The Chevalier's daughter

by Lucy Ellen Guernsey

My dear mother, who had borne this same cross of helplessness for many a year, preached patience in her gentle way.

Mrs. Grace assented to all she said, called herself a miserable, rebellious sinner, and the next minute fretted more than ever: over that careless Marie, who would be sure to burn the marmalade, or that stupid coward of a Julienne, who would not venture up to the top of the tower to bring in the drying fruit lest she should see the white chevalier. For after a long season of absence—for what ghostly purpose, who should say?—the white chevalier had again been seen walking on the battlements of the round tower, or passing the window of his wretched and guilty wife's apartment.

"Do not trouble yourself about the marmalade, my poor Grace," said my mother, with a somewhat woeful smile. "Who knows whether we shall be alive to eat it, or whether all our stores may not fall into the hands of our enemies?"

"I should like to spice the marmalade for them!" exclaimed Grace, quite overcome by the idea of her dainties being devoured by the Papisties, as she always called them.

"And as to the tower," continued my mother, "I think myself the maids may as well keep away from it. If the white chevalier and his wife should really have been seen, it is just as well not to run any risks."

"But whom then will you trust?" asked Grace, with a startled look.

My mother put to her lips a fresh rose she had brought in her hand, and glanced at me, and Grace said no more. I was not annoyed, as Lucille would have been, for I had become accustomed to such hints; and with a passing wonder as to whether my mother really believed in the white chevalier, I plunged into my dear "Arcadia," and forgot all earthly cares in the somewhat long-winded trials of the virtuous Parthenia. But I was destined to hear more of the matter.

That very evening, about an hour before sunset, my father asked me to walk with him. This was a great honor, for in my youth, children were by no means so familiar with their parents as they are now. Whether the change be for the better or no depends upon the parents a good deal.

We walked out by the lane, across a field, and through the loaded orchard bending with golden and ruddy fruit, some of which was already gathered for the cider-mill. The low sun shone under the branches, and turned the heaps of apples to heaps of gold and rubies. It was very still, but the tide was high, and came in over the distant sands with a hollow roar, which my father said portended a storm. He spoke little till we reached a little heathy eminence crowned with one of the monuments of ancient date so common in Normandy and Brittany. From this point we had a view for a long distance around, and nobody could come near us without being observed. My father sat down on one of the fallen stones, and motioned me to sit beside him.

"My daughter," said he, taking my hand in his with a certain solemnity, "you are now almost a woman, and old enough to be admitted into the knowledge of your father's secrets. But such knowledge is full of danger. Are you brave, my child? Are you a worthy descendant of those valiant Provençal and Vaudois women who hazarded their lives for the faith? Consider, my Vevette! Suppose you were required to go into the upper floor of the old tower, even to the ladies' bower, at night; would you be afraid to do it? Consider, and give me an answer."