“Oh yes, mademoiselle. He came as often as he could. Mademoiselle knows that we are fiancés.”
“Yes; but you are too young to be married,” Helen said.
“Does mademoiselle think so? Baptiste is almost twenty. Provided that he draws a good number, that is all we have to hope for. Will mademoiselle say a little prayer for us when the moment comes? Ursule has promised a candle to St Hubert if all goes well. Ursule has no wishes for herself. She is a saint upon earth. All that she asks from heaven is for me.”
“But she is only a very little older than you are. Why should she have no wishes for herself?”
“Mademoiselle, she has a vocation,” said Blanchette with awe; the candle shone back, doubled and reflected in those twin mirrors, from her eyes. The gravity on her face brought out all its sweetness—a little face, all alive with love, and hope, and reverential admiration, and faith. Helen felt her own passiveness all the more from the contrast. She felt half ashamed of her ignorance, and of standing, as she did, outside of all this world so full of life.
“What is a vocation?” she said.
“Does not mademoiselle know? A vocation is something one does not talk of carelessly, as we are talking; it is too sacred, when it is a true vocation. She would have been at the Sacré Cœur now, had not grandpapa been so——Figure to yourself, mademoiselle, that grandpapa is very violent against the Church. He hates even the good Sisters, who are so kind. When M. le Curé passes he spits on the ground. It is terrible,” cried Blanchette, with tears in her eyes, “to be so old and to be like that. If Baptiste draws a good number, he will not be able to refuse that we should marry,” she added very seriously, too grave for blushing, “and then perhaps my poor Ursule—— The holy mother will take her without dot, they have such faith in her; but she would not leave me alone with the grandfather. Provided only that Baptiste draws a good number!” the girl said, clasping her hands.
“Surely, surely he will!” Helen said fervently.
Little Blanchette shook her head. “If things would happen because we wish them to happen!” she said—and then she added, “Baptiste, perhaps, has been a little idle, mademoiselle; but all Latour wishes him well, and the ladies of the Sacré Cœur have promised to make a neuvaine for us. They would do anything for Ursule’s sister. I wish I had a little more faith, mademoiselle,” she said, shaking her head once more.
Helen had that vague confidence that what is desired must happen, which is common to the very young, when their own feelings are not so deeply concerned as to make them despondent; and though she could not possibly know anything about it, and her assurances that all would be well were absolutely worthless, still they consoled Blanchette, who was very grateful for the interest shown in her, and cried, and smiled, and declared mademoiselle to be an angel. This was not unpleasant, on the other hand, to the lonely little Englishwoman. To be sure Blanchette was not a lady, but she was a girl, and the freemasonry of youth is warm. Helen got quite excited as she speculated upon the chances which involved the happiness of this young pair. She herself knew nothing of such agitations. She felt to herself like a very pale little shadow standing by looking on, while the others were involved in all those hopes and fears. She, too, had been plunged into a stormy sea, but it was very different from this one; Helen did not understand the change in her own life, and notwithstanding all that her father had said, could not feel at all sure that this mysterious chapter might not end as it began, and Fareham and its splendours reappear again in her existence. But as she sat down in the semi-darkness after Blanchette had left her, her mind followed an altogether different line of thinking. Blanchette was the perennial heroine of human story. All the romances, all the poetry were occupied with troubles like hers. None of them took any interest in the fate of a girl whose father was the cause of her misfortunes, and with whose griefs no warmer thought of possible happiness was twisted. She was altogether in the shadow, and sympathy was not for her. She had not even a chance of sympathy without a complaint, without, perhaps, betraying her father, which was impossible. But with Blanchette everybody sympathised, even the ladies of the Sacré Cœur, who might be expected to be not too favourable to marriage. Helen knew nothing of this phase of life. She wondered, with a shy alarm at her own thoughts, if, as the novels said, something of the kind happened in everybody’s experience? The thought made her laugh faintly by herself, and made her blush, though without the slightest reason; and then suddenly there came before her, like a scene in a theatre, the table d’hôte at Sainte-Barbe, and the young stranger who had startled her by his recognition, and who had been so glad to see her. Why had he been so glad to see her? A little tremble ran over Helen, a flush to her face, and she laughed again, this time more faintly than ever, then sprang up and took down the candle from the oldfashioned marble-topped sideboard in the corner, and put it on the table, and got her book. She had been reading a pious French book which she had found in her room, because it was Sunday; it was not very engrossing. Her thoughts strayed away from it in spite of herself. But she tried her best to hold them fast and read very steadily. By-and-by the sounds outside lessened and withdrew, and steps could be heard passing, one group after another, taking their way home. The day of leisure was over, and to-morrow the work would begin once more. Helen had begun to watch for her father’s step among the heavier ones outside, when Blanchette suddenly put her head within the door.