'"As to yourselves, young ladies," Mrs. Fortescue went on, "you need not be in any fear for your own safety. Colonel Kirke does not imprison children; and if he did, you would be in no danger, for you have done nothing to deserve it. It is important that Madame St. Aubert should arrive safely in France; and therefore I am sure that I can trust you all to be silent and discreet on the subject of her journey, and on all other matters connected with this—ahem—this unfortunate business. I wish everything to go on as if she was here; so, after breakfast, you will be pleased to get your books, and we will continue our studies as usual."
'The conclusion of this speech was so remarkably commonplace, and Mrs. Fortescue so entirely everyday and matter-of-fact, as she sat at the head of the table pouring out mugs of milk and water, that our confidence was a good deal restored; and when the milk and water and thick slices of bread and butter had quite disappeared, we set about our tasks almost cheerfully—I, for one, glad to have something to do which might help me, for a time at least, to forget the dreadful things which could be seen out of Ph[oe]be's bedroom window.
'Not a word did Mrs. Fortescue ever say about Madame St. Aubert's sudden journey; but a rumour came round to us through Mary Seymour, who heard it from Molly the cook (who must, I fear, have listened at the keyhole), that Mrs. Fortescue had done all she could to persuade Madame to stay—had told her that her flight would bring suspicion on the whole house—and that, moreover, it was her duty to remain and protect the girls under her charge. Mrs. Fortescue had flatly refused to go herself; and therefore it was clear, as Molly said, that there was "a deal more stuff in her than in that Frenchified woman, for all her stiffness and stand-off manners." These very manners had caused Mrs. Fortescue to be anything but a favourite with us hitherto. We looked upon her only in the light of a person whom it was impossible to satisfy with a half-learnt lesson, and who could be very cross if we were inattentive or careless, or made mistakes about things which we knew quite well. But now, during the days of suspense and terror which followed close on Madame's departure, we learnt to like her better than we had ever done before. She treated us less like children, and yet was kinder to us when we behaved childishly. She went on with her own work, managing the house, and hearing the lessons, as if the cruelties of Colonel Kirke and his men were of no more recent date than those mentioned in the history of the Maccabees. And yet she comforted and soothed us when we sobbed and shivered over the dreadful stories poor Ph[oe]be was constantly bringing in, so patiently and gently that we hardly knew her for the same Mrs. Fortescue who used to scold if we made a single false stitch in our samplers, and rap our knuckles if we cried over our sums.
'A day or two after Madame St. Aubert's disappearance, Dr. Power came to see us. He came in the evening, with a carter's frock thrown over his black clothes, and a round hat pulled low on his forehead, so as partly to conceal his wig. He was a suspected man, he said, and did not wish to bring suspicion on our house too, by being seen to visit it. He was very much surprised indeed to find that Madame St. Aubert was gone. He raised his eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders when Mrs. Fortescue told him this, with an expression which we took to indicate the most unqualified contempt; though I think now that there was mixed with it some show of admiration for her cleverness in having managed her escape so promptly and successfully.
'"Well!" he said at last, "if Madame thought flight was necessary, it was well she accomplished it when she did. I hear that Colonel Kirke's outposts are more numerous and vigilant than ever; and I suspect that he has been reprimanded by the authorities at Whitehall for his system of stringing up the rank and file of the Duke's followers—who, poor souls, have not a penny to buy their lives with—and allowing richer folk to purchase a free pass to some seaport town. I am no great friend to the King, as you know, Mrs. Fortescue,"—here Dr. Power lowered his voice almost to a whisper,—-"but I cannot believe that he approves of these military executions. They are shameful, abominable, illegal. It makes me sick to see them going on without the power to lift a finger to save one of the poor creatures,—young men that I have christened, and catechized, and married perhaps! And all for doing what they were told was a just and righteous thing. There'll be a reckoning for all this some time; but it is my belief that Colonel Kirke will get his deserts in this world, and I hope I may live to see the day!"
'Dr. Power walked up and down the room in a state of great agitation, which gradually calmed down when he saw how we were all staring at him in frightened silence.
'"I crave your pardon, ladies," he said, "for such an outbreak; but it is enough to make one's blood boil in one's veins to see such wholesale slaughter."
'Then he told us that more than a thousand people belonging to Taunton, suspected of having assisted the Duke of Monmouth, had been arrested and thrown into prison, where they would remain, awaiting their trial, until the beginning of the next assizes. He begged Mrs. Fortescue to be very careful to avoid all suspicion of having favoured the Duke, and to keep her young ladies within the precincts of the house and garden; for they would only see horrible sights if they went further. And, moreover, it was best to keep as quiet as possible while Colonel Kirke was in Taunton.
'Then the kind old Doctor bade us good-bye, and went sadly away, after carefully arranging his disguise, which, I remember, struck me at the time as being more likely to attract attention than to divert it—the effect, on the whole, being so very unnatural and peculiar. The next day we heard that he had been arrested. Well, I must not dwell any longer on that dreary time, for I have still much to tell. Bad as those days were, there were still worse to come, as we very soon found, when the terrible Judge Jeffreys arrived in Taunton. We had heard of his cruel deeds at Winchester—of the terrible fate of poor Dame Alice Lisle, sentenced to death for granting a hiding-place in her house to some of the rebels; and now he had come to hold the assizes here, in the very same town with us. I remember Mrs. Fortescue's look when the news came that he was actually in Taunton. Every tinge of colour faded out of her face,—out of her lips even,—and I thought she was going to faint; but she recovered herself, and tried to be more cheerful than usual for the rest of the day. Still that did not blind us. We could see clearly enough how uneasy she really was; and indeed I think all our hearts sank from the moment we heard those tidings; for, as Henrietta said, with a foreboding shudder, "If he could condemn an old gentlewoman like Dame Alice Lisle to be burnt, only for hiding a rebel, no fault could be small enough for him to spare."
'"Ay; and no punishment too cruel for his hard heart," cried Bessie passionately—"nobody insignificant enough to be passed over. Madame St. Aubert did well to escape so soon. I would we were all with her."