was not without its amusing side. From them I learned of your disappearance.”

“Did you think we had eloped?” Rupert inquired.

“That explanation did present itself to me,” admitted his Grace.

“Eloped?” Léonie echoed. “With Rupert? Ah, bah, I would as soon elope with the old goat in the field!”

“If it comes to that, I’d as soon elope with a tigress!” retorted Rupert. “Sooner, by Gad!”

“When this interchange of civilities is over,” said his Grace languidly, “I will continue. But do not let me interrupt you.”

“Ay, go on,” said Rupert. “What next?”

“Next, my children, Mr. Manvers bounced in upon us. I fear that Mr. Manvers is not pleased with you, Rupert, or with me, but let that pass. From him I gathered that you, Rupert, had gone off in pursuit of a coach containing a French gentleman. After that it was easy. I journeyed that night to Southampton—you did not think to board the Queen, boy?”

“I remembered her, but I was in no mood to waste time riding to Southampton. Go on.”

“For which I thank you. You would undoubtedly have sold her had you taken her to France. I crossed in her yesterday, and came into Le Havre at sundown. There, my children, I made sundry inquiries, and there also I spent the night. From the innkeeper I learned that Saint-Vire had set off with Léonie by coach for Rouen at two in the afternoon, and further that you, Rupert, had hired a horse half an hour or more later—by the way, have you still that horse, or has it already gone the way of its fellow?”

“No, it’s here right enough,” chuckled Rupert.

“You amaze me. All this, I say, I learned from the innkeeper. It was rather too late then for me to set out in search of you, and, moreover, I half expected you to arrive at Le Havre. When you did not arrive I feared that you, Rupert, had failed to catch my very dear friend Saint-Vire. So this morning, my children, I took coach along the road to Rouen, and came upon a derelict.” His Grace produced his snuff-box, and opened it. “My very dear friend’s coach, with his arms blazoned upon the door. It was scarcely wise of my very dear friend to leave his coach lying for me to find, but it is possible, of course, that he did not expect me.”

“He is a fool, Monseigneur. He did not know even that I was pretending to be asleep.”

“According to you, my infant, the world is peopled by fools. I believe you have reason. To resume. It seemed probable that Léonie had escaped; further it seemed probable that she had escaped towards Le Havre. But since neither of you had arrived at that port I guessed that you were concealed somewhere on the road to Le Havre. Therefore, mes enfants, I drove back along the road until I came to a lane that gave on to it. Down this lane I proceeded.”

“We went across the fields,” Léonie cut in.

“A shorter way, no doubt, but one could hardly expect a coach to take it. At the hamlet I came upon they knew nothing of you. I drove on, and came at length, by devious ways, to this place. The luck, you see, favoured me. Let us hope that my very dear friend will be equally fortunate. Infant, go and change your clothes.”

“Yes, Monseigneur. What are we going to do now?”

“That remains to be seen,” said Avon. “Away with you!”

Léonie departed. His Grace looked at Rupert.

“My young madman, has a surgeon seen your wound?”

“Ay, he came last night, confound him!”

“What said he?”

“Oh, naught! He’ll come again to-day.”

“From your expression I am led to infer that he prophesied some days in bed for you, child.”

“Ten, plague take him! But I shall be well enough by to-morrow.”

“You will remain there, nevertheless, until the worthy surgeon permits you to arise. I must send for Harriet.”

“Lord, must you? Why?”

“To chaperon my ward,” said his Grace calmly. “I hope my letter will not bring about a fresh attack of the vapours. Gaston had best start for Le Havre at once.” He rose. “I want pen, ink, and paper. I suppose I shall find them downstairs. You would be better for an hour’s sleep, my dear.”

“But what of Saint-Vire?” Rupert asked.

“The so dear Comte is in all probability scouring the country-side. I hope to see him soon.”

“Ay, but what will you do?”

“I? I shall do precisely nothing.”

“I’d give a pony to see his face when he finds you here!”

“Yes, I do not think he will be pleased,” said his Grace, and went out.

CHAPTER XXI

The Discomfiture of the Comte de Saint-Vire

Mine host and hostess of the Black Bull at Le Dennier had never before entertained such quality at their humble inn. Madame sent a serving man running hot-foot to her neighbour, Madame Tournoise, and presently the lady came hurrying in with her daughter to aid Madame in her preparations. When she heard that no less a personage than an English Duke, with his entourage, had arrived at the inn, she was round-eyed in wonderment, and when his Grace came slowly down the stairs clad in a coat of palest lavender, with lacing of silver, and a silver waistcoat, amethysts in his lace, and on his fingers, she stood staring open-mouthed.

His Grace went to the little parlour, and sent for writing materials. Mine host came bustling with the inkhorn, and desired to know whether Monseigneur would take any refreshment. His Grace bespoke a bottle of canary wine, and three glasses, and sat him down to write to his cousin. A faint smile hovered about his lips.

“My very dear Cousin,—

“I Trust that by the Time you Receive this Missive you will have recovered from the Sad Indisposition which had overtaken you when I had the Pleasure of seeing you, three Days since. I am Desolat’d to be Oblig’d to put you to Added Inconvenience, but I believe I must Request you to Join me here as soon as may be. Gaston, who brings this letter, will Escort you. Pray pack your Trunks for a long stay, for I have some notion of Proceeding in due Course to Paris. My Ward, you will be Reliev’d to hear, is with me in this charming Village, in company with my Lord Rupert.

“I have the Honour, my dear Cousin, to be

“Yr most devot’d, humble, and obedient servant

“Avon.”

His Grace signed his name with a flourish, still smiling. The door opened, and Léonie came in, all in foaming white muslin, with a blue sash about her waist, and a blue riband in her hair.

“Monseigneur, is it not kind of Lady Fanny to send me this pretty dress? I look nice, do you not think?”

The Duke put up his glass.

“My child, you look charming. Lady Fanny’s taste is unimpeachable.” He rose, and picked up a flat velvet case from the table. “I beg you will accept this trifling mark of my affection for you, infant.”

Léonie skipped up to him.

“Another present, Monseigneur? I think you are very kind to me! What is it, I wonder?”

His Grace opened the case. Léonie’s lips formed a soundless Oh!

“Mon-seigneur!”

The Duke lifted the pearls from their bed of velvet, and clasped them about her neck.

“Oh, Monseigneur, thank you!” she said in a gasp, and held the long string between her fingers. “They are beautiful! I love them, oh, much! Would you like me to curtsy to you, or may I just kiss your hand?”

His Grace smiled.

“You need do neither, infant.”

“I will do both,” said Léonie, and sank down with skirts outspread and one little foot peeping from beneath the muslin flounces. Then she kissed the Duke’s hand, and rose. Lastly she inspected his Grace’s clothes.

“That is a nice dress, I think,” she said.

Avon bowed.

“I like it,” Léonie said. “Monseigneur, I feel very brave now. What will you do to that pig-person when he comes?”

“I shall have the honour of presenting you, my dear,” Avon answered. “Let him have your haughtiest curtsy. It is a little game we play.”

“Yes? But I do not want to curtsy to him. I want to make him sorry.”

“Believe me, he will be very sorry, but the time is not yet. Bear in mind, ma fille, that you have not till now set eyes on my very dear friend.”

“Ah, bah, what is this?” she demanded. “I know him well, and he knows me!”

“Strive to cultivate a little imagination,” sighed his Grace. “The so dear Comte stole my page, Léon. You are my ward, Mademoiselle de Bonnard.”

“Oh!” said Léonie doubtfully. “I must be polite, enfin?”

“Very polite, child. And remember, you and I are here for our health. We know naught of abductions, or evil drinks, or even—er—pig-persons. Can you play the game of pretence?”

“But yes, Monseigneur! Will he pretend, do you think?”

“I have reason to think, child, that he will follow my lead.”

“Why, Monseigneur?”

“Because, child, he has a secret which he suspects I share. But since it is a highly discreditable secret he would not like me to think that he had any knowledge of it. We fence, you see, but whereas I see my way clearly, he moves in darkness.”

“Oh, I see!” she said. “He will be surprised to find you, n’est-ce pas?”

“I rather think he will,” agreed his Grace. He went to the table and poured out two glasses of canary. One of them he gave to Léonie. “My dear, I drink to your safe deliverance.”

“Oh, I thank you, Monseigneur! What shall I drink to?” She put her head on one side. “Voyons, I will just drink to mon cher seigneur!”

“Quite neat,” said the Duke. “Gaston? A la bonne heure! You will journey back to Avon, Gaston, at once.”

Gaston’s face fell.

“But yes, Monseigneur.”

“Bearing with you this letter to my cousin. She will accompany you to France again.”

Gaston brightened perceptibly.

“Further, you will go to Milor’ Merivale and obtain from him the clothes of Milor’ Rupert. It is understood?”

“All Milor’ Rupert’s clothes, Monseigneur?” asked Gaston, aghast.

“All of them. If he is there, bring milor’s valet also. I had well-nigh forgot Mademoiselle Léonie’s maid. Instruct her to pack the rest of mademoiselle’s clothes, and bring her—and them—to me here.”

Gaston blinked rapidly.

“Yes, Monseigneur,” he said with an effort.

“You will board the Silver Queen, of course, and you will convey your charges by coach to Portsmouth.” His Grace tossed a fat purse to him. “At Portsmouth, on your way to Avon, you will seek out a certain roan horse.”

“Bon Dieu!” muttered Gaston. “A roan horse, Monseigneur, yes.”

“A roan horse belonging to one Mr. Manvers of Crosby Hall, sold by Milor’ Rupert on Monday. You will buy it back.” Another purse followed the first. “The price is of no moment. You will have the animal conveyed to Crosby Hall, with Milor’ Rupert’s compliments and—er—thanks. That also is understood?”

“Yes, Monseigneur,” said Gaston dismally.

“Bien. This is, I think, Wednesday. You will be here again no later than Monday. Send Meekin to me now. You may go.”

The groom came speedily.

“Your Grace sent for me?”

“I did. You will start for Paris, my friend, within the hour.”

“Ay, your Grace.”

“To apprise the admirable Walker of my coming. You will bring back with you the large berline, the smaller travelling coach, and a light chaise for my Lord Rupert’s baggage. You will arrange for change of horses to await me at Rouen, at Tign, and at Pontoise. I shall rest at the Coq d’Or at Rouen for one night.”

“Very good, your Grace. Which day am I to tell the landlord?”

“I have not the least idea,” said the Duke. “But when I come I shall require four bedchambers, a private parlour, and quarters for my servants. I trust I make myself plain?”

“Yes, your Grace.”

“That is all,” said Avon.

Meekin bowed, and went out.

“Voyons,” said Léonie from her seat by the fire. “It gives me great pleasure to hear you say Do this—do that! I like to hear them answer only, ‘Yes, monseigneur,’ and go so quickly to do your bidding.”

Avon smiled.

“I have only once in my life had a servant in mine employ who dared to question my commands,” he said.

“Oh?” Léonie looked up in all innocence. “Who was that, Monseigneur?”

“A page I had, my dear, by name—er—Léon.”

Her eyes sparkled, but she folded her hands demurely.

“Tiens! I wonder he dared, Monseigneur.”

“I believe there was nothing he would not dare,” said Avon.

“Truly? Did you like him, Monseigneur?”

“You are a minx, my dear.”

She laughed, blushed and nodded.

“It is not a compliment,” said his Grace, and came to the fire, and sat down. “I have sent for your duenna, you hear.”

“Yes.” She grimaced. “But she will not come till Monday, will she? Why are we going to Paris?”

“As well Paris as anywhere else,” Avon replied. “Your education is nearly complete. You are going to make your curtsy to the Polite World.”

“Am I, Monseigneur? Vraiment? I think it will be fort amusant. Shall I go to Vassaud’s?”

The Duke’s brows twitched together.

“No, ma fille, you will not. Vassaud’s is one of those places which you will strive to forget.”

Léonie peeped at him.

“And—and the Maison Chourval?”

“Did I take you there?” His Grace was still frowning.

“But yes, Monseigneur, only you sent me to wait for you in the vestibule.”

“I had that much decency left, then. You will most assuredly forget the Maison Chourval. It would be interesting to know what you made of it?”

“Very little, Monseigneur. It is not a nice place, I think.”

“No, infant, you are right. It is not a nice place, nor was I—nice—to take you there. That is not the world you shall enter.”

“Tell me!” begged Léonie. “Shall I go to balls?”

“Certainly, ma belle.”

“And will you dance with me?”

“My dear, there will be gallants enough to claim your hand. You will have no need of me.”

“If you will not dance with me I won’t dance at all,” she announced. “You will, Monseigneur, won’t you?”

“Perhaps,” he said.

“I do not like perhaps,” she said. “Promise!”

“You are really very exigeante,” he complained. “I am past the age of dancing.”

“Eh bien!” Léonie tilted her chin. “Me, I am too young to dance. Nous voilŕ!”

“You, my infant,” said his Grace severely, “are a very naughty, wilful child. I do not know why I bear with you.”

“No, Monseigneur. And will you dance with me?”