Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
We were soon safely hidden among the tall bushes and
wild vines, which covered the top of the rock, but not too soon, for
we were hardly settled before the head of the procession appeared in sight.
[The Stanton-Corbet Chronicles.]
[Year 1660]
THE
CHEVALIER'S DAUGHTER;
OR,
An Exile for the Truth.
BY
LUCY ELLEN GUERNSEY
AUTHOR OF
"LADY BETTY'S GOVERNESS," "WINIFRED,"
"LADY ROSAMOND'S BOOK."
New Edition.
LONDON:
JOHN F. SHAW AND CO.
48 PATERNOSTER ROW, E.C.
STORIES BY L. E. GUERNSEY.
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OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS.
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LOVEDAY'S HISTORY. A Story of Many Changes.
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NOTE.
THESE memoirs were written by my respected grandmother when she was quite an old lady. I well remember as a child seeing her writing upon them, my grandfather sitting near, and she now and then suspending her pen to talk over some incident with him. Matters have not improved in France since her time, but 'tis said that the young dauphin is quite a different man from his father, and if he ever comes to the throne, an effort will be made in behalf of toleration for the persecuted Protestants. I hope so, I am sure. But to return to the memoir.
After my grandparents' deaths, which took place within a week of each other, the papers were mislaid, and I only found them by accident in an inner cupboard of a curious old carved cabinet (I suspect the very one described in these pages), which my younger brother took a fancy to repair. I have amused the leisure afforded me by a tedious sprained ankle in arranging and transcribing these papers, which seem to me both interesting and profitable.
ROSAMOND GENEVIEVE CORBET.
Tre Madoc Court, May 1st, 1740.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER
[XX. "You shall have no Choice"]
THE CHEVALIER'S DAUGHTER
[CHAPTER I.]
EARLY RECOLLECTIONS.
I WAS born in the year of grace 1660, at the Tour d'Antin, a château not very far from the little village of Sartilly in Normandy.
My father was the Chevalier d'Antin, a younger son of the Provençal family of De Fayrolles.
My mother was an English lady, daughter of a very ancient Devonshire family. Her name was Margaret Corbet, and the branch of that tribe to which she belonged had settled in Cornwall. I remember her as a very beautiful woman, with crispy waved blonde hair and a clear white skin more like alabaster than marble, and no tinge of color in her cheeks. I never saw any other person so pale as she, though her lips were always red. She had beautiful gray eyes, with long black lashes, and clearly defined arched eyebrows meeting above her nose, which gave a very serious and even solemn expression to her face. This expression accorded well with her character, which was grave and thoughtful and very deeply religious. I never saw any person whose faith was so much like sight as hers. Nevertheless, she could smile very sweetly, and even laugh merrily at times, but not very often. For a shadow hung over our house from my earliest years—the same shadow which darkened so many other French families at that time.
My father was a pleasant, lively, kindhearted gentleman, who worshipped his beautiful wife, and treated her as if she were indeed some fragile statue of alabaster which might be broken by rough usage.
He was, as I have said, a younger son. His elder brother lived far-away in Provence—at least his grand château was there; but he and his wife spent most of their time at court, where they both held offices about the king and queen. By some family arrangement which I never understood, our own Tour d'Antin came to my father, thus putting him in a much more comfortable position than that of most younger brothers, as there was a large and productive domain and certain houses at Granville which brought good rents. Besides, there were dues of fowls and so forth from the tenants and small farmers. Indeed, my father, with his simple country tastes, was far richer than his elder brother, and that though my father's purse was always open to the poor, especially those of our own household of faith.
The Tour d'Antin was a large building of reddish stone, partly fortress, partly château. I suspect it had some time been a convent also, for there was a paved court surrounded by a cloister, and a small Gothic chapel which was a good deal dilapidated, and never used in my time. The fortress part of the house was very old. It consisted of a square and a round tower, connected by a kind of gallery. The walls were immensely thick, and so covered with lichens and wall plants that one could hardly tell what they were made of.
In the square tower my mother had her own private apartment, consisting of a parlor and an anteroom, and an oratory, or closet, as we should call it in England, the last being formed partly in the thickness of the wall, partly by a projecting turret. It seemed an odd choice, as the new part of the house was so light and cheerful, but there was a reason for this choice which I came to understand afterward.
The rooms communicated by a gallery with the newer part of the house, where was a saloon, my father's special study and business room, and various lodging rooms. This same gallery, as I have said, led to the oldest part of the château—the round tower, which was somewhat ruinous, and where nobody lived but the bats and owls, and, if the servants were to be credited, the ghosts of a certain chevalier and his unhappy wife, about whom there was a terribly tragical legend. There was a steep stone staircase leading to the top of the round tower, from whence one could see a very little bit of the sea and the great monastery and fortress of St. Michael.
There was no view of the sea from any other part of the house, which lay in a sort of dell or depression quite sheltered from the winds, but from the hill behind us, one could see the whole extent of the sands which lay between Granville and the Mont St. Michel, and the mount itself, a glorious vision in a clear bright day, and a gloomy sight when it lowered huge and dark through the mists of November.
We young ones used to look at it with sensations of awe, for we knew that inside those high frowning walls, shut deep from light and air, were horrible dungeons, in which some of "the Religion" had perished in lingering misery, and others might, for all we knew, be pining there still. Formerly, we were told, the pinnacle of the fortress was crowned by a mighty gilded angel, an image of the patron saint of the place, but it did not exist in my day.
The wide expanse of sand of which I have spoken was and is called the Grève, and was no less an object of terror to us than the fortress itself. It is a dreary and desolate plain, abounding in shifting and fathomless quicksands, which stretch on every hand and often change their places, so that the most experienced guide cannot be sure of safety. Not a year passes without many victims being swallowed up by the Grève, and these accidents are especially frequent about the time of the feast of St. Michael, on the 29th of September, when crowds of pilgrims flock to the mount from all over France. On the eve of All Souls' Day—that is, on the 2d of November—as all good Catholics in La Manche believe, there rises from the sands a thick mist, and this mist is made up of the souls of those unfortunates—pilgrims, fishermen, and smugglers—who have from time to time found a horrible and living grave in its treacherous depths, and who, having died without the sacraments, are in at least a questionable position.
To the south and south-east of the Tour d'Antin lay wide apple orchards, laden with fruit in good years, and seldom failing altogether in bad ones. There was also a small vineyard, but we made no wine, for Normandy is not a wine country. The very children in arms drink cider as English children drink milk, and it does not seem to hurt them. We had a garden for herbs and vegetables—mostly salads, carrots, and various kinds of pulse. Potatoes, which are growing very common in England now, and were cultivated to some extent even then, were unknown in France till long afterward, and are not in use at present except as a rare luxury.
My mother had a flower-garden—very small, and carefully tended by her own hands. At the end of our garden stood a small unpretending stone building, not the least like a church, which was nevertheless the only place of worship of the Protestants for some miles around. For the domain d'Antin was a kind of Protestant colony in the midst of Catholics. All our own tenants were of "the Religion," and there were a few of the same way of thinking, both in Granville and Sartilly, who came to the "Temple," as it was called, on the rare occasions when we had a visit from a pastor.
On such occasions, we had sometimes as many as fifty worshippers. When I recall the aspect of that little congregation, with their solemn earnest faces, their blue eyes fixed on the preacher, the old men and women with their heads bent forward not to lose a word, the very children in arms hushed and silent, and then look round on our English congregation, with half the men asleep, the old clerk nodding in his desk, or droning out the Amens, as my naughty Walter says, like a dumbledore under a hat—when I contrast the two, I sometimes wonder whether a little persecution would not be good for the church on this side of the water. It seems a poor way of praising the Lord for all his benefits to go to sleep over them.
As I have said, the domain d'Antin was a kind of Protestant colony in the midst of Roman Catholics—only we did not use the word Protestant at that time. We were among ourselves "the Reformed," or "the Religion;" among our enemies the "Heretics," "the religion pretended to be reformed," and so forth. Our family had belonged to this party ever since there had been any "Reformed" in France, and even before.
For our ancestors had come into Provence from among the Vaudois, of whom it was and is the boast that they had never accepted the Romish corruptions of the true Gospel, and therefore needed no reformation. For some hundreds of years after their emigration, these people had lived in peace with their neighbors. They had found Provence a wilderness, all but abandoned to the wolves. They made it a smiling garden. Vineyards and olive orchards, fruit and grain sprung up where they trod. They were considered as odd people, eccentric, perhaps a little mad, who would not swear nor drink to excess, nor sing indecent songs, nor frequent companies where such things were done; but then they were quiet and peaceable, full of compassion for those who needed help, paying dues to State and Church without a murmur, and if they did not attend mass or confession, the quiet old parish curés winked with both eyes, for the most part, or contented themselves with mild admonitions to such as came in their way.
But in the year 1540 all this was changed, and a tempest fell on the peaceable inhabitants of Provence—a tempest as unexpected by most of them as a thunderbolt out of a clear sky. The preaching of the true Gospel, which was begun about the year 1521 by Farel and Le Fevre, spread like wildfire all over the kingdom. Crowds attended everywhere on the ministrations of the reformed preachers, and in many places, the parish priests were left to say mass to the bare walls.
It seemed at first as if France would soon break away from Rome, as Germany had done. But the fair dawn was soon overclouded. Persecution arose because of the word, and many were offended and returned to their former observances.
The Vaudois settlers in Provence were the greatest sufferers. They were true to the faith of their forefathers, and no menaces could shake them. Two of their villages—Merindol and Cabrières—were burned to the ground. In the former only one person was left alive—a poor idiot who had given to a soldier two crowns for a ransom. The commander of the expedition, d'Oppide, gave the soldier two crowns from his own purse, and then caused the poor idiot to be bound to a tree and shot. The men of Cabrières being promised their lives and the lives of their families, laid down their arms, and were cut in pieces on the spot. Women and children were burned in their houses, others fled to the mountains and woods to perish of want and cold, and the name of Vaudois was almost extinguished in Provence. * Almost, but not altogether.
* All these details and many more may be found in de Félice's "Histoire des Protestants de France," and in many Catholic writers as well.
A hidden seed still remained among the poor and lowly, and some great houses still openly professed their faith and protected their immediate dependents. Among these was the family to which my grandfather belonged. Through all the troubles and wars of the League—through the fearful days of St. Bartholomew, when France ran blood from one end to the other—the family of my ancestors kept their heads above the flood without ever denying their faith. It remained for my uncle, the head of our family, to sully our noble name by real or pretended conversion, in order to curry court favor from Louis XIV. He has left no descendant to perpetuate his shame. That branch of the family is extinct, the last son being killed in a disgraceful duel.
It was before this disgrace fell upon us that my father, in consequence of the family arrangement I have spoken of, took possession of the domain in Normandy. He was not a very young man when, in a visit he made to Jersey, he met and married my mother, who had also gone thither on a visit.
We could see the island of Jersey on a clear day, like a blue cloud on the horizon, and used to look at it with great interest as a part of England, which we pictured to ourselves as a land of all sorts of marvels.
From the time of the execution of the Edict of Nantes in 1598 to the death of Henry IV., those of the Religion in France enjoyed a good degree of peace, and their temples (which they were not allowed even then to call churches) multiplied all over the land. But the Bearnois, as the people loved to call him, was hardly cold in his grave before his successor began his attempts to undo what his great progenitor had done, and from that time to the final revocation of our great charter in 1685, every year—nay, almost every month—brought down new persecutions, new edicts on the heads of the "so-called Reformed." These edicts were such as touched the honor, the safety, the very life of every Protestant. I shall have to speak very largely of these edicts as I proceed, for some of them had a direct effect on my own destiny.
I have given a description of the Tour d'Antin as my birthplace, but in truth my earliest recollections are of a very different dwelling. For a long time after my birth, my mother was in very delicate health and quite unable to nurse me herself, so I was given over to the care of a former servant of our family named Jeanne Sablot, who had lately lost a young infant. Jeanne took me home to her own house, and I only saw my dear mother at intervals of a month or two till I was ten years old. Jeanne had two children of her own, David and Lucille, both older than I, and my sworn friends and protectors on all occasions. Jeanne's parents had come from Provence, and she was like an Italian, both in looks and ways. Her husband, Simon Sablot, was a tall, blue-eyed, fair-haired Norman, somewhat heavy and slow both in mind and ways, a devout Christian man, respected even by his Roman Catholic neighbors for his just dealings and generous hand.
But indeed we all lived in peace in those days. Catholics and Protestants were neighborly together in the exchange of good offices. Even the old curé did not hesitate to exchange a kindly greeting with one of his heretical parishioners, or to accept a seat and a drink of sparkling cider in his dwelling. The great wave of persecution which was sweeping over France had hardly reached our obscure harbor, though we began to hear its roar at a distance.
The old farm-house in which my foster-parents lived was roomy enough and very fairly neat, though the walls and beams were black as ebony, and varnished with the smoke of wood fires. I can see at this moment the row of polished brass pans shining like gold in the firelight, the tall drinking-glasses on the shelf, the oddly carved cabinet with bright steel hinges, which Jeanne called a "bahut," and cherished with pride because it had come down from her Vaudois ancestors, and the round brass jar used for milking, and into whose narrow neck it required some skill to direct the stream from the udder aright.
I can see my foster-father seated in his great chair in the chimney corner, and my good nurse baking on the griddle cakes of sarrasin, which the English call buckwheat. These cakes were very good when they came hot and crisp from the griddle; but it was and is the custom to bake up a huge pile of them, enough sometimes to last several weeks, and it cannot be denied that toward the end, one needed to be very hungry to relish them. We had corn bread also, for Simon cultivated one of the best of the small farms into which the domain was divided; but we ate it as a great treat, as English children eat plum-cake.
We lived somewhat more luxuriously than most of our neighbors, for Jeanne had been cook at the great house like her mother before her, and Simon was wont to boast that his wife could dress him a dish of eggs in as many different ways as there are days in a month. Still we lived very plainly, and I fared like the rest. I learned to read from Jeanne, who was a good scholar and spoke very pure French, and she also taught me to sew, to spin, and to knit, for the Norman women are famous knitters. Besides these lessons, which were my tasks and strictly exacted, I learned to milk and churn, to make hay and plant beans, and, in short, to do all that Lucille did.
We all had our daily tasks of Scripture to learn by heart, according to the admirable custom of the French reformers, and we also learned and sang Clement Marot's hymns and psalms. I have still in my possession an old French Bible with these psalms bound in the same volume. The index is curious: certain psalms are distinguished as "To be sung when the church is under affliction and oppression; when one is prevented from the exercise of worship; when one is forced to the combat; to be sung on the scaffold." Such are some of its divisions—very significant, certainly.
On Sundays we learned the Catechism, and the "Noble Lesson" which had come to us from our Vaudois ancestors, read the stories in the Bible, and took quiet walks in the fields and lanes. Our Roman Catholic neighbors used to assemble after mass on the village green for dancing and other sports, but none of the Reformed were ever seen at these gatherings.
Once, when David was about fourteen, he ran away from home and went to Granville to see the great procession on the feast of St. Michael, which fell that year on a Sunday. Lucille did not know where he had gone, but I did, for he had told me his intention, and I had vainly tried to dissuade him. I did not mean to tell, but I was forced to do so. I shall never forget the horror of his mother nor the stern anger of his father.
"The boy is lost to us—lost forever!" I heard Jeanne say to her husband.
"No, no, ma bonne!" answered Simon soothingly. "The boy has done wrong, no doubt, but he will return—he will repent—all will be well."
"Ah, you do not know!" returned Jeanne in a shrill accent of horror. "There are monks at Granville—missionaries. He will be betrayed into some rash act of worship—a reverence to the image—an entry into the church. They will call it an act of catholicity—they will take him away—he will never return to us. Or if he should refuse them, they will accuse him of blaspheming the Virgin and St. Michael."
Jeanne threw herself down in her seat and covered her eyes, and Simon's calm face was clouded with grave anxiety; but he spoke in the same reassuring tone.
"Little mother, you are borrowing trouble. Is not our Lord at Granville as well as here, and can he not take care of our son? I trust he will be betrayed into no rashness; though the idle curiosity of a child has taken him in the way of danger."
"But, Father Simon, will God take care of David now that he has been a naughty boy?" I ventured to ask.
Simon smiled.
"Ah, my little one, what would become of the best of us if God did not take better care of us than we do of ourselves. Nevertheless, to run into needless danger is a sin of presumption. There are dangers enough hanging over our heads, let us be as careful as we may."
I had lived, so to speak, in an atmosphere of danger all my life, but I think I now realized it for the first time.
"What do you mean by an act of catholicity?" I asked. "Is it anything wicked?"
Simon and his wife looked at each other, and then my foster-father put out his hand and drew me to his side.
"Listen to me, little Vevette!" said he, laying his hand on my head and turning my face toward his. "It is hard to sadden thy young life with such a shadow, but it is needful. Yes, the shadow of the cross, which God hath laid on his church, falls also on the little ones. Attend, my child! Thou must never, never," he repeated, with some sternness in his voice, "on any pretext, or on any persuasion, no matter from whom it comes, enter a church or bow thy head to any image, or kiss any image or picture, or make the sign of the cross, or sing any hymns so-called, or canticle to the Virgin or the saints. If thou dost any such thing, the priests will perhaps come and take thee away from thy parents to shut thee up in a convent, where thou wilt never more see one of thy friends, and from which thou wilt never escape with life except by renouncing thy God and thy religion!"
"I will never renounce my religion!" I cried with vehemence. "My uncle did so, and my father says he has disgraced his ancient name."
"Alas, poor man, if that were all!" said Simon. "But now wilt thou remember these things, my child?"
"I will try," said I humbly; for I remembered that only yesterday I had been humming the air of a hymn to the Virgin which had struck my fancy. "But oh, Father Simon, do you think they will take David away and shut him up in the monastery yonder?"
"I trust not," said Simon, and then he added, with vehemence, "I would rather he were sunk before my eyes in the deepest sands of the Grève."
"I think Vevette is as bad as David," said Lucille, who had not before spoken. "She knew he was going, and she did not prevent him. If I had known, I should have told mother directly."
"Yes, thou art only too ready to tell," replied her mother. "Take care that no one has to tell of thee."
"And remember that spiritual pride is as great a sin as disobedience, and goes before a fall as often, my Loulou," added her father.
"I did not know what to do," said I. "Mother Jeanne does not like to have us tell tales;" which was true.
"Thine was an error in judgment, my little one. I am not angry with you, my children. Another time, you will both be wiser, and David also I trust. Nov run up to the top of the hill and see if you can see him."
We went out together, but not hand in hand as usual. A drizzling rain was falling, but we were too hardy to mind that. Our sabots or wooden shoes were impervious to wet, and our thick homespun frocks almost as much so. No sooner were we out of hearing of the elders, than Loulou overwhelmed me with a torrent of reproaches mingled with tears.
"It is you—you, Vevette, who have sent my brother away," she cried. "You knew he was going, and you did not try to stop him."
"That is not true," said I calmly. I was as angry as herself, but it was always a way of mine that the more excited I was, the quieter I grew. "I said everything I could."
"Yes, you said everything; why did not you do something. If he had told me—but no! Everything is for Vevette, forsooth, because she is a demoiselle. His poor sister is nothing and nobody. You try every way to separate him from me, and make him despise me. I wish—" but a burst of angry sobs choked her voice.
"Yes, I know what you wish, and you shall have your wish," said I, for I was now at a white heat.
Loulou began to be scared, and, as usual, as I grew angry, she began to cool down.
"Well, I think you ought to have told, but to be sure you are only a little girl," she added condescendingly. "As father says, when you are older you will know better."
This put the climax. Nobody likes to be called "only a little girl."
I did not say a word, but I fumed and walked away from her. I had had a glimpse of a figure coming up the hollow lane, and I was determined to meet David before his sister did.
"Vevette, where are you going?" called Loulou. "Come back; you will be wet through."
I paid no attention to her, but, quickening my steps, I passed a turn in the lane, and as I did so, David caught me in his arms.
"Vevette! What are you doing here, and what makes you so pale? Is your heart beating again?" For I was subject to palpitations which, though probably not dangerous, were alarming. "Here, sit down a moment. What frightened you?"
"You—you did," I gasped, as soon as I could speak. "I thought they would carry you off—that we should never see you again."
"Was that all? There was no danger," said David, with an odd little smile. "I did not go near them."
"Did not go near them!" repeated Lucille, who had now come up with us. "Why not?"
"I did not think it right," answered David manfully. "I meant to go when I set out, but Vevette's words kept ringing in my ears: 'It is mean and cowardly to pain thy mother's heart just for a pleasure.' So I turned aside and went to sit a while with Jean Laroche, who is laid up still with his sprained ankle."
"Then you never went near the procession at all—you never saw it," said Lucille, in a tone of disappointment, as David shook his head. "I thought you would at least have something to tell us. What are you laughing at, mademoiselle, if I may be so bold as to ask?"
"At you," I answered with perfect frankness. "At first you are enraged enough to kill me because I did not keep David from going, and now you are vexed at him because he did not go."
"But you did keep me, and I should have come home at once, only the poor Mother Laroche asked me so earnestly to come in and amuse Jean a little. But I must hurry home. Come, girls."
Lucille and I did not go into the house, but into the granary, which was one of our places of retirement. I took up an old psalm-book and began turning over the leaves. Lucille stood looking out of the door. At last she spoke.
"So you did hinder him, after all?"
"Yes, what a pity!" I answered mischievously. "Else he might have something to tell us. But I am only a little girl, you know. When I am older I shall know better. But there, we won't quarrel," I added. I could afford to be magnanimous, seeing how decidedly I had the best of it. "It is worse to be cross on Sunday than to go to see processions. Come, let us kiss and be friends."
Lucille yielded, but not very graciously. In fact, she was always rather jealous of me. She said I set her father and mother up against her, which certainly was not true, and that David liked me the best, which might have been the case, for she was always lecturing him and assuming airs of superiority, which irritated him, good-tempered as he was. I do not think she was very sorry when it was decided that I should leave the cottage and go home for good.
I have dwelt more lengthily on this childish affair because it was the first thing which made me at all sensible of the atmosphere of constant danger and persecution in which we lived even then.
[CHAPTER II.]
THE TOUR D'ANTIN.
THE very next day I was sent for to go and see my mother. Jeanne accompanied me, and had a long private conference, from which she returned bathed in tears. I anxiously asked the cause of her grief.
"The good Jeanne is grieved to part with thee, my little one," said my mother kindly. "Thy parents wish thee henceforth to live at home with them."
I did not know whether to be pleased or grieved at this news. I adored my beautiful pale mother, but it was with a kind of awful reverence—something, I suppose, like that a nun feels toward an image of the Virgin; but I had never learned to be at all free with her. Could I ever lay my head in her silken lap when it ached, as it often did, or could I prattle to her as freely of all my joys and sorrows as I did to Mother Jeanne? Other images also arose before my eyes—images of lessons and tasks and the awful dignity I should have to maintain when I was Mademoiselle Genevieve instead of only little Vevette.
To offset these I had my room—a room all to myself—a bed with worked hangings, and a carved cabinet. Then there were lessons on the lute and in singing, which I had always wished for. On the whole, however, the grief predominated, and I burst into tears.
"Fie then!" said Jeanne, quite shocked at my want of breeding, though she had been sobbing herself a moment before. "Is it thus, mademoiselle, that you receive the condescension of madame your mother? What will she think of your bringing up?"
"Madame could think but ill of her child did she show no feeling at parting with her nurse," said my mother kindly. "But cheer up, my little daughter; I hope you will be happy here. We will often visit our good friend. Come, do not show to your father a face bathed in tears."
I wiped my eyes, kissed my mother's hand, which she held out to me, and managed to say, "Thank you, madame!" in a manner not quite unintelligible.
Then Jeanne humbly preferred her request. Might I return to the farm for one day to partake of a farewell feast which she had it in mind to prepare?
My mother smiled and consented, and I returned to the farm feeling that I had had a reprieve.
The feast was a grand affair, though the company was small, consisting only of our own family and Father Simon's father and mother—very old people who lived in a cottage down near the sea-shore.
Father Simon picked out his reddest apples and the finest clusters of raisins and nuts. Mother Jeanne made the most delicious galettes and cream soup thickened with chestnuts, and spread her whitest and finest cloth. The old people were the only persons of the company who thoroughly enjoyed themselves. Old Sablot chirped like a cricket, and told old stories of the wars of the League and of Henry of Navarre, and his wife commended the soup and cakes, the eggs and custards, and imparted choice secrets in cookery to her daughter-in-law, who received them with all due deference, though she often said that no Norman woman ever learned to cook. But she was always a most dutiful daughter to the old people, and had quite won their hearts, though they had been somewhat opposed to Simon's marriage in the first place.
We children were very silent, as indeed became us in presence of our elders. And though we were helped to everything good on the table, we had not much appetite, and stole out, as soon as we were dismissed by a nod from the mother, to hide ourselves in the granary. Here we had a playhouse and some dolls of our own making, though we—that is, Lucille and I—were rather ashamed of playing with them.
David had also a work-bench with tools and a turning-lathe, which had been his grandfather's. The old man had given them to him on his last birthday, and David had learned to use them very cleverly.
We did not speak for a moment or two, and then David observed:
"How dusty it is here! To-morrow we must sweep out all the chips and shavings, and make the place tidy."
"To-morrow I shall not be here," said I sorrowfully.
"I suppose David and I can make the place neat for ourselves if you are not here," said Lucille, taking me up rather sharply.
"Lucille!" said her brother reproachfully. And then turning to me, "But you will come and see us very often."
"If I can," said I; "but I suppose I shall have a great many lessons to do now."
"Of course you will," said Lucille; "you will have to learn to play the lute and to write and work embroidery, and a hundred other things. You will be a great lady, and we cannot expect you to come and visit us. David ought to know better than to think of such a thing."
"Lucille, you are too bad to say such things!" I cried passionately. "To spoil our last day so. I believe you are glad I am going away."
"I am not either," she answered indignantly; "I am as sorry as David, only I don't want to be left out in the cold while you two pity and pet one another."
"Children, children!" said a voice which made us all start.
We looked toward the door, and there stood the curé of the parish, Father Francois. He was old and fat, and somewhat too fond of eating and drinking; but he was a kind old man, and lived in peace with every one, Reformed or Romanist.
"What then!" he was wont to say. "They are all my sheep, though some of them will persist in going astray. It is not for me to throw stones at them or set the dogs on them. Let me rather win them back by kindness."
"Children!" said he gravely. "Are you quarrelling?"
"No, monsieur," answered David, taking off his hat to the priest, while Lucille and I drew together and clasped hands, forgetting our difference in fear of we knew not what.
The old man observed the movement, and said, in a tone of some emotion:
"But what, my little girls; are you afraid of?"
"No," answered David; "Monsieur has always been kind, but he must know—"
"I know, I know!" said the priest, as David paused. "But fear nothing from me. I shall not harm you. But, oh, my children, if you would but return to the bosom of our Holy Mother! Now, tell me, my son—just as a friend, you know—why will you not invoke the mediation of the blessed saints?"
"Because, monsieur, it is contrary to the Holy Scriptures," answered David respectfully.
"But the example of the holy saints of old, my son—the teachings of the earliest church—consider!"
"Monsieur," replied David, "as to the earliest teachings of the church, I suppose they are to be found in the Gospels, and I read there that when certain women would have brought their children to our dear Lord, the disciples, instead of interceding for them, forbade them."
"Oh, the Scriptures—always the Scriptures!" said the priest, pettishly enough.
"They are the words of God, monsieur!"
"True, my child, but you may see by their effects that they are not fit for every one to read. And yet I don't know how it is," he added musingly; "they certainly are the words of God, and meant to do people good, but no sooner do they begin to study than they become heretics."
The old curé ruminated a moment over this riddle, and then, apparently giving it up as hopeless, he took a large pinch of snuff and smiled benignly upon David.
"Ah, well, my son, I did not come to argue, but to ask a favor in the interest of charity. My poor sister, who is dying in a decline, as you know, has a fancy for some fresh eggs, and there are none to be had. But I know your mother has uncommon skill in the management of poultry, and I thought perhaps she might help me to one or two."
"That I am sure she will," said David. "If monsieur will walk into the house and sit down, I am quite certain I can find two or three eggs quite new laid."
Father Simon looked surprised as the old priest entered, but made him courteously welcome, and Mother Jeanne directed Lucille to put up a jug of cream and a small jar of marmalade for the invalid. The curé thanked her, accepted a glass of cider, and offered his snuff-box to old Sablot.
"Tut, tut! Don't be afraid, man," said he as the other hesitated. "That is not an act of catholicity, as they call it!" And he muttered something under his breath which did not sound like a blessing.
"Monsieur need not wonder that we are timid," remarked Father Simon.
"No, no, it is no wonder; and from all I hear, I fear that times are not likely to be easier for you, my poor Sablot. Have you been to Sartilly of late?"
"No, monsieur, I have little to take me that way."
"It is as well. Take care if you do go. It is said there are wolves about, or likely to be; and you know that she-wolves carry off children at times. Many thanks to you, Jeanne," he added, rising and taking the little basket which my foster-mother had prepared; "my blessing be upon you! An old man's blessing can do no harm, you know. Farewell!"
He closed the door, and for a moment the party sat looking at each other in silence.
"What does he mean?" asked Jeanne at last.
"He means to give us a warning, the poor, kind old man," said Simon. "I doubt not, he made his errand on purpose."
"Why did he not speak more plainly then?" said Jeanne in some impatience. "Of what use is such a warning as that?"
"I suppose he dared not. Remember, my Jeanne, in what a difficult place he stands. He has risked the displeasure of his superiors already by not giving information."
"But what can he mean by wolves on the road to Sartilly?" asked Jeanne.
"That we must find out, and meantime we must be doubly on our guard."
"They are all alike—all wolves alike!" said the old man, in his thin voice. "Some are in their own skin, some in sheep's clothing; some are like the loup-garou,* and speak with the voice of a man; and they are the worst of all."
* What the Germans call the wehr-wolf, a creature compounded of brute and human.
"I do not think the curé looks much like a wolf," I ventured to say; for I had been rather taken with the old man's ways. "He is too fat. Wolves are always thin, and they howl and snarl."
"Ah, mademoiselle! But remember the loup-garou can take any forum or any voice he pleases," said the old man.
"Is there really a loop-garou?" asked David. "I thought it was only an idle tale."
"An idle tale indeed! What is the world coming to? Did not my grandfather know one—a man who used to turn himself into a wolf and scour the country at night, followed by his pack, and devouring all in his way, but especially women and children. They caught him at last, and he was burned at Sartilly, protesting his innocence all the time."
"Perhaps he was innocent," said David.
"Thou shouldst not answer thy grandfather, David," said his mother mildly; "that is rude."
"No, no; he meant no harm," said the old man. "Let it pass. You women are always finding fault with a boy. But as to the loup-garou. However, we will tell no more tales to scare mademoiselle. It is well, at all events, to remember that the good Lord is above all. But it was good snuff the poor priest had."
I inwardly resolved that I would try to procure some snuff for the old man, and that I would bribe him with it to tell me more tales of the loup-garou, about which I was very curious. I knew there was no use in asking Mother Jeanne, for she never would tell me frightful stories.
Indeed, the Reformed were not nearly as much under the influence of superstition as their neighbors of the other faith. To the last, every corner had its goblins. In this dell, the "Washers" were to be seen by the unwary night traveller, and he who acceded to their courteous request to assist them in wringing a garment, had his own heart's blood wrung out, and became a pale spectre himself. If he escaped these ghostly laundresses, there were the dancers on the field above, who were equally dangerous, and another female demon who allured young men into lonely places and there murdered and devoured them. Our country neighbors here in Cornwall are bad enough, with their piskies, and fairies, and wish-hounds, and what not, but they are not so bad as the people in Normandy and Brittany.
That night Lucille and I slept together for the last time. Her jealousy was quite overcome for the time, and we promised that we would always be good friends, and built many castles in the air on the basis of that future friendship. She was a girl of strong character in some respects, and of great talents, but she had one fault which made her and those about her very uncomfortable at times, and which came near working her utter ruin. It is not likely that she will ever see these memoirs, but if she should do so, she would not be hurt by them. The fires of affliction which she has passed through have burned up the dross of her character, and little is left but pure gold.
The next morning we went up to the château, and Jeanne took leave of me with many tears.
Father Simon had prayed especially and earnestly for me at our morning devotions, and had solemnly given me his blessing. David had shaken hands with me, and then run away to hide his feelings. It was a sorrowful parting on both sides, and when I had a last sight of Jeanne turning at the bend of the path to wave her hand to me, I felt more like an exile in a strange land than a child coming home to its father's house. So I thought then, knowing nothing of an exile's woes.
"Now, my child," said my mother, coming into my little room, where I had shut myself up to weep, "let these tears be dried. They are natural, but even natural grief must not be indulged too far. Bathe these eyes and flushed cheeks, arrange your dress, and come to me in my room in half an hour."
My mother spoke gently and kindly, but with decision, and there was that about her which made her least word a law. Besides, I believe, to say the truth, I was rather tired of my grief, and quite willing to be consoled, and to indulge my curiosity as to my new home. So I bathed my eyes as I had been bidden, smoothed my hair, which never would stay under my cap properly, but was always twisting out in rebellious little curls, and began to examine my room.
It was an odd little nook, opening from my mother's, as is the custom in France for young ladies of good family. It occupied one of the corner turrets which flanked the square tower of which I have spoken. The walls were so thick and the inclosed space so small that I used to compare the room in my own mind to one of the caves hollowed in the rock by the persecuted Vaudois of which I had heard from Jeanne. The bed was small, with heavy damask hangings and an embroidered coverlet. There was no carpet on the floor, which was of some dark wood waxed to a dangerous smoothness; but a small rug was laid by the side of the bed and before the little toilette-table. The rest of the furniture consisted of a chair and stool, and a small table on which lay a Bible and two or three books in a language which I did not understand, but which I took to be English. In an ordinary French family, there would have been a crucifix and a vase for holy water, and probably an image of the Virgin as well; but it may well be guessed that no such furniture found a place in our household.
Small and plain as the room was, it seemed magnificent in my eyes, and I felt a great accession of dignity in being able to call this magnificent apartment my own. I looked out at the window—a very narrow one—and was delighted to find that it commanded a view of the high road and a very little tiny bit of sea, now at ebb and showing only as a shining line on the edge of the sands. In short, I had not half completed the survey of my new quarters before I was in the best of spirits, and when my mother called me, I was able to meet her with a smiling face. I should have said that my room was elevated half a dozen steep steps above my mother's. Indeed, there were hardly two rooms in the house on a level with each other.
"Why, that is well," said my mother, kissing my cheek. "You are to be my companion and pupil now, little daughter, and I hope that we shall be very happy in each other's society."
She then made me sit down on a low seat beside her own chair, and examined me as to what I had learned. She heard me read, examined me in the Catechism, and asked me some questions on the Gospels, to all of which I gave, I believe, satisfactory answers. She looked at my sewing and knitting, and praised the thread, both linen and wool, with which I had taken great pains.
"That is very good thread," said she; "but I must teach you to spin on the wheel, as they do in England. You shall learn English too, and then we can talk together, and there are many pleasant books to read in that language. You must learn to write also, and to embroider."
"Is English very hard, madame?" I ventured to ask.
"It is called so, but I hope to make it easy to you. By and by, when we have mastered the writing, we will have some lessons on the lute. But now we must consult Mistress Grace about your dress. Your father will like to see you habited like a little lady."
My mother blew the silver whistle which always lay beside her, and Mistress Grace entered from the anteroom. She was a tall, thin personage, English to the backbone. I never saw a plainer woman in my life, but there was that in her face which at once attracted confidence and regard. She was my mother's special attendant, and ruled the household as her vicegerent with great skill and firmness. The servants called her Mamselle Grace, or, more commonly, simply Mamselle, and treated her with great respect, though they sometimes laughed at her English French after her back was turned. I was taught to call her Mrs. Grace, in English fashion.
I was greatly in awe of her at first, but I soon learned to love her as well as Mother Jeanne herself.
Mrs. Grace greeted me with prim courtesy.
"We must take orders for some dresses for our young lady, Grace," said my mother, speaking French. "Will you see what we have for her?"
Mrs. Grace opened an armoire, from which she drew a quantity of stuffs and silks, and an animated conversation ensued.
My mother kindly allowed me to choose what I liked best, and we were in the full tide of discussion, when there was a knock at the door, and my father entered with a very disturbed face, which brightened as he met my mother's glance.
"Heyday, what have we here?" said he. "Has Mrs. Grace taken a new doll to dress?"
"This is our little one, Armand," said my mother. "I have taken her home, judging that it is time to complete her education, and also for a companion."
"That is well," said he. "Come hither, my little one, and see thy father."
I approached timidly, bent my knee, and kissed the hand he held out to me.
He laid the other on my head and solemnly gave me his blessing. Then, holding me off and looking at me:
"Why, 'tis a true Corbet," said he; "the very image of thy mother, dearest Margaret." Then with a sudden change of tone, "I only wish she and thou were safe in the dear old mother's wing, the gray house at Tre Madoc."
My mother's pale cheek flushed a little. "Has anything new happened?" she asked.
"New? Yes! The vultures are gathering to the carcass, Margaret. We are to be left in peace no longer in our quiet corner. The old convent at Sartilly is opened once more with a band of nuns and a black Dominican for a confessor. They call it a hospital—we all know what that means nowadays."
My mother threw an arm round me as if to protect me, and I felt it tremble.
"Then that was what the curé meant," said I, struck with a sudden light. I was a quick child, and the danger which was always in the background sharpened the wits of all children of the Religion. "That was what he meant by the wolves!" And then, struck by the impropriety I had committed in speaking without being addressed, I faltered, "I beg your pardon, monsieur."
"There is no offence, my child; and you must not say monsieur, but my father," said he, sitting down and drawing me to him. "Tell me what was that about the curé and the wolves."
I repeated my story.
"You are a clear-headed little maiden," said he, "and have a quick wit. What did Simon Sablot think of the matter?"
"He said, monsieur—my father," I added, correcting myself, "that the good man meant to give us a warning, and had probably made his errand on purpose."
"More likely to spy out the nakedness of the land," muttered Grace, to whom all priests were alike.
"Nay, my Grace, do the poor man justice," said my father. "The Jesuits cannot make the whole nation over into tigers, not even the priests. The poor old man has grown-up on our lands, as his father did before him, and I believe he feels kindly toward us. But I wish, oh I wish thou and the little one were in safety, my Marguerite."
My mother said some words in English which I did not understand, and then in French, "But what shall we do, Armand, to guard against this new danger?"
"We can only do as we have done in our family, but I fear we must abandon our Sunday gatherings for the present. The risk will be too great with such neighbors to spy upon us. But we will consult together. Run away now, my little one, and explore the house, only do not go into the upper rooms of the round tower. Some of the floors are dangerous. However, you may go to the battlements if you like. The stairs are safe enough."
"Only return at once when you hear the bell," said my mother. "To-day shall be a holiday for you; to-morrow we will begin our lessons. But first go with Grace and let her take your measure."
"Why is it so dangerous to have a hospital at Sartilly?" I ventured to ask Grace at a pause in her operations. "I thought a hospital was a place where poor sick people were taken care of."
"So it is in a Christian land, mademoiselle," answered Grace; "there are many such in England. But now and here, a hospital means a place where young people of the Religion are shut up away from their parents and taught to worship images and say prayers to the Virgin and the saints—yes, pretty saints some of them," she added, in English. "There, I beg your pardon, mademoiselle. It is not good manners to speak in a foreign tongue before those who do not understand it."
"Madame says she will teach me English soon," I observed. "I shall like that, if it is not too hard."
"Oh, it will not be hard to you; you are half an English woman," replied Grace.
"And will you tell me tales sometimes about England, and the place where my mother lived when she was a young lady? I shall like so much to hear them. I love to look at Jersey when we can see it, because it is a part of England."
Grace's heart was quite won by this request. She kissed me, and called me a pretty dear in her own tongue, which phrase, of course, I did not understand, only I saw that it meant something kind and friendly.
Once released, I ran all over the house, peeped into the great old kitchen, where I received many welcomes and blessings from the old servants, and ascended to the top of the round tower to gaze at the sea and at Mount St. Michael, now glowing in the autumn sunshine. True to the habits of implicit obedience in which I had been brought up, I did not even open the door which led into the upper floors of the tower, though I confess to a strong temptation to do so.
I admired the salon hung with tapestry and adorned with carved furniture and various grim family pictures. I wondered what was in the cabinets, and studied the story of Judith worked in the hangings, and had not half finished my survey, when the bell rang, and I hastened to my mother's room.
We dined in considerable state, being waited on by two men servants, while Mistress Grace stood behind her lady's chair and directed their movements. The fare, though plain enough, was dainty compared to what I was accustomed to at the cottage, and I should have enjoyed my dinner only for a feeling of awkwardness, and a look in Mistress Grace's eyes as if she were longing to pounce upon me. I got pounced upon many a time after that, fur great stress was laid upon table etiquette in those days. More than once I was sent away from the table in disgrace, not so much for mistakes I made, as for fuming or pouting at having them corrected.
The next day my lessons began. I had my task of Scripture and the Catechism to learn, as at the cottage. Great stress was laid in the families of the Religion on this learning of the Scriptures, and with good reason, for we were liable at any time to be deprived of our Bibles, or indeed to be shut up where we could not have read if we had them; but that which was stored in our minds no one could take from us. I learned to write and began English, and, thanks to the pains and skill of my mother and the conversations I held with Mrs. Grace in our working hours, I soon learned to speak the language with considerable fluency, as well as to read in two or three English books which my mother possessed. I learned to spin on the little wheel which my mother had had sent her from England, and was greatly delighted when I was allowed to carry down to Mother Jeanne some skeins of thread of my own manufacture.
"But it is beautiful—no less," said Jeanne; "and done, you say, not with spindle and distaff, but with the little machine I have seen in madame's boudoir. See, Lucille, my child!"
"It is good thread, but I do not see that it much better than ours," said Lucille, somewhat slightingly. "And I do not see why one should take so much pains to learn to spin in this new fashion. The spindle and distaff are much better, I think, because they can be carried about with one. I can spin when I am going to the fountain for water or to the pasture for the cows. Vevette cannot do that with her grand wheel."
"That is true," said I, a little taken down; "but one can accomplish so much more. My mother can spin more with the wheel in an hour than one can do with the distaff in half a day, and I am sure the thread is more even."
"Ah, well, the method of my grandmother is good enough for me," said Lucille. "I am a Norman girl, and not an English lady." And she took up her distaff as she spoke, and began drawing out her flax with a care and attention which showed she was offended.
"Do you think, Mamselle Vevette, that madame would condescend to let me look at this wheel of hers?" said David. "I should like so much to see it."
"Why, do you think you could make one like it?" I asked. "Oh, do, David! Make one for Lucille, and I will teach her to use it."
"Thank you!" said Lucille in a tone which did not bespeak much gratitude. "I have already said that Norman fashions are good enough for me."
And then, softening her tone as she saw how mortified I was, "I dare say David would like to make a wheel, and if he succeeded, you would have one of your own as well as madame."
I may as well say here that, after many efforts and failures, and by the help of his uncle, who was the blacksmith at Sartilly, David succeeded in constructing a very nice spinning-wheel, which he presented to me on my birthday. I wonder whether that wheel is still in use, or whether it has been thrown aside in some garret?
[CHAPTER III.]
YOUTHFUL DAYS.
I MUST now pass somewhat rapidly over four or five years of my life. These years were spent quietly at home with my dear father and mother at the Tour d'Antin.
I was my mother's constant companion, and she instructed me herself in all that she thought it desirable for me to know, which was much more than was considered necessary for demoiselles in general. I learned to read and write both English and Italian, and I read many books in the former language which my mother had brought from home, or which had been sent to her from England since her marriage. These books would hardly have passed any French custom-house, for a very sharp lookout was kept at these places for heretical publications; but there were two or three vessels sailing from small ports on the coast, and commanded by persons of the Religion, by means of which, at rare intervals, my mother used to receive a package or letter from her friends in England.
Thus she become possessed of a copy of that most excellent book, "The Whole Duty of Man," which I read till I knew it almost by heart; "The Practice of Piety," Mr. Taylor's "Holy Living and Dying," and other excellent religious books of which that age, dissolute as it was, produced a great many. Sometimes my mother received other books and pamphlets, which she would not allow me even to look at, and many of which she burned with her own hands. These were plays and stories written by such authors as were in favor at the court of King Charles II.
The greatest disgrace I ever fell into with my parents came from stealing one of these books, and hiding myself away in the old tower to read it. It was a very witty play, and I was at first delighted with it, but my conscience soon made me aware that it was a wicked book; for, though of course I did not half understand it, I could see how profane it was, and how lightly and wickedly the most sacred name was used. My mother missed the book when she came to put away the contents of the package, and asked me whether I had seen it.
"No, maman," I answered; but I was not used to lying, and my face betrayed me. I was forced to confess and bring back the book. My mother's stern anger was all the more dreadful to me that she was usually so gentle. She would hear of no excuse or palliation.
"You have deceived me!" said she. "My daughter, whom I trusted, has lied to me. To gain a few moments of guilty pleasure, she has disobeyed her mother, and shamefully lied to conceal her disobedience. I want no words. I must quiet my own spirit before I talk with you. Go to your own room, and remain till you have permission to leave it. Think what you have done, and ask pardon of Him whom you have offended, and who abhors a lie."
I did as I was bid; but in no humble spirit. On the contrary, my heart was full of wrath and rebellion. In my own mind, I accused my mother of harsh unkindness in making, as I said to myself, such a fuss about such a little matter. Always inclined to be hard and stubborn under reproof, I was determined to justify myself in my own eyes. I said to myself that I was unjustly treated, that there was no such harm in reading a story-book, and so forth, and I set myself to remember all I possibly could of the play, and to form in my own mind an image of the world which it described.
Oh, if I could only live in a great city—in London or Paris—instead of such a lonely old place as the Tour d'Antin! But by degrees my conscience made itself heard. I remembered how kind and good my mother had always been to me: how she had laid aside her own employments to amuse me that I might not feel the want of companions of my own age; in short, when my mother came to me at bedtime, I was as penitent and humble as she could desire. She forgave me, and talked to me very kindly of my fault.
"Never, never, read a bad book, my child," she said. "You thereby do yourself an incalculable injury. We have not the power of forgetting anything. However deeply our impressions may be covered by others, they are still in existence, and likely to be revived at any time. No man can touch pitch and not be defiled, and no one can read and take pleasure in a bad book without being led into sin. You become like what your mind dwells upon. 'As a man thinketh, so is he.' Thus by thinking of and meditating upon the deeds of good men, and more especially those of our dear Lord, we are made like them, and are changed into the same image. This caution in reading is especially needful to you, my Vevette, as you are by nature facile and easily impressed."
"But, maman, why does my uncle send such books?" I ventured to ask.
My mother sighed.
"Your uncle, my love, does not think of such things as I do. He lives in the world of the court, where these things which your father and I consider all-important are but little regarded, or, if thought of at all, are considered as subjects for mockery."
"But, maman, I thought all English people were of the Religion. I thought they used the beautiful prayers in your prayer-book."
My mother sighed again.
"That is true, my child, but it is possible to hold the truth in unrighteousness. Here, where to be of the Religion is to put one's neck into the halter, there is no temptation to the careless and dissolute to join our numbers. Yet even here, under the very cross of persecution, the church is far from perfect. But we will talk more another time."
I was so penitent and so humbled in my own eyes that I made no objection when my mother deprived me of my two grand sources of amusement, the "Arcadia" of Sir Philip Sidney, and Mr. Edmund Spenser's "The Faerie Queene," telling me that she should not let me have them again for a month.
I am somewhat inclined to doubt the wisdom of this measure. I know it threw me back upon myself for amusement in the hours when I was deprived of my mother's society, and left me more time to meditate, or rather, I should say, to dream of that fairy-land to which the volume of plays had introduced me.
However, I had them back again at the end of a fortnight, and with them a new book—a great quarto volume of voyages and travels, with several historical pieces, collected by Mr. Hackluyt, formerly a preacher to Queen Elizabeth. This gave a new turn to my thoughts. I rejoiced in the destruction of the great Armada, and wept while I exulted over the glorious death of Sir Richard Greville, and travelled to the Indies and the New World and dreamed over their marvels.
When I went, as I did now and then, to visit my old friends at the farm, I entertained David with these tales by the hour together, and even Lucille forgot her jealousy to listen. What castles in the air we built on the margins of those great rivers, and what colonies we planted in those unknown lands—colonies where those of the Religion were to find a peaceful refuge, and from which all the evils incident to humanity were to be excluded! They were harmless dreams at the least, and served to amuse us for many a long hour. I have seen some of these colonies since then, and have learned that wherever man goes his three great foes—the world, the flesh, and the devil—go also.
Our new neighbors at the hospital of St. Jacques—St. James indeed! I should like to hear what he would have said to them—gave us little trouble for some time. Indeed, they had troubles enough of their own. They were hardly settled in their new abode before a dreadful pestilential fever broke out among them, and several of the nuns died, while others were so reduced that there were not enough of well to tend the sick.
The French country people have a great dread of infection, so that nobody would go near them; and I don't know but they would have starved only that my father himself on one or two occasions carried them provisions, wine, and comforts for the sick.
There was great talk about the sickness, and those of the Religion did not hesitate to ascribe it to the pestiferous air of the cellars and vaults, which were known to be very extensive, and in which several persons had died after long confinement.
"It is the avenging ghost of poor Denise Amblot, who perished there with her infant," said old Marie, our cook.
"Not so, my Marie," answered my mother. "Denise has long been in paradise, if indeed she did perish as reported, and is happily in better employments than avenging herself on these poor creatures. Yet it may well be that the bad air of the vaults so long used as prisons may have poisoned those living over them."
After the fever came a fire, which broke out mysteriously and consumed all the fuel and provisions which the nuns had laid up for winter; and, to crown all, a sort of reservoir or pond, supposed by some to be artificial, which supplied a stream running through the convent grounds, burst its barriers one night after a heavy storm of rain. The muddy torrent, bearing everything before it—trees, walls, and even the very rocks in its course—swept through the garden and washed away the soil itself, besides filling the church with mud and debris half way up to the roof. Whether the hand of man had anything to do with these disasters I do not know, but it is not impossible.
At any rate, the two or three nuns who were left returned to Avranches, from whence they had come, and the place was again abandoned to the owls and other doleful creatures which haunt deserted buildings.
Meantime all over France the tide of persecution was rising and spreading, carrying ruin and devastation far and wide. There was no more any safety for those of the Religion. From all sides came the story of terror, of bereavement, of oppression, of flight. Every day brought new infringements of the edict, new encroachments on our rights and liberties.
The very sick and dying—nay, they more than any others—were objects of attack. Every physician was ordered, on pain of a heavy fine at the least, to give notice to the mayor and the priest of the parish whenever he was called upon to visit one of the Religion. Then the sick man was besieged with arguments, with threats, and horrible representations of the present and the future. If he yielded, which was seldom the case, his conversion was trumpeted as a triumph of the faith. If he persevered, as ninety-nine out of a hundred did, he was left to perish without help or medicine, and his dead body was cast out like a dog's in the next ditch.
It was at the peril of life that a mother repeated to her dying child, or a child to its parent, a few comforting texts of Scripture or a hymn. The alms collected among the Reformed for the solace of their own poor were seized upon and used for the maintenance of the so-called hospitals, which were simply prisons where young people and women were shut up, and every effort made, both by threats and cajolery, to induce them "to return to the bosom of their tender and gentle mother the Church," that was the favorite phrase. A few gave way and were set at liberty, but of these, the most part sooner or later recanted their recantations, with bitter tears of penitence and shame.
But those mothers and fathers who knew that their dead were dead, and entered into the rest of their Lord, were happy in comparison with others, whose sons were in the galleys chained to the oar with the vilest of the vile, with felons and murderers, sleeping on their benches if at sea, driven by the lash like brute cattle to pestiferous dungeons if on land, and liable at any time to be condemned to perpetual imprisonment or shot down and cast to the waves. And even these had not the worst of it.
There were hundreds of mothers who were entirely in the dark as to the fate of their daughters. The convents all over the land were filled with such girls, seduced from their homes on any or no pretext, and dragged away, never to be seen again. Whether they recanted and were made nuns, whether they remained firm and suffered imprisonment and a horrible death, their fate was equally unknown to their friends. In some of the convents, no doubt, were conscientious women, who did their duty according to their lights, and were as kind to their prisoners as circumstances permitted; but there were others who sought to augment their treasure of good works and win heaven, as they say, by exercising every severity, and trampling upon any natural feelings of compassion which might arise in their breasts.
Worse still, many convents were known to be schools of worldliness and vice, where the most dissolute manners prevailed. This was notably the case with the rich houses near Paris, where the superiors were often appointed by the king's mistress for the time being, and the convent was a resort for the young gentlemen of the court.
But it was upon the pastors that the vials of wrath were most lavishly poured out. Some, whose flocks were already scattered, escaped to foreign lands, but many remained behind to comfort their afflicted brethren. These were never for one moment in security. They journeyed from place to place in all sorts of disguises. They slept in dens and caves of the earth, or under the open sky; holding a midnight meeting here, comforting a dying person or a bereaved parent there; now celebrating the Lord's Supper, in some lonely grange or barn, to those of the faithful who had risked everything to break together the bread of life once more; now baptizing a babe, perhaps by the bedside of its dying mother, or uniting some loving and faithful pair of lovers who wished to meet the evils of life together. *
* See any collection of Huguenot memoirs.
Hunted down like wild beasts, they were condemned, if captured, to the gallows or the wheel, without even the pretence of a trial, after all temptations of pardons and rewards had failed to shake their faith. Now and then—very rarely—some one abjured; but, as I have said, these usually abjured their abjuration at the first opportunity, or died in agonies of remorse and despair.
As I have remarked before, our narrow corner of the world had hitherto got off easily, and we lived in comparative safety and in friendship with our neighbors. But the time was coming, and close at hand, when the storm was to reach alike the lofty aerie and the lowly nest.
My mother, I believe, would have been glad to emigrate at once. She thought with longings inexpressible of her quiet English home in the valley of Tre Madoc, of the old red stone house overhung with trees, where dwelt peace and quietness, with none to molest or make afraid; of the little gray church on the moor, with its tall tower, which served as a beacon to the wandering sailor, where the pure word of God was preached, and the old people and little children came every Sunday.
My mother always loved the English Church. She kept her prayer-book by her, and used to read it every day. She taught me many precious lessons out of it, so that when I was twelve years old, I knew it almost by heart. This love of hers for the English Church was in some degree shared by my father, and, as I heard afterward, was a reason for his being looked coldly upon by some of the Religion, to whom the very name of bishop was an abomination; and no wonder, since with them it was another name for oppressor and persecutor. But they found, when the trial came, that the Chevalier d'Antin and his gentle lady were as ready to put all to hazard for their faith as the best of them.
As I have said, my mother was desirous of emigrating, as so many others had done. But my father would not consent to forsake his poor tenants and peasants, many of whom had come with him from Provence. He thought himself in some sort their shepherd, and responsible for their welfare.
This was a very different estimation from that in which some of our neighbors held their people. There were three or four large estates about Avranches and St. Lo, the owners of which lived in Paris the year round, or followed the court in its movements, and left their lands and people to the care of agents, taking no thought for them except to extract from them as much money as possible.
But such was not my father's idea. He held that every large landowner was a steward under God, responsible for the welfare of those placed under his charge, and that he had no right to use his estate merely for his own enriching or aggrandizement. One who did so, he held for an unfaithful servant, who, would be called to a strict account whenever his Lord should return, and who could expect nothing else for his reward than outer darkness and gnashing of teeth.
I have seen something of great landowners since that day, and I fear this idea of duty is very far from common among them. Certainly I have never known one, unless it is my husband, who fulfilled it as my father did. He was not always dictating or patronizing. He did not regard his tenants and workpeople either as little children or as dumb beasts, but as rational, accountable creatures.
Of course, he met with plenty of hindrance and opposition. The Norman is a slow thinker, and very conservative. That "our fathers did so" is reason enough for them to do so also, and they are as full of prejudice and superstition as any people in France, except perhaps their neighbors of Brittany. But they are good honest folk, sober for the most part, except on some special occasions, very industrious, and extremely domestic and frugal in their habits. Their houses are generally comfortable, according to French ideas, and they often have a great deal of wealth laid by in the shape of fine linen, gold ornaments, and furniture. Oh, how I should like to see the inside of a Norman farm-house once more! Those very cakes of sarrasin, which I used to hate, would taste like ambrosia. But I am wandering again, in the fashion of old people.
My father, holding these ideas, did not feel at liberty to seek safety himself and leave his poor people as sheep without a shepherd. He would gladly have sent my mother and myself to a place of safety, but my mother would not hear of leaving him, nor did they see their way clear to part with me. So we remained together till I was fourteen years old. My mother instructed me in all sorts of womanly accomplishments, and from Mrs. Grace, I learned to do wonderful feats of needlework, especially in darning, cut work, and satin stitch, which in my turn, I taught to Lucille, with my mother's full approbation, for she said I learned in teaching. And besides, in these days of flight and exile, it behoved every one to practise those arts by which they might earn their bread in a strange land.
These lessons were sometimes very pleasant to both of us; at others they were disturbed by that spirit of jealousy which had always been Lucille's bane, and which, as she did not strive to conquer it, increased upon her. She was always vexed that I should do anything which she could not, and if she could not almost directly equal or excel the pattern I set before her, she would abandon the work in disgust, sometimes with expressions of contempt, sometimes with an outburst of temper which made me fairly afraid of her for the time.
But we always made up our quarrels again, for she was really anxious to learn, and besides that I think she truly loved me at that time. Poor Lucille! David I seldom saw. He had gone, with the full approbation of his father and mine, to learn the trade of a ship-carpenter at Dieppe, where he soon distinguished himself by his skill. His holidays, which were few and far between, he always spent at home, and he never came without bringing presents to his family, and some little product of his skill and ingenuity—a reel, a little casket inlaid with ivory or precious woods, or a small frame for my embroidery. I have one or two of these things still.
My own temptations did not lie toward jealousy, which was one reason perhaps that I had so much patience with Lucille; for I have observed that people usually have the least toleration for the faults most resembling their own. I was always, from my earliest years, a dreamy, imaginative child. I heard but little of the world—that world in which my uncle and aunt lived at court. But now and then I got a peep at it through the medium of the plays and tales which my other uncle would persist in sending—for I am sorry to say that I had more than once repeated the offence of stealing and studying some of these books—and this same world had great charms for me.
I had been less with my mother than usual for some months, for she and my father had many private consultations from which I was excluded. I used to take my work to the top of the old tower or out in the orchard, and while my fingers were busy with my stocking or my pattern, my fancy was making me a grand demoiselle, and leading me to balls and gardens and all the scenes of the English court.
Of the English court, I say, for my wildest dreams at that time never led me to the court of Louis XIV. That was too closely associated with the dangers and inconveniences of our condition for me to think of it with anything but horror. Thus I spent many hours worse than unprofitably. Then my conscience would be aroused by some Bible reading with my mother or some tale of suffering heroism from my father, and I would cast aside my dreams and return to those religious duties which at other times were utterly distasteful to me. In short, I was double-minded, and as such was unstable in all my ways.
[CHAPTER IV.]
TRUST AND DISTRUST.
"YOU are to have a holiday to-day, Mrs. Vevette," was Grace's announcement to me one fine morning somewhere toward the end of September. "Your mother has one of her bad headaches."
"Oh, how sorry I am!" I exclaimed, thinking not of the holiday but of the headache. "Is it very bad, Mrs. Grace?"
"Very bad indeed," returned the lady-in-waiting, solemnly shaking her head; "I have seldom seen her worse. I have been up with her half the night. You must be very quiet, my dear, and not rush up and down-stairs, or drop your books, or—"
"May I go up to the farm and see Mother Jeanne?" I asked, breaking in upon the catalogue of what Grace called my "headlong ways." "I want to teach Lucille that new lace-stitch, and I dare say Jeanne won't mind if I do make a little noise," I added, with some resentment.
Not, of course, that I wished to disturb my mother, or indeed any one else, but I was a little tired of this same catalogue, which had been rehearsed so many times.
"There you go again, breaking right into the middle of a sentence," said Grace. "What would your mother say?"
"Perhaps she would say, 'Don't be always lecturing the child, Grace,'" said I mischievously, quoting some words I had overheard from my mother.
Then, as I saw by her rising color that she was really angry, I threw my arms round her and hugged her.
"There, don't be vexed, Gracy dear; you know I would not disturb maman for the world. But I do really want to go to the farm very much to teach Lucille the lace-stitch you showed me yesterday, and to see the new kittens."
"Kittens! What kittens?" said Grace, who was a dear lover of pussies of all sorts.
"Why, the new kittens. Don't you remember the beautiful young cats that David brought to his mother the last time he came home? One of them has kittens, and Mother Jeanne says I may have my choice of them."
"Oh, yes; go by all means, my dear; and I hope you will have a pleasant day. Only be sure you are at home before dark, and mind you don't wait till it is time you were here before you set out. And, as to the kitlings, if there should be a tortoise-shell or a dark brindle, I would choose that, especially if it have a white face. Such cats are always good-tempered and good mousers."
"I believe these cats are all white," said I; "the mother is as white as snow."
Grace's face was shadowed a little.
"I don't know about that," said she doubtfully. "In Cornwall, we think that white cats bring ill-luck. My poor sister had a beautiful white cat come to her, and that very night she broke her china jug, and the next day her husband fell from the tall pear-tree and was lamed for life."
"But these are not like common cats, you know," said I, suppressing a laugh which I knew would mortally offend Grace and perhaps lose me my holiday. "They are outlandish cats, with long hair and bushy tails. I should think that would be different."
"Perhaps so; but I would think about it a little. However, I will come down and see them myself."
I tiptoed through my mother's room into my own little cell, collected my working things into the pretty foreign basket which David had brought me the last time he came home, and then, kissing my mother's pale cheek, I descended the stairs softly, and did not give a single skip till I was beyond the precincts of the tower.
"How full of notions Grace is," I said to myself. "I wonder if all the Cornish people are like that." * (N.B. † If a hare had run across my own path, or I had heard a crow on my left hand, I dare say I should have turned back from my expedition.) "But I mean to have the kitten in spite of her. As though I would give up a beautiful long-haired white cat for such a fancy as that!"
* They are, even to this day.—L. S.
† N. B.—nota bene
I did not hasten on my way, for it was early, and I found my walk so pleasant that I had no desire to shorten it. The bramble-berries and filberts that were ripening by the sides of the lane had great attractions for me. There were late autumn flowers to gather, and lizards to watch as they ran to and fro on the walls or sunned their gilded sides on a broad flat stone, vanishing like a shadow when one drew near. A great wind had blown the day before and thrown down many apples from the trees that overhung the lane.
I filled my pocket with some ripe golden pippins, and walked on eating one till I drew near the place where the highway to Avranches, such as it was, crossed our lane. This was a favorite resting-place, since it commanded a glorious view of sea and shore and the great fortress-monastery. There was a kind of crag or projecting rock some thirty feet high, round which the road wound, and which, while it presented a perpendicular face to the highway, was easily ascended by an active person from the side of the lane.
"I wonder whether they are gathering the vraic," I said to myself. "I should think a great quantity must have come ashore after the wind last night. I mean to climb up and see." *
* The vraic or varech is the seaweed, which is very abundant on this coast, and much esteemed for manure. It is regularly harvested in spring and autumn, but may be gathered at any time.
I climbed lightly up the rude rocky steps, but started as I came upon Lucille, who was sitting upon the dry moss which covered like a soft carpet the top of the rock. She was wrapped closely in her long black cloak, the hood of which was drawn over her head, somewhat to the detriment of her clean starched cap. Her unfailing companion, the distaff, was in her girdle, but the spindle lay idle beside her, though she seemed to have cleared a flat place especially for it to dance upon. Her hands were folded over her knee, and her eyes were fixed upon the high road, which from this elevated point could be traced all the way to Avranches.
I saw in a moment that she was in one of her moods, but I was in too high spirits with my walk and my holiday to mind that. And as she did not seem to hear my approach, I put my two hands over her eyes, saying, in the words of our child's game, "Guess whose fingers are all these."
"Vevette, how you startled me!" she exclaimed, rather angrily. And then, recovering herself, "How did you come here?"
"On my feet, since I have no wings," I answered, sitting down beside her on the dry moss. "Maman gave me a whole holiday because she has a headache, and I thought I would come down and teach you my new lace stitches. It is well I took a fancy to climb up here, or I should have missed you. But now, tell me how came you here?"
"Because I have a holiday as well as yourself," answered Lucille, in a tone which had no pleasure in it. "Aunt Denise has come up from Granville to see my mother, and maman said I might have a play-day too, and go to see Marie Lebrun if I liked. But I don't care about going. I know they only sent me away because they have secrets to talk about which they don't want me to hear."
"Well, why need you mind?" I asked. "Maman often says to me, 'Run away, petite, I wish to say something to Grace,' and I never mind it a bit. Of course grown people have things to talk about which they don't want children to hear. Why should you care?"
"But I do care," said Lucille, and her eyes with tears. "I am not a child like you. I am three years older, and I do think they might trust me."
"It is not that they do not trust you, silly one," I returned, a little out of patience with the mood I could not comprehend. "As I tell you, there are things to be talked about by grown people which girls do not understand and ought not to know. Mrs. Grace has told me that a dozen times. What is the use of minding? We don't understand, and there is the end. Some time we shall, I suppose."
Lucille did not answer. She fixed her eyes once more on the highway, and I let mine wander off over the sands and the shore where people, looking like little black ants, were busily collecting the precious seaweed, to Mount St. Michael, whose turrets shone brightly in the sun.
"I wish I had wings," said I at last. "How I should like to fly over the sands and alight on the top of the mount yonder, where the great gilded angel used to stand looking over land and seas. I wonder whether he got tired of his perch and flew away some night."
"You should not speak so of the holy angels. It is not right," said Lucille gravely.
"I was not speaking of the angel, but of his image," said I; "that is quite another thing. Then I would spread my wings and travel over to the islands yonder, and then to England, where my uncles live."
"And get shot for a strange water-fowl," said Lucille, apparently diverted for the moment, and laughing at my fancy. "Then you would be stuffed and set up to be gazed at for sixpence a head, and that would be more tiresome than sitting at your embroidery."
"Yes, I don't think I should like it at all. Let me take the distaff, Lucille. I have not spun any thread in a long time. What beautiful fine flax!"
"Yes, it is some that my aunt brought me. She got it of a ship-captain who came from foreign parts. Take care you don't break my thread."
We chatted on indifferent subjects a while, and Lucille seemed to have recovered her good humor, when I inadvertently disturbed it again.
"Martin said he met your father coming from Avranches yesterday. What took him so far from home?"
"I don't know; they never tell me anything," answered Lucille, her face clouding.
"There might be a very good reason for his not telling you," I remarked in a low tone. "If his journey was about the Religion, it might be a great deal better for you to be able to say you did not know. And I dare say it was, for my father has been away a great deal of late."
"Oh, the Religion—always the Religion!" said Lucille between her teeth; "I hate the very name of the Religion."
"Lucille, how dare you?" I gasped, rather than spoke. I was too shocked to say more.
"Well, I do," she returned vehemently. "It spoils everything. It separates families and neighbors, shuts us up just to our own little selves, and cuts us off from everything that is pleasant. Jennette Maury can go to the Sunday fêtes and the dances on feast days under the great chestnut, but I must stay at home and read a musty book, because I am of the Religion. Other people live in peace, and nobody interferes with them. We live with a sword hung over our heads, and our daily path is like that over the Grève yonder—likely to swallow us up any time. And what do we gain by it in this world, I should like to know?"
"What should we lose in the next world if we deserted it?" I asked, finding my voice at last.
"I am not talking of deserting it. I am no Judas, though they seem to think I am by the way they treat me—never telling me anything. But I don't see why we should not have kept to the ways of our fathers, and saved all this trouble."
"WE DO keep to the faith of our fathers," said I, repeating the proud boast of the Vaudois, which I had long ago learned by heart. "Our church never was corrupted by Rome, and did not need reforming. But, Lucille, what would your father and mother say to such words?"
"I should never say such words to them," answered Lucille, "and I am foolish to say them to you. I suppose, however, you will go and repeat them to every one, and let the world say how much better and more religious is the heiress of the Tour d'Antin than poor Lucille Sablot."
"Lucille, you know better," I answered indignantly; "but I see you don't want anything of me, so I shall go home again, as you say Mother Jeanne is busy."
And gathering up my basket and laying down the distaff in Lucille's lap, I rose to depart, though I trembled so much with excitement and indignation that I could hardly stand.
Lucille looked at me in surprise, for in our ordinary quarrels, I grew cool as she grew angry, and vice versâ.
"Don't go, Vevette. I ought not to have spoken so. I did not half mean it, but I am so very, very unhappy."
As she spoke, she hid her face and burst into a flood of tears and sobs.
I sat down again, knowing from experience that when she recovered from her crying fit, her bad mood would be gone for that day.
So it proved. After sobbing a long time, she wiped her eyes and made a great effort to compose herself.
"I am sorry I was so cross," said she; "but I am so unhappy. There is so much that I cannot understand. Why should you be the heiress of d'Antin and I only a poor farmer's daughter? Why should you learn music and English and dress in silk, while I wear homespun and tend sheep, and come and go at everybody's call? Why should our enemies triumph and eat us up like bread, and live in all sorts of luxury, while we are poor and trodden down like the mire in the streets, and our Master never put forth a hand to help us? We give up everything for him, and he lets us be beaten on every side, and gives us nothing but promises—promises for another world, from which nobody has come back to tell us anything. No, I don't understand it."
Lucille spoke with a fire and passion compared to which her former vehemence was nothing.
I had never thought of these things—never dreamed of questioning anything that was taught me. Indeed, I believe I had been too full of dreams to think at all. I was stricken dumb before her at first, but as she gazed at me with her dark eyes like sombre flames, I felt I must say something, so I gave the only answer that occurred to me—the only one indeed that I have ever found.
"It is the will of God, Lucille, and he must know best."
Lucille muttered something which I did not quite hear.
"And besides, he does help us," I added, gathering courage. "Just think how all the martyrs have been helped to stand firm, and what joys they have felt even at the galleys and in dark dungeons, where they had hardly room to breathe."
"I know they say so," said Lucille; "but tell me, Vevette, have you experienced any of these wonderful joys. Because I know I never did."
I did not know exactly what to answer to this question. In fact, in those days my conscience was in that uneasy state in which it always must be with any half-hearted person. No, I could not say that my religion was any comfort to me, and I hastened to change the conversation.
"Anyhow, Lucille, I don't think you would be any happier if we were to change places. You would be lectured and ordered about, and sent out of the way a great deal more than you are now, and you would not have nearly as much time to yourself. I believe, after all, it is more in being contented than anything else. Look at Gran'mère Luchon. She has as little as any one I know—living down by the shore in that dark smoky little hut with her two little grandchildren, and supporting them and herself with her net-making and mending and her spinning. And yet she is happy. She is always singing over her work, and I never heard her make a complaint."
"She is not there any more," said Lucille. "The new curé ordered her to go to mass, and because she would not, he has taken the children away and handed them over to the nuns, and nobody knows what, has become of the old woman."
"The wretches!" I exclaimed.
"Hush!" said Lucille. "Don't speak so loud; nobody knows who may be listening. I hate living so—in such constraint and danger all the time. It is odious."
"Don't let us talk about it any more," said I. "I have some news for you. My cousin, Andrew Corbet, from England, is coming to visit us. Will it not seem odd to have a cousin?"
"Not to me," said Lucille, making an effort to throw off her moodiness. "I have a plenty of them, you know. When do you expect him?"
"Next week, perhaps; the time is not set."
"What is he like?"
"I don't know; I have never seen him. He is about twenty years old, and has been educated at a great college in England, so I suppose he is like other young gentlemen. Come, let us eat some of Mrs. Grace's cakes and bonbons, and then I will show you my new stitch. Grace gave me a nice basket, because she said we might like to make a little feast under the trees."
Lucille had something too—a bottle of milk and some wheaten bread which she had set out to carry to Gran'mère Luchon, when she heard of the misfortune which had befallen the poor woman. We grew quite merry over our little feast, and the lesson in needlework went on prosperously afterward.
"You have caught it beautifully," said I. "Mrs. Grace would say that you excelled your pattern. But what are you looking at?"
For Lucille had dropped her work and was gazing intently in the direction of Avranches.
I turned my eyes the same way and beheld a procession coming up the road—of what sort I could not at first discover. There was a cross-bearer and two or three banners; then a sight dreaded by every Huguenot child in France—the Host carried under a fine canopy—and then came a dozen or so of donkeys, each led by a man and bearing a woman dressed in black, with a white scapular and long black veil.
"They are the nuns coming to take possession of the hospital," said Lucille. "It has been all repaired and fitted up anew, and they are to have a school and teach lace-making and embroidery."
"Lucille, what do you mean?" I exclaimed; for she had risen and stepped to the edge of the rock to have a better view. "They will see you. Come down here behind the bushes till they are past."
Lucille obeyed rather unwillingly, as I thought.
We peeped through the bushes as the procession advanced, and had a good view of the nuns. There were ten of them, riding with eyes cast down and hands folded in their large sleeves. One or two of them were very pretty, and all had a ladylike look.
Last came the two little grandchildren of poor Mère Luchon. The youngest, a mere baby, was sucking a lump of gingerbread, apparently quite content; but the sobs and tear-stained face of the other told a different story. She was seven years old, and was already a great help and comfort to the old woman. As she passed, she raised her streaming eyes as if imploring pity.
My blood boiled at the sight, and if I could have commanded the lightning from heaven, that procession would have gone no farther. It was closed by a number of villagers, all telling their beads, some with a great show of devotion, others languidly and carelessly enough.
The new curé came last of all. He was a small, thin, sharp-faced man, with a cruel mouth, and eyes that seemed to see everything at once. He was certainly a great contrast to poor Father Jean, who used to go about with his deep pockets filled with bonbons, which he distributed to Catholic and Protestant children alike.
"The wretches! The murderous brigands!" said I between my teeth. "Oh, if I could kill them all! The vile kidnappers! Oh, why does the Lord suffer such things?"
"That is what I ask," said Lucille. "Why should they be so prospered and have so much power if the Lord is not on their side? As to these children, I don't know that I pity them so very much. The old woman could not have lived long, and now they are sure of support and a good education. I think the nuns are very kind-looking ladies, for my part. And if they were right after all—if one's salvation does depend upon being a Roman Catholic—then they are right in forcing people to become so."
"Why did not our Lord and his apostles force all the Jews to become Christians?" I demanded hotly enough. "He said he had only to ask to receive more than twelve legions of angels. Why did not he do it, and shut up all those people who did not believe on him, or put them to death, if that is the right way?"
"He said his kingdom was not of this world, else would his servants fight," answered Lucille.
"Then the kingdom which is of this world, and whose servants do fight and oppress, is not his," I answered, for I could reason well enough when I was roused from my daydreams.
"We ought to be going," said Lucille, abruptly changing the subject. "The supper will be ready, and my father will be angry if I am not there. I am to be kept to rules as if I were no more than five years old."
Jeanne welcomed me with her usual affection, but her eyes were red with weeping, and she was evidently absent-minded.
I told her what we had seen.
"Yes, I have had the story from my sister," said Jeanne, her eyes overflowing as she spoke. "The poor old woman! Happily it cannot be long in the course of nature before she goes to her rest, but my heart aches for the little ones. My children, you must be doubly careful. This new priest is not like the old one—he will leave us no peace. You must take care never even to go near the church, or stop to look on at any of their doings. Perhaps a way of escape may be opened to us before long. It would indeed be hard to leave our home and go among strangers, but exile with liberty of worship would be better than living in such constant fear."
"Put thy trust in God, my Jeanne," said Father Simon. "We are all in his hands. We must remember that the church has never been promised anything in this world but tribulation and the cross. The crown is to come hereafter. Now let us think of something else. Mamselle Vevette, will you come and help to gather the apples on your own tree? They are quite ready, and I will carry them up for you when you go home."
I had been grave quite as long as I liked, and was very ready to enjoy the apple-picking from my own particular tree of golden Jeannetons, which had been solemnly planted when I was born, and now hung loaded with fruit. Never were such apples as those, I am sure. I wonder whether the tree is still in bearing? It must be old and moss-grown by this time, if it has not been cut down.
Jeanne made us a supper of fresh pan-cakes, galette, fruit, and rich cream cheese, and when I went home, Father Simon shouldered his hotte * and carried a famous load of beautiful apples up to the tower.
* A kind of deep, roomy basket, made to be carried on the shoulders.
I found my mother much better, and able to welcome me, and to hear all I had to tell her. I hesitated about repeating my conversation with Lucille on the rock, but my mind had been so disturbed that at last I thought best to do so, hoping to have my doubts laid at rest.
"You gave the right answer, my little one," said my mother when I had finished. "It is the will of God. Remember that he has never promised his children temporal prosperity. 'In the world ye shall have tribulation,' are his own words. Yet he does give his children many pleasures. There are beautiful flowers and fair fruits growing even by the side of the strait and narrow way, but we must not go out of the way to seek them. Neither must we be discouraged when the path leads over rocks and thorns, or even through marshes and quicksands; but remember that our dear Lord has trodden every step before us, and is waiting to receive us at the end."
Much more she said, in the same wise and gentle strain, and at last sent me to bed feeling somewhat comforted. The night was warm, and my door was left ajar for air. I had hardly fallen asleep, as it seemed to me, when I was waked by voices, and heard my mother say:
"I do not like what she says about Lucille. I fear the girl has been tampered with. Perhaps we should warn her parents."
"We will think about that," said my father. "Ah, my Marguerite, if you and the little one were but in safety—"
"Do not ask me to leave you, Armand—not yet," said my mother, clasping her hands. "If we could but send the child home to my sister, I should be at ease. Could we not do it, when Andrew comes?"
"We will consider of it," answered my father. "And now, my Pearl, let us betake ourselves to prayer."
The murmured sound of the prayer sent me to sleep, and I heard no more, but I turned Lucille's words over in my mind with a vague uneasiness many times during the next few days. I was destined to remember them for long afterward.
The next day was made memorable by an unlucky accident. Mrs. Grace was standing in the door of my room (which I have said was raised several steps), lecturing me in her usual prim fashion concerning certain untidinesses which she had discovered about my toilette-table, when, suddenly stepping backward, she fell down the stairs, bruising herself and spraining her ankle very badly.
We dared not send for a surgeon. There was an old man at Avranches who was very skilful, and with whom we had always been on good terms, though he was a Roman Catholic; but he had lately taken a young assistant (or rather had been given one, for we all believed the young man had been placed as a spy over the old one), and should it be known that we had a sick person in the house, we were in danger of being invaded by the priests, striving to force or coax the sick person into a recantation.
Happily my father had a pretty good practical knowledge of surgery, and both my mother and Mrs. Grace herself were strong in the virtues and uses of herbs and simples.
Mrs. Grace was presently put to bed and her ankle bandaged. She was in great pain, but the pain was little or nothing compared to the worry of helplessness, housekeeping cares, and the necessity of being waited upon instead of waiting upon others. Truth to say, she was but a troublesome charge.
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."
All my better self rose up at this appeal. I considered a moment, and then answered firmly—
"I might be afraid, but I would do it, if it were my duty."
"There spoke a true Corbet woman!" said my father, smiling kindly on me and pressing the hand which he held. "'MY DUTY!' Let that be your motto, as it is that of your mother's house, and you will not go far wrong. Now listen while I impart to you a weighty secret. But let us first make sure that there are no eavesdroppers."
My father raised himself from the fallen stone and looked all around, but no one was in sight, and the sparse heath and short grass could not hide anything so large as a child of a year old. He even parted the brambles and wild vines and looked inside the monument (which was one of those made of three upright stones with a slab laid over the top), but found nothing worse than a pair of young owls and their mother, which were terribly disconcerted by his scrutiny, and hissed and snapped valiantly.
Meantime I waited with anxious curiosity, though I had a guess of what was coming.
"I have certain intelligence," said he, speaking in a low voice, "that one of our best and oldest pastors, Monsieur Bertheau, who has, at the risk of his life, visited and comforted many of our afflicted brethren in Charenton and elsewhere, is now flying from his enemies, and will arrive at this place some time to-night. He must be lodged in the old tower till the period of spring tides, when I shall hope to procure a passage for him to Jersey, or to England itself. Grace, who has usually taken charge of such fugitives, is now disabled. I must be away this night, and your mother is unable to do what is needful; besides that, her absence from her room might excite suspicion. Mathew grows old and forgetful, and I dare not trust any of the other servants. Dare you, my daughter, undertake to meet this venerable man in the ruins of the chapel to-night, and lead him by the secret passage to the room at the top of the tower, which has been prepared for him?"
"Yes, my father," I answered; "but how shall I know the way?"
"I will give you directions which will lead you to the entrance of the passage. Turn to your right after that, and you cannot miss your way. When the good man is in safety, you can come directly to your mother's room by another passage, which I will also indicate to you. But, my child, I must not conceal from you that there is danger in this trust. Should you be discovered by any of our enemies in giving help to this good old man, your life or your liberty must be the forfeit."
"I know it, my father," I answered; "but if it is my duty, I can do it. Besides, there is danger anyhow."
"That is true, my child. He that saveth his life is as like to lose it as he that layeth it down for the Lord's sake and the Gospels."
Then my father broke down, clasped me in his arms, and wept over me in the way that is so terrible to see in a strong man.
"My child, my Marguerite's only child! My treasure! And must I lay down thy young life also? Oh, Lord, how long, how long!"
Presently, however, he composed himself, and laying his hand on my head, he most solemnly dedicated me to God and his service, as the most precious thing he had to give. That dedication has never ceased to affect my life, even when I have strayed the farthest.
We returned home slowly, after my father had given me the most minute directions for finding the secret passage, and I had repeated them after him so as to imprint them on my memory, for I dared not write down even the least hint of them lest the paper should fall into the hands of our enemies.
I told my father that I would look into the chapel, and be sure that I understood what he had said.
"No one will think anything of it," I added. "I am always wandering about the place, and I often go to the chapel and sit in the old stalls."
"Very well, child. I trust thy discretion. Only come in before it is dark, lest the poor mother should be needlessly alarmed. And one thing more, my Vevette: let not a hint escape thee to the Sablots; not that I would not trust the father and mother with any secret, but I confess I mistrust Lucille after what you have told us about her."
"You don't think she would betray us?" I asked, startled.
"I cannot tell. If she has indeed been tampered with, she may not be able to help herself. At all events, the fewer people are in a secret the better."
When we returned to the tower I slipped away and entered the old chapel. It was of considerable extent—quite a church, in fact, though I suppose no service had been said there for perhaps a hundred years. The altar of wonderfully carved oak was still in its place, though all its ornaments and images had been removed or destroyed. The altarpiece which was painted on the wall still remained, and though faded and stained was still beautiful.
My father once told me that it had been painted by some great Spanish artist. The Virgin and her Babe were the central figures. She had a sad, grieved expression in her dark eyes, and I had a fancy that she was mourning over the use that had been made of her name. Certainly I think that gentle, lowly woman could hardly be happy in heaven itself if she knew how she was treated here on earth.
The chancel was surrounded by a row of carved niches or stalls with seats in them. I counted them from the left hand side of the altar, and putting my hand under the seat of the fourth I found and slightly pressed the button my father had told me of. It moved in my fingers, but I dared not open it.
"I suppose it was by this secret way that they brought the wife of the white chevalier when they buried her alive in the vault below," I thought.
And then, as a sound behind me made me turn with a thrill, I almost expected to see the poor murdered lady's ghost arise before me.
But it was only one of our numerous family of cats which had chosen this place for her young progeny.
If I had seen the ghost, however, I do not believe I should have blanched: I was too highly wrought up by enthusiasm and the kind of nervous excitement which has always served me in place of courage. I ascended the rickety stairs into the music loft, touched the yellow keys of the useless organ, and leaning over the ledge, tried to think how the place must have looked when it was full of kneeling worshippers. Then, being warned by the deepening shadows of the lateness of the hour, I went into the house to my supper.
[CHAPTER V.]
GUESTS AT THE TOUR.
I SAT in my mother's room that night till it was nearly twelve o'clock, and then, wrapping myself in the long black cloak which is, or was, worn by women of every rank in Normandy, I stole down-stairs and across the courtyard to the ruined chapel.
All was lonely and deserted. The servants had gone to bed hours before; the horses were safe in their stables, and I encountered nobody and nothing but our great English mastiff, Hal, who sniffed at me a little doubtfully at the first, and then stalked solemnly at my side, carrying in his mouth a stick he had picked up—a ceremony which for some unknown reason, he always performed when he wished to do honor to any one. I was not sorry to have his company, for the place was lonesome enough, and I had never in my life been out of doors so late.
The moon, several days past the full, had risen, but was still low in the sky, and only gave light enough to perplex me with mysterious reflections and shadows, which seemed to have no right reason for their existence. Owls whooped dolefully, answering each other from side to side. The sea roared at a distance, and now and then a sudden gust, which did not seem to belong to any wind that was blowing, shook the ivy and sighed through the ruined arches.
And there were other sounds about as I entered the dark chapel—deep sighs, hollow murmurings and whisperings, sudden rushes as of water—no one knew from whence. My father always said that these sounds came from the wind sighing in the deep vaults below the chapel, and perhaps from some subterrane passage which the sea had mined for itself at high tides. But the servants considered them as altogether supernatural, and nothing would make them approach the chapel after nightfall.
I believe I have said there was a door opening from the chapel through the outer wall, but I had never seen it opened in my time. By this door I now took my stand, Hal sitting in solemn wonder at my side, and listened in awful silence, holding in my hand the great key dripping with oil.
It seemed an age to me, though I do not think that more than half an hour passed before I heard a slight noise, and then three low taps thrice repeated on the outside of the door. Hal roused up, growling like a lion, but my upraised finger silenced him. Quickly, and with a firmness of hand which surprised me, I opened the door and saw, not the old man I expected, but a peasant in Norman dress. For a moment my heart stood still, and then I was reassured.
"The name of the Lord is a strong tower!" said the stranger.
"To them that fear him," I added, giving the countersign. "Come in quickly; we must lose no time."
He entered, and I closed the door. Then dismissing old Hal, who was very unwilling to leave me in such dubious company, I led the way to the chancel, by means of the little dark-lantern which I had held under my cloak. I pressed the button with all my strength; the whole of the stall moved aside, and showed a narrow passage in the thickness of the wall.
"Enter, monsieur," said I; and then, giving him the lantern to hold, I pulled back the stall and heard the bolt drop into its place. Then taking the light again and holding it low to the ground, I went on, and the stranger followed. The road was rough, and he stumbled more than once, but still we proceeded till we reached a very narrow and broken stair, which led steeply upward till at last we came to a heavy wooden door.
This I pushed open, and found myself in a somewhat spacious room with some remains of mouldering furniture and hangings. Here had been placed a small bed, a chair, and some food, and on the hearth were the means of lighting a little fire.
"Now we are in safety, monsieur, and can speak a little," said I, with an odd feeling of protection and patronage mingled with the veneration with which I regarded my companion. "Please sit down and rest while I light a fire. We can have one at any time, for this chimney communicates with my father's workshop, where he keeps a fire at all hours."
I busied myself with lighting the fire, and had started a cheerful blaze when I heard a deep sigh behind me, and looking round I was just in time to break the fall of the stranger as he sank on the floor. I was dreadfully frightened, but I did not lose my presence of mind. I loosened his doublet, moistened his forehead and lips with strong waters, and when he began to revive, and not before, I put a spoonful of wine into his mouth, remembering what Grace had said to me once:
"Never try to make an unconscious person swallow. You run the risk of choking him. When he begins to recover, he will swallow by instinct."
At last, when I had begun to think that I must call my mother at all hazards, the stranger opened his eyes and regarded me with fixed and solemn gaze.
"Is it thou, my Angelique?" he murmured. "Hast thou at last come to call thy father away?"
"Please take some more wine," said I, speaking as steadily as I could, but my voice and hand both trembled.
The stranger sighed again, and then seemed to come wholly to himself.
"I see I was bewildered," said he. "I took this demoiselle for my own daughter, who has been in heaven this many a year."
"I am the Demoiselle d'Antin," said I. "My father was obliged to go away, and Mrs. Grace is ill, so he sent me to guide you to a place of safety."
And then I brought the soup which I had warmed on the hearth, and pouring out wine, I begged him to eat and drink.
"And did your father and mother indeed send their only child on so dangerous an errand?" asked the old man. "Sure, now we shall know that they fear God indeed, since they have not withheld their only child from him."
"Please do eat, sir," I urged; "the soup will be cold."
The old man smiled benignly. "Yes, my child, I shall do justice to thy good cheer, never fear. I have neither eaten nor drank for twenty-four hours. But now seek thine own rest, little one. Late hours are not for such as thou."
"I will come hither again to-morrow," said I, when I had arranged the bed to my liking; "but my father bid me say he would not be able to see you before midnight. If any one comes who knows the secret, he will give three knocks, counting ten between. If any one else comes, take refuge in the secret passage, and follow it past the place of entrance till you come to stairs that lead downward to the chapel vaults. These you can descend; but do not walk about, as the ground is uneven, and there are deep rifts in the rocky bottom of the vault. I will leave you the lantern, as the moon shines in on the staircase, and I know the steps well. Good-night, monsieur."
The minister laid his hand on my head and gave me his blessing, and I retreated to my mother's room, which I reached by another long passage in the walls of the gallery.
Now that the excitement was over, I was ready to drop with fatigue and sleepiness, and most thankful I was to be dosed with the hot broth my mother had kept ready for me, and deposited in my own little bed.
Oh, how horribly sleepy I was when I was awaked the next morning. But I knew I ought to be stirring as early as usual to avoid suspicion, and I was soon up and dressed. How many things I did that day! I ran to wait upon Grace and my mother; I mounted to the top of the old tower to gather the wall pellitory for some medicinal purpose or other, and to spread out the fruit which Grace always laid there to dry; and finally I ran down to the great spring below the orchard to bring up a jug of water which Grace's fevered fancy had thought would taste better than any other.
I was coming up the hill with my jug on my head in Norman fashion, and singing:
"Ba-ba-balancez vous done!"
When I met Lucille. She had been crying, and was very pale.
"What is the matter, Lucille?" said I.
"The matter is that I will not endure any more to be so treated," said she passionately. "To be scolded like a child because I stayed out a little after sunset talking to Pierre Le Febre, and to be told that I disturb the peace of the family. No, I will not endure it!"
"But, Lucille, why should you talk with Pierre Le Febre?" I asked. "You know what a wild young fellow he is, and what bad things he has done. I don't wonder your mother does not like it. Oh, Lucille, surely you do not care for him!"
"Of course I do not care for him," said Lucille, more angrily still. "I do not care a rush for him. It is the being lectured and put down and never daring to breathe, that I hate."
"I am sure you have as much liberty as I do," said I. "And as to lectures, I should like to have you hear how Mrs. Grace preaches at me. Besides, I think Mother Jeanne was rightly displeased. I am sure no girl who values her character ought to be seen with Pierre Le Febre. Remember poor Isabeau, Lucille."
"What, you, too!" said Lucille between her closed lips. "Must you, too, take to lecturing me? Ah, well, we shall see!"
We had now reached the point I mentioned before, where the lane crossed the high road to Avranches, and our attention was attracted by the sound of chanting. The priest and his attendants were coming up from the village, evidently carrying the Host to some dying person.
"Quick, Lucille, there is yet time!" said I, and I turned aside into the thick bushes and ascended the rock I had spoken of.
I had reached the top and hidden myself from observation before I discovered that she was not following me. I peeped over and saw her standing just where I had left her.
"Quick, quick, Lucille!" I cried, but she never moved.
The procession came near. To my inexpressible horror, I saw Lucille drop on her knees and remain in that position till the priest came up. He stopped, asked a question or two, and then, as it seemed, bestowing his blessing and giving her something from his pocket, he passed on. It was not till he was out of sight that I dared descend. I found Lucille still standing, apparently lost in thought, and holding in her hand a little gilded crucifix.
"What have you done, Lucille?" I cried. "You have made an act of catholicity!"
"I know it," said she, in that hard, unfeeling tone which is sometimes a sign of the greatest excitement. "I meant to do it! I have had enough of the Religion, as you call it!" and she spoke with a tone of bitter contempt. "I am going to try what holy Mother Church can do for me."
"And leave your father and mother, never to see them again—leave them in their old age, to break their hearts over their child's apostasy—"
"No hard words, if you please, Mademoiselle d'Antin," interrupted Lucille, with a strange smile. "Suppose at my first confession I choose to tell of contempt for the Sacrament, and so on? As to my father and mother, they will not care. Why did they not try to make me happy at home? Why did they love David the best? They have never been kind to me—never!"
"Every word you say is false!" I interrupted in my turn, far too angry for any considerations of prudence. "Your parents have always been good to you—far better than you deserved. Go, then, traitor as thou art—go, and put the crown to your baseness by betraying your friend! Sell yourself to Satan, and then find out too late what his service is worth. May Heaven comfort your poor father and mother!"
And with that I walked away, but so unsteadily that I could no longer balance my jug safely on my head. I stopped to take it in my hands, when I heard my name called, and in a moment, Lucille came up to me.
"Do not let us part so, Vevette," said she. "I was wrong to speak to you as I did. Forgive me, and say good-by. We shall perhaps never meet again."
My heart was melted by these words.
"Oh, Lucille!" I cried, throwing my arms round her. "Do not lose a moment! There is yet time. Hasten to your parents, and tell them what you have done. They will find a way for you to escape."
"And so have my father sent to the galleys for abducting a Catholic child?" said Lucille. "Or perhaps have lighted matches tied to his fingers, or live coals laid on his breast, to force him to confess? No, Vevette, the deed is done, and I am not sorry—no, I am not sorry!" she repeated firmly. "Good-by, Vevette: Kiss me once, though I am an apostate. I shall not infect you. Comfort my mother, if you can."
I embraced her, and took my way homeward, stupefied with grief. I can safely say that if Lucille had been struck dead by a thunderbolt before my eyes, the stroke would not have been more dreadful. My mother met me at the door of Grace's room, whither I went with my burden, hardly knowing more what I was doing than some wounded animal which crawls home to die.
"You are late, petite," said she.
And then, catching sight of my face, she asked me what was the matter, repeating my name and her inquiry in the tenderest tones, as I fell into her kind arms and laid my head on her shoulder, unable to speak a word. Then in a new tone of alarm, as the ever-present danger arose before her:
"Has anything happened to your father, Vevette? Speak, my child!"
"Speak, Mrs. Vevette!" said Grace sharply. "Don't you see you are killing your mother?"
The crisp, imperative tones of command seemed to awaken my stunned powers.
"No, no, not my father," I said, "but Lucille." And then I poured out my story.
"The wretched, unhappy girl! She has sacrificed herself in a fit of ill-temper, and is now lost to her family forever!" said my mother.
"But can nothing be done? Can we not save her, maman?" I asked.
"I fear not," said my mother. "The act was too public and deliberate, and they will not lose sight of her, you may be sure. Poor, deluded, unhappy girl! By one hasty act she has thrown away home, friends, and, I fear, her own soul also."
I burst into a fit of sobbing so hysterical that my mother, alarmed, hastened to put me to bed, and administer some quieting drops, which after a time, put me to sleep. I did not wake till the beams of the rising sun startled me. I opened my eyes with that wretched dull feeling that something dreadful had happened, which we have all experienced. Then, as the truth came to my mind, I dropped my head again on my pillow in a fit of bitter weeping. But my tears did not last long. I remembered our guest in the tower, and that no one had been near him all the day before. I sprang up, dressed myself quickly and quietly, and slipped into my mother's room.
"Is that you, Vevette?" said maman sleepily. "Why are you up so early?"
"I am going to visit the pastor, maman," I answered, softly. "No one has been near him since the night before last, and he must think it very strange. Besides, he will be in need of fresh provisions."
"Go, then, my precious one, but be careful. The keys of the storeroom are there on my table."
The storeroom was the peculiar domain of Mrs. Grace—a kind of shrine where she paid secret devotional rites, which seemed to consist in taking all the things out of the drawers and cupboards and putting them back again. I had never been in it more than once or twice, and it was with a feeling almost of awe that I took the key from the outer lock and shut myself in. What a clean, orderly, sweet-savoring little room it was. The odor of sweet herbs or gingerbread will even now bring the whole place vividly before my mind.
I filled my basket with good things, not forgetting some of Mrs. Grace's English gingerbread and saffron-cakes and a bottle of wine. Then, as a new thought struck me, I took a small brass jar, such as is used for that purpose in Normandy, and stealing out I called my own cow from the herd waiting in the courtyard, and milked my vessel full. Just as I had finished, old Mathew appeared.
"You are early, mademoiselle," said he, smiling. "That is well. Early sunbeams make fresh roses. I know madame will enjoy her morning draught all the more for that it comes from your hands."
"I like to milk," said I; "but I must not stay. Maman will wonder where I am."
I took my basket from its hiding-place and hastened up the stairs to the tower. Before knocking I listened a moment at the door. The old man was up, and already engaged in prayer. I heard the most touching petitions put up for my father and mother and for myself. Surely all the prayers offered for me in my childhood and youth were not thrown away. It was for their sake that I was not left to perish in the wilderness of this world into which I wandered.
When the voice ceased, I made the signal, and the door was opened.
"Ah, my daughter, good-morning," said the old man, with a benignant smile. "I began to fear some evil had befallen you or yours. Has not your father returned?"
"No, monsieur, he said he might possibly not arrive till to-night. I was ill last night, and not able to come to you. I hope you have not been hungry."
And with some housewifely importance, I arranged my provisions on the old table and poured out a tall glass full of the rich, frothy milk.
"This is indeed refreshing," said the old pastor after a long draught; "better than wine to an old man. Milk is for babes, they say; and I suppose as we approach our second childhood we crave it again. I remember, as I lay for four days in a cave by the sea-shore, with nothing to eat but the muscles and limpets, and no drink but the brackish water which dripped from the rocks, I was perpetually haunted by the remembrance of my mother's dairy, with its vessels of brass and red earthenware overflowing with milk and cream. But, my child, you are a bountiful provider. Will you not awaken suspicion?"
"Oh, no, monsieur; I have taken everything from the storeroom, where no one ever goes but maman and Mrs. Grace, her English gentlewoman. I must leave you now, but I will come again to-night."
I found my mother up and dressed. We had only just finished our morning reading when Julienne appeared, with the news that Simon and Jeanne Sablot desired to see madame.
"I fear the good woman has had news of her daughter," observed Julienne. "Her eyes are swollen with weeping."
"Bring them to me at once," said my mother. "Poor Jeanne! There is but One who can comfort her. I suppose Lucille has gone."
It was even so. Lucille had come home and done her share of work, as usual. She had sat up rather late, making and doing up a new cap for her mother. In the morning she did not appear, and Jeanne supposed she had overslept, and did not call her. Becoming alarmed at last, she went to her room, and found it empty. The bed had not been slept in. All Lucille's clothes were gone, but her gold chain and the silver dove worn by the Provençal women of the Religion, which she had inherited from her grandmother, were left behind. It was evident that Jeanne had no suspicion of the truth.
"She has left this writing," said she, producing a note, "though she knew that I could not read it. She has been talking more than once of late with that reprobate Pierre Le Febre. Doubtless she has gone away with him, and we can have no remedy, because he is of our enemies and we are of the Religion. Will madame have the goodness to read the note?"
"My poor Jeanne, the matter is not what you fear, but quite as bad," said my mother, reading the note, her color rising as she did so. "I fear you will never see poor Lucille again."
The note was a short and cold farewell, saying that the writer had become a Catholic, and was about to take refuge with the nuns at the hospital.
"I know I have never been a favorite with you, so I hope you will not be greatly grieved at my loss," was the cruel conclusion. "If I had had a happier home, things might have been different. Do not try to see me. It will only lead to trouble. Farewell."
I will not attempt to describe the anguish of the poor parents as the letter was finished. Simon was for going at once to the hospital to claim his daughter, and my mother with difficulty convinced him that such a step would be fruitless of anything but trouble.
"I would at least know that she is there," said Simon. "It may be that this is but a blind, after all."
"I fear not," said my mother; and she told him of the scene I had witnessed yesterday.
Simon walked up and down the room several times.
"Let her go!" said he at last. "She has been the child of many prayers. It may be those prayers will be heard, so that she will not be utterly lost. Come, my wife, let us return to our desolate home. Madame has cares and troubles enough already."
"May God console you, my poor friends," said my mother. "Do not give up praying for the strayed lamb. It may be that she will be brought home to the fold at last."
I suppose no Protestant here in England in these quiet days can have any idea of the feelings with which such an act as Lucille's was regarded by those of the Religion at that time. It seems even strange to myself, till I bring back by reflection the atmosphere in which we lived. That some should be led, through terror and torture, to deny their faith was to be expected. Many did thus conform, so far as outside appearances went—that is, they went to mass, even to communion, made the sign of the cross, and bowed their heads to the wayside images. These were looked upon with pity by the more steadfast brethren, and always received back into the church, on repentance and confession.
But such a step as this of Lucille's was almost unheard-of, and it produced a great commotion in our little Protestant community. It was not only a forsaking of the faith of her fathers, but a deliberate going over to the side of our treacherous oppressors—of those who made us to serve with cruel and hard bondage, who despoiled and tortured us, and trampled us into the very mire. And there was no remedy. The law declared that girls were able to become "Catholics," such was the phrase of these arrogant oppressors, at twelve years old. Should one do so, she was to be taken from the custody of her parents, who were nevertheless obliged to support her. Later, matters were even worse. Little children of five and six years old, who could be deluded into kissing a wax doll, or looking into a church, or bowing the head to an image, were carried off, never to be heard of again. Often they were kidnapped without any such ceremony.
The very pious Madame de Maintenon (whom some folks make quite a saint of nowadays) availed herself of this infamous law to a great extent, and many of the pupils at her famous school of St. Cyr were of this class. Thus she took both his children from her cousin, the Marquis de Villette, because the poor gentleman would not yield to her arguments, but made fun of them. *
* "Souvenirs de la Marquise de Caylus," quoted by Félise. Any one who thinks Madame de Maintenon a pattern would do well not to read memoirs of her own days.
As my mother had said to Simon Sablot, there was no redress. We of the Religion had no chance of justice, even in a merely civil suit, much more in a case like the present. It was openly said in the courts, when a man complained of an unrighteous judgment, "Ah, well, the remedy is in your hands. Why do you not become Catholic?" All new converts were permitted to put off the payment of their debts for three years, and were exempted from many taxes which fell heavily upon their brethren. In short, we were oppressed and trodden down always.
There were those, however, even of our enemies, who raised their voices against these infamous laws. Certain bishops, especially those inclined to Jansenism, protested against the Protestants being absolutely driven to commit sacrilege, by coming to the mass in an unfit frame of mind. Fénelon afterward wrote a most indignant letter to the king on the subject.
The Bishop of Orleans absolutely refused to allow the quartering of dragoons on his people. More than one kind old curé or parish priest was exiled from the presbytery, where he had spent all his days, and sent to languish in some dreary place among the marshes or in the desolate sands, for omitting to give notice of some heretic who had died without the sacraments, or for warning his poor neighbors of the approach of the dragoons.
The very Franciscans who had charge of some of those dreadful prisons where poor women were shut up, after trying their best to convert their charges, would relent, and, ceasing to persecute them, would comfort them as well as they could by reading the Psalms and praying with them, smuggling in biscuits and fruit and other little dainties in their snuffy old pockets, and even, it was said, introducing now and then a Bible in the same way. *
* See the affecting story of the Tower of Constancy, told in many authors, and well repeated in Bungener's "The Priest and the Huguenot," vol II, a book not half appreciated.
The Franciscans have always been the most humane of all the regular orders. But again I am wandering a long way from my story. However, I shall not apologize for these digressions. They are absolutely needful to make any reader understand what was the state of things in France at that time.
[CHAPTER VI.]
THE LONELY GRANGE.
THAT evening my father came home, bringing with him my English cousin, Andrew Corbet, whom I had never seen, and whom he had been expecting for some days. He had come over in the train of the English ambassador, and therefore was to some extent a sacred person, though the name of Englishman was not at that time considered in Europe as it came to be afterward. Charles the Second was but a subsidized vassal of Louis the Fourteenth, as every one knew.
It remained for the ungracious, silent little Dutchman, who came afterward, to raise England once more to her proper place among the nations. I may as well say here, not to make an unnecessary mystery, that Andrew Corbet was my destined husband, that arrangement having been made when we were both children. Such family arrangements were and are still common in France, where a girl's widest liberty is only a liberty of refusal, and a demoiselle would no more expect to choose her husband, than to choose her parents.
In England there has always been more opportunity for choice—an opportunity which has so greatly increased since I can remember, that it is hard to see where it is going to end. I must say that, though I would never force a young person's inclinations, yet I do think the parents should have something to say as to their children's settlement. However, a person of discretion will find ways of managing such matters and preventing uncomfortable entanglements.
I suppose I was not intended to know of this affair quite so soon, but it came out through Mrs. Grace's fussy anxiety that I should appear well in the eyes of my intended bridegroom; and, being once out, why, there was an end, as my mother said. I was not looking my best, by any means. Fourteen is not usually a beautiful age, and I was no exception to the general rule. I was naturally dark—"a true black Corby," my father said—and inclined to paleness, and my appearance was not at all improved by the dark lines under my eyes, caused by the grief and fatigue of the last few days.
However, this same grief and care had a good effect in one way. They had brought my better nature uppermost for the time, and banished those daydreams, which were my bane, so that I was much less awkward and self-conscious than I should otherwise have been. I was of course curious to see my future bridegroom, but I cannot say that I remember feeling any particular flutter or agitation on the occasion. I was too young for that, and I had had no opportunity to form any other fancy.
In this country, it would have been thought improper if not dangerous for me to associate so freely with a handsome young working-man like David Sablot, but I can safely say that such an idea never entered any one's head. The distinction of rank is very much more severely marked in France than here, and was much more so at that time than now; and besides, David was my foster-brother, and as such no more to be considered in any lover-like light than an own brother would have been.
Andrew's only rival was a certain Lord Percy, a creature of my own imagination, who figured largely in that visionary world which I inhabited at times—an impossible creature, compounded of King Arthur, Sir Galahad, and some of the fine gentlemen I had come across in my stolen readings—who was to rescue me from unheard-of dangers, and endure unheard-of hardships in my behalf, though I never quite made up my mind whether he was to die at my feet or carry me off in triumph to his ancestral halls.
Andrew, certainly, was not the least like this hero of mine. He was handsome in a certain way, but that way was not mine. He was short, for one thing, and broad-shouldered, with a large nose, large gray eyes with dilating pupils, so that his eyes usually passed for black; and his hair and beard were so black as to be almost blue, and crisped like my own.
No, he was not at all like Lord Percy; but, after all, I liked his looks. Andrew had been about the world a good deal for a man of his years, having been on two or three long sea-voyages, and he was by no means as awkward as young men of that age are apt to be.
He saluted my mother and myself with considerable grace, I thought, and made himself at home in our house, with just enough and not too much freedom. On the whole I liked him very well. Oh, how I longed to tell Lucille about him; and I shed some bitter tears at the thought that I should never confide in her again.
My father's first inquiry, after he was assured of our health and safety, was for the pastor, and he praised the courage and presence of mind I had shown.
"We must not keep the old man here," he said. "The tide will be favorable for his escape by the day after to-morrow, and an English ship will be waiting for him off the shore. But first I would fain have one more celebration of the Holy Supper with some of our poor friends. Heaven knows when we shall have another chance. But what is this I hear about the Sablots?"
My mother repeated the story. My father listened with the greatest interest, and when it was finished, turning to me he asked, with anxiety, whether I were quite sure I had not been seen by the priest.
"Quite sure," said I. "I was hidden on the top of the rock, but I saw it all."
My father sighed. "The net is drawn closer and closer," said he. "Ah, my Marguerite, were you and the little one but in safety!"
"But I do not understand," said Andrew, speaking almost for the first time. "I see that this girl has become a Papist; but need that separate her entirely from her family? It would be a grief to them, of course; but could they not go their way, and let her go hers? Surely, they might at least give the poor thing a home."
"You do not understand, indeed, my poor Andrew," said my father, smiling sadly.
And he explained the matter in a few choice words. Andrew's brow darkened, and he struck his hand on the table.
"And there are thousands upon thousands of you Protestants in France, able men, and many of you gentlemen used to arms, and yet you suffer such tyranny!" said he. "Why do you not rise upon your oppressors, and at least have a fight for your lives?"
"Hush, hush, my son," said my father. "Would you have us rise in rebellion against our king—the Lord's anointed!"
"The king is a man like another man, when all is done," said my cousin sturdily; "and has a joint in his neck, as the old Scotchman said. I have been in America, my cousin, where our colonies are growing, and where they seem to do fairly well at a pretty good distance from any king. As to such a man as this Louis being the Lord's anointed, any one may believe that who likes. I don't; or, if he is, he is such an one as Saul or Rehoboam."
"Some of our people talk as you do," said my father, while I looked at my cousin's firm lips and sparkling eyes with great approval; "but we are too much divided among ourselves on the subject to make any plan of resistance possible."
"Then I would flee to some better place," said Andrew. "Come over to Cornwall and set up your tent. There is a fine estate to be bought, not far from Tre Madoc. Some of the lands have mines upon them, which my father believes could be worked to advantage, and you could give employment to many of your oppressed countrymen. Why not go thither at once?"
"And leave my poor people?"
"The people are not in so much danger as you are," answered Andrew. "It is the high tree that falls in the storm. Think of my aunt and cousin here, condemned to such things as you have told me of, or left desolate by your loss. Surely you should consider them as well as your tenants."
Andrew spoke with great warmth, yet with due modesty, and I liked him better and better every moment. My mother and I both looked at my father.
"Here are two pairs of eyes pleading with you," said my father. "I must say that your plan is a most tempting one, if it could be carried out, and we are in a better position to make such an escape than many others, being so near the sea, and having a good deal of wealth laid by in jewels against a day of need. But, my son, let me most earnestly impress upon your mind the great need of caution in speech even among ourselves. Though all of our household are faithful, so far as I know, yet they are always liable to be tampered with, and we are never safe from spies and eavesdroppers. Such a speech as yours about the king, if reported, would be our utter ruin. Let me beg you, for all our sakes, to be careful."
I saw Andrew clinch his hand and set his teeth hard at the idea of such care being needful; and indeed it was a new care for him. Times were not very good in England just then, but they were far better than with us.
We separated, to prepare for supper. I dressed myself in my very best, to do honor to my cousin's arrival, though I was quite conscious, when I looked into my little mirror, that I did not look nearly so well in my fine damask gown and lace cap as I did in the gray-blue homespun which was my ordinary morning wear. Grace would sit up in bed to arrange my cap and lace my stays herself, and she drew them so tight. I could hardly breathe.
The next morning I was sent down to Father Simon's cottage with a weighty message—no less important than this: that there would be a celebration of the Holy Supper, as we always called it, that very night, in the vaults under the lonely grange, which stood in a hollow of our domain. Simon was to send word to certain of the faithful at Sartilly and Granville.
Andrew, who had already as it were taken possession of me, would go with me, and though Mrs. Grace demurred at such a freedom, he had his way. He always has had a great knack of getting his own way, partly, I think, because he goes on that way so quietly, without ever contradicting any one.
I did not go by the lane this time, but through the orchard, over the heathy knoll, where my father and myself had had such an important conversation, and down the little ravine which the stream had made in its passage to the sea.
It was a somewhat scrambling walk, and I liked it all the better for that. My ostensible errand was a search for fresh eggs, so I carried my little straw basket on my arm. I had a password in which to communicate my errand, and, meeting one of the old men who was to be summoned, I used it.
"Jean Martin, my father bids me ask you if the old grange will do to store the apples in?"
The old man's face lighted up, and he took off his hat.
"When should they be stored, mademoiselle?" he asked.
"To-morrow at high noon," was the answer.
"It is as safe a place as any. Thank your honored father and yourself. I will be there."
"What does that mean?" asked Andrew, as we went on. "Why should that old fellow be so wonderfully pleased at being asked about a place to store the apples?"
"Hush!" said I, speaking English, which I now did quite perfectly. "You must learn not to talk so loud."
"I am like to lose the use of my tongue altogether, if I stay long in this country," said he discontentedly. "Well, cousin, I will squeak like a rere-mouse, if that will content you. But what does it mean?"
I explained the matter, taking care to speak in English, and in a low tone.
"So that was it," said he, in a tone of wonder mixed with compassion. "And will the old man really leave his bed at midnight, and risk not only the rheumatism but his life, on such an errand as that?"
"Yes, indeed, and his wife also, though she is very infirm," said I. "We of the Religion are used to such risks."
"I wonder what one of the farmers in our parish at Tre Madoc would say to such an invitation?" was Andrew's comment. "But what if you should be discovered?"
"Then we should be shot down like wolves, or carried away no one knows where. Such things happen every day."
"And in our free country, where every one can worship, the pastor has often hard work to gather a dozen people to the communion," remarked Andrew. "Truly, if Papist France deserves a judgment for suppressing the truth, I know not but England deserves as much for neglecting it."
"Are people there, then, so careless of duties?" I asked.
"Many of them are. The court sets the worst example, and those of the gentry who frequent it are not slow to follow. And though there are in London itself and scattered all through the land faithful and earnest preachers of the Word, there are also far too many who think of the church only as a means of getting a living at a very easy rate. And yet I dare say a great many of these easy-going pastors, if it came to the pinch, would wake up and show that they could die for their faith, if need were. Only they would not die as easily as people seem to do over here," he added. "They would have a fight for it first."
"Our pastors do not think it right to fight," said I, a little vexed.
"I know they do not, and there is where I differ from them," said he. "Is this the farm where we are going? What an odd, pretty place! And what splendid old apple-trees!"
"Yes, Father Simon is very proud of his apples, poor man. The place does not look like itself," I added, with a sigh, as I missed Lucille from the bench before the door, where she would have been sitting with her distaff at this hour. We found Mother Jeanne going about her household work as usual, but in a sad, spiritless way, quite unlike her ordinary bustling fashion. Her face brightened, however, when she heard my errand, and she called in Simon to hear it also. To him I gave, in addition to the questions about storing the apples, a commission about cider-casks, to be executed at Sartilly.
"It is well," said he; "I shall attend to the matter. Our Master has not quite forgotten us, thou seest, my Jeanne, since he sends us such help and comfort by the way."
"Did you think he had, Father Simon?" I asked.
"Not so, Mamselle, but one's faith droops at times; and when one is weary and faint with the heat of the day, it is a wonderful comfort to come on a clear well of living water. Tell your honored father that I will attend to the matter."
"And about the eggs?" I asked.
"I have a few for madame, and Marie Duclas has some, I know."
"Who is this fine chevalier, my child?" asked Jeanne, as I followed her to the well-known outhouse where the hens' nests were. "Is he one of your English cousins?"
It was with some pride that I informed my foster-mother of Andrew's relation to myself. Jeanne was much affected. She clasped me in her arms and wept over me, calling me by every endearing name in her vocabulary, now lamenting that I should go so far-away, and then rejoicing that I should be in safety.
"But, ah, my lamb, my precious one, do not set thy heart too strongly upon thy young bridegroom. Remember what times of shaking and separation these are, when the desire of one's eyes may be taken away with a stroke at any time. Ah, my poor daughter—my Lucille, my youngest lamb! Tell me, my Vevette, dost thou think I was ever unjust or unkind to her?"
"No, indeed!" I answered, with honest indignation, for my heart burned within me every time I thought of Lucille's cruel note of farewell. "Nobody ever had a better home or kinder friends. I imagine she will find out before many days what she has lost."
"I fear she will not be happy," said Jeanne, wiping her eyes. "I had lost so many before she came, and she was so delicate in her childhood, that I was always more careful of her than of David, who never gave me an hour's anxiety since he was born, except on that unlucky day when he went to see the procession."
"I do not believe poor Lucille will be very happy anywhere—not unless she changes her disposition," said I. "It seems to me that a jealous person will always find something to torment him. But though I knew she was discontented, I never could have believed she would take such a step. Poor Lucille!"
"It is some comfort to speak of her," said Jeanne. "The father never mentions her name except in prayer. He feels the disgrace most deeply. I must tell you, my child, that that poor reprobate Pierre Le Febre came here yesterday, and most earnestly disclaimed having any hand in or knowledge of Lucille's decision. He confessed that he loved her, and would gladly have married her, and then he broke down and wept, saying that he should have felt her death less. He had been a bad man, but he had some human feeling left. Simon led him into the orchard and had a long talk with him, and this morning they met, and Pierre told him that he had gone with poor Isabeau before the priest and made her his wife. So some good has come out of the evil."
By this time Jeanne had set out some refreshment for us, of which we partook, not to seem ungracious. Andrew had been over the farm with Father Simon, and though his French was not the most fluent in the world, and Simon's was deeply flavored with patois, they seemed to get on together very well. I think two such manly, honest hearts could not fail to understand each other, though they had not a word in common.
Andrew could not say enough in praise of the grand Norman horses and the beautiful little cows, but he turned up his nose at the buckwheat, and thought that a great deal more might be made of the land. We visited Lebrun's and one other farm, where we were received with the same welcome. Everywhere we heard comments on poor Lucille's conduct.
"The poor Jeanne was too easy with her. She indulged her far too much," said Marie Lebrun. "She took all the hardest and most unpleasant work on herself, to spare Lucille, and leave her time for her needlework and her fine spinning. If she had had to work as hard as my girls, she would not have had so much time to indulge her foolish fancies."
"Ah, Marie, it is easy to condemn," remarked her sister Marthe, who had never married, and was held in great respect among us for her piety and good works. "If Jeanne had taken the opposite course, people would have said it was because the child was so oppressed that she left her father's house. It is easy to say what might have been. A parent may do her best, and yet the child may go wrong."
"I am not so sure of that," said Marie, with some complacency. "'Train up a child in the way he should go,' you know."
"'My beloved had a vineyard in a very fruitful hill,'" quoted Marthe; "'and he fenced it, and gathered out the stones thereof, and planted it with the choicest vine, and built a tower in the midst thereof, and also made a wine-press therein; and he looked that it should bring forth grapes, and it brought forth wild grapes.' If the great Lord of the vineyard met with such a disappointment, shall we blame the under-gardeners when the vintage does not answer our expectations?"
"Ah, my Marie, after all, that others can do for us; we must each build our lives for ourselves. We cannot cast off the responsibility on any one else."
I have many a time thought of these words of the good Marthe, when I have heard parents blamed for the faults of their grown-up children. Poor Marthe! She was one of the victims of the times, and died in prison.
As we walked homeward, Andrew and I fell into conversation about our future prospects. He told me of his house at Tre Madoc, which was, however, his mother's as long as she lived; of the increased wealth which had come to them from the working of a mine on his estate; and described to me the old house and its surroundings till I could almost see it.
Then he asked me frankly, in his sailor fashion, whether I liked him, and whether I thought I could be happy with him; to which I answered, with equal frankness:
"I do not see why I should not, cousin—that is, if your mother will be kind to me."
"You need not fear that," answered Andrew. "She is kindness itself, and my sisters are good merry girls. But about myself."
"I like you very much," I answered, with true Norman bluntness, "and I am glad you came here. I wish you were going to stay. It is as nice as having an own brother."
To my surprise Andrew did not seem at all pleased with this remark of mine. He colored, muttered something between his teeth about brothers which did not sound very complimentary, and was rather silent during the rest of our walk.
Afterward, from something I caught, I fancy he had been speaking of the matter to my mother, for I heard her say:
"You are too precipitate, my son. Think how young the child is, and how carefully she has been brought up. You must trust to time and your own merits for the growth of a warmer feeling."
Andrew has since told me that he loved me from the very first time he heard me speak. How long and steadfastly that love endured, through evil and good report, hoping against hope, triumphing over danger and distance, it must be mine to tell, though the story is not much to mine own credit.
That night about eleven o'clock, after all the younger servants had gone to bed, my mother and myself, with the pastor, wrapped in our long black cloaks, stole forth in the darkness. My father and Andrew had gone away on horseback early in the afternoon, ostensibly to Avranches, but we knew we should find them waiting for us at the appointed place.
We dared not take a lantern lest it should betray us, but found our way, by the stars and the cold diffused light of an aurora, to the little rocky dell in the midst of the fields where stood the lonely grange. It was a great rambling stone building, very old, but strong still. Nobody knew when or for what purpose it had been first erected, but my father believed it to be of great antiquity. It was not much used at present, save for a storehouse for grain and cider, but the old Luchons lived in two tolerably comfortable rooms on the ground floor of the old tower.
The walk had been long and rough for us all, and especially for my mother, and we were not sorry to see the tower standing dark against the sky, and to meet the challenge of our outposts; for at all our meetings we had our sentinels and our pass-words.
My father and Andrew were on the lookout for us, and Andrew nearly crushed my hand off in the fervor of his joy at finding me safe.
We passed though the old Luchons' kitchen into the great room or hall which occupied the center of the building, and which was crowded with empty casks and sheaves of grain. Threading our way amid these obstructions, which would have appeared impenetrable to any one not in the secret, we descended a flight of stairs to the vault, where most of our brethren were assembled. A rude platform was built up at one end, before which stood a small table covered with a white cloth. The congregation consisted of several of the neighboring farmers and some of the poorer laborers with their wives, and now and then a grown-up son or daughter, and a few tradespeople and fishermen from Granville, who had run a double danger to break the bread of life once more.
The only gentry beside ourselves were the Le Roys, from near Sartilly, who had brought their child for baptism. Not one of the family is alive now. Of that little company, more than half witnessed for their faith on the scaffold or under the muskets of their enemies. I suppose so many of the Religion could not now be gathered in all Normandy.
It was touching to see the joy of the poor people at having a pastor once more. Many of them had seen Monsieur Bertheau before. These crowded round him, and happy was the man or woman who could obtain a grasp of his hand or a word from his lips. But there was little time to be spent in friendly greetings. The congregation took their places, and the service began.
When I shut my eyes, how vividly the whole scene comes before me—the rough vault, but dimly lighted by a few wax torches; the earnest, calm face and silver hair of the pastor; the solemn, attentive congregation, the old people occupying the front rank, that their dull ears might not lose a word; Monsieur and Madame Le Roy, with their beautiful babe wrapped in a white cashmere shawl. I can smell the scent of the apples and the hay mingled with the earthy, mouldy smell of the vault, and hear the melodious voice, trembling a little with age, as the old man read:
"I will not leave you comfortless: I will come to you."
"If the world hate you, ye know that it hated me before it hated you."
I think no one can fully understand these words who has not heard them under circumstances of danger, or at least of sorrow. Andrew was deeply affected by them; and when the little lily-white babe was brought forward for baptism, he put down his head and almost sobbed aloud. My father had been somewhat unwilling to have him run the risk of attending the meeting, but he had insisted, and he told me afterward, and has often told me since, that he would not have missed it for anything.
I know that the service was greatly blessed to my own heart, and for a long time afterward, I was quite a different creature—I may say, indeed, for all my life, since, though for a time choked by the thorns of this world, the seed sown that night always remained, and at last, as I hope, has borne some fruit to the sower.
Our meeting was not to pass off without an alarm. The pastor had just finished distributing the bread and wine when one of the lookouts came down to say that he had heard a distant sound like the galloping of horses, which drew nearer every moment. All were at once on the alert. The lights were extinguished below, and also in the kitchen above. Another great cellar opened from the one we were in, and here, since there was no time to get away, we hid ourselves, waiting in breathless suspense, but calm and collected, for whatever might be coming. The very youngest children never uttered a cry or whimper, and the only sound heard was a whispered prayer or encouragement passed from one to another.
But oh how welcome was the voice which announced that the alarm was a false one! A herd of young horses had broken from their pasture and rushed abroad over the fields, scared, perhaps, by some stray wolf. It was thought best to break up our gathering at once, and exchanging short but earnest farewells, we all reached our homes in safety. Several of the old people, worn-out by the fatigue and agitation, died within a short time, and the sweet babe only survived its baptism for a few weeks. Happy child to be taken in its innocence from the evil to come.
The next night the pastor left us. He went out in a fishing-boat, hoping to meet an English ship which was expected off the coast, but the ship was detained by contrary winds. A sudden storm came up, and the boat was capsized. With him were two sailors, sons of a widow in the little village from which he embarked. One perished; the other was picked up and carried to Jersey, where he lay long ill of a fever. But he recovered at last, and it was from him we heard the story.
[CHAPTER VII.]
A SUDDEN SUMMONS.
FOR about a fortnight or more after the departure of the pastor we had a very quiet, pleasant time. The weather was lovely, and we made long excursions out of doors. We gathered apples and quinces, and hunted for herbs and flowers, for Andrew was a good deal of an herbalist (a botanist, I think they call it now, though I am sure herbalist is the prettier word), and he was in correspondence with some learned gentleman in London on the subject of plants. He told me many things about flowers that I had never known or dreamed of before, showing me the several parts of the blossom, the leaves, and roots, by means of a pocket magnifying-glass which he always carried about him.
He read to my mother and myself as we sat at our embroidery or spinning, and he held endless gossips with my mother about old families in Cornwall and Devonshire, and people and places she used to know. I listened with great interest to these tales, for I had begun now to look upon Tre Madoc as my future home, and any detail concerning it was of interest to me. I was growing more and more fond of my cousin all the time, and the image of Lord Percy had quite ceased to haunt my imagination.
I do not think that I ever spent two happier weeks in all my life. For one thing, I was at peace with myself. The events of the last month had aroused my conscience and wakened the religious principles implanted by education to new life. I laid aside the dreams of worldly pleasure and ambition, which usually occupied so much of my time, and kept my conscience in a state of chronic discomfort, and I really did begin to experience some of those higher and holier joys of which poor Lucille had spoken in that memorable conference of ours. True, we were still under the power of our enemies—still in danger at any time of losing liberty and life. But one becomes used to danger as to everything else, and somehow to me the presence of my cousin seemed a protection, though if I had been asked why, I could not have told for my life.
Andrew was very earnest with my parents to consent to our being married immediately. He said, and with some show of reason, that he should then have the right to protect me, whatever happened, and that the fact of my father's daughter having married a British subject might be some advantage to him. This, however, my father doubted. He had no idea that the English government would quarrel with Louis on any such frivolous pretext.
Both he and my mother were opposed to such early marriages, though they were common enough at the time. And moreover, they wished to learn a little more about Andrew before giving their only child wholly into his hands. So the matter was postponed for an indefinite time.
Of course I should have acquiesced in any arrangement made by my honored parents, and I do not think I should have found any difficulty in doing so, for, as I have said, I liked Andrew better and better every day. But my heart had not awaked to love in its highest sense. I looked upon Andrew as a big brother, very nice to play with, and to order about, but that was all. I had, besides, very high though very indefinite notions of the duties and responsibilities of a married woman, and dreaded assuming them, all the more because my mind was more awakened to a sense of duty than it had ever been before. On the whole I very much preferred to let matters remain as they were.
The feast of St. Michael occurred during Andrew's stay, and it was to be celebrated with more pomp than usual. The new curé was very zealous in beating up for pilgrims to the shrine, and, as we heard, preached more than one sermon on the subject. We had had a bad harvest that year of everything but apples, and the fishing had been unusually unsuccessful. This the curé attributed to the anger of our great patron, St. Michael, because his feast day had been neglected of late, owing—so he said, though I don't think it was true—to the influence of the heretics who were allowed to defile the holy soil of La Manche with their presence; and he threatened the people with still severer judgments unless the great archangel were appeased by a grand pilgrimage, and by the purification of the holy soil before mentioned.
"St. Michael must have been rather astonished at the acts attributed to him, if he happened to be anywhere in the neighborhood," said Andrew; but my father shook his head.
"It is no laughing matter," said he. "We have lived in great peace with our Roman Catholic neighbors, under the rule of the last curé, who was a kindhearted old man, much fonder of his garden and orchard than of his breviary; but this new priest is of a different type. He is doing his best to arouse the fanaticism of the peasants, and especially of the lower and more debased class. I do not believe he would hesitate to hold out, as an inducement, the plunder of the tower."
"Would he dare do that?" asked Andrew.
"It has been done in a hundred instances," answered my father. "It is no lower motive than that of relieving a man of the payment of his honest debts, on condition of his returning to the bosom of the church, and that has been done by a public edict."
"And this is the king who must not be resisted, because, forsooth, he is the Lord's anointed!" said Andrew, with that peculiar flash of his gray eye, like sunlight reflected from bright armor, that I had learned to know so well.
"The king is governed by his counsellors," said my father.
"As to that," answered Andrew, "he does not seem to be very much governed by his counsellors in the matter of his building and gambling expenses, and—some other things," catching a warning glance from my mother. "I thought he made a boast that he was the state. As to his being deceived, why does he not find out for himself? Things are no better in Paris than here. How can he be ignorant of what happens under his very nose?"
"Very easily, my son. A good many things happen under the very nose of His Majesty King Charles of England which do not seem to make much impression on his mind," said my father, a little testily. He had his full share of that unreasoning loyalty—unreasonable, too, as I think—which possessed all France, Protestant and Catholic, at that time. "We have all heard how the king was engaged the night that the Dutch sailed up the river. You cannot propose him as a model, nephew!"
"I never said he was," answered Andrew dryly, and then the conversation stopped.
The next morning I went out very early into the lane to look for a pair of scissors which I had dropped the day before, when I was joined by my cousin.
"Vevette," said he, "is there no place from which we can view this procession in safety? I have a great curiosity about it."
"Oh, yes, we can do so from the top of the rock at the end of our lane, if you like," I answered. "But we must make haste thither, for they will soon be on their way."
I was all the more ready for the adventure as I hoped to obtain a glimpse of Lucille.
We were soon safely hidden among the tall bushes and wild vines which covered the top of the rock, but not too soon, for we were hardly settled before the head of the procession appeared in sight. It had been joined by pilgrims from all parts of Normandy, and looked like a little army. The cross-bearer came first, as usual, then a company of priests, loudly chanting as they walked, then banners without number, and I know not what devices besides of images and angels and what not. Then came a company of women, headed by the nuns from the hospital, each leading by the hand one of the new converts, as they were called, in bitter derision.
The poor little Luchon was there, pale and thin as a shadow. Her wasted hand held a rosary like the rest, but it drooped listlessly by her side. Either the sad-faced nun who led her by the other hand did not think it worth while to have a public contest with her, or she had tried and failed, for she did not interfere with the child, and, I even fancied, looked at her with an eye of pity.
Lucille was one of the last. I saw in a moment that she was at least no happier than she had been at home, for the dark shade was on her face which I knew so well. However, she was telling her beads as diligently as the best of them. As she passed the foot of the rock she looked up. I had ventured a little nearer the edge than was quite prudent, and our eyes met for a moment. She made me a warning sign, and then a bitter smile curled her lips, and she pressed to them with fervor the crucifix attached to her rosary. Her companion looked up also, but saw nothing, as I had shrunk back from my dangerous position. That was the last time I saw my old playmate for many a long day, though I heard from her once or twice, as I have reason to remember.
There were more banners and more pilgrims, but I saw none of them. I had retreated to the back of the cliff and thrown myself down on the moss in a fit of bitter weeping. I had loved Lucille dearly, despite our many quarrels, and I believe she loved me as much as her self-absorbed nature would let her love any one. Hers was an asking love, always thinking more of what it was to get than of what it had to give.
Andrew was so absorbed in the spectacle that he did not miss me till all were past, and when he came to find me, he was frightened at my agitation. It was some time before I could even be got to move or speak. Andrew brought me water in a little drinking-cup he always carried, fanned me, and soothed me with the greatest tenderness, and at last I was able to tell him the story.
"Then that was the girl who looked up," said he. "I thought there was something peculiar about her. She does not look very happy with her new friends. I wonder what they will do with her?"
"Make a nun of her, if they can squeeze her dowry out of Father Simon, or perhaps marry her up to some one," I answered. "Julienne's sister says the Le Febres are very angry with Pierre for marrying his old sweetheart Isabeau, when he might have waited and taken Lucille and her farm."
"But the farm is her father's, and will descend to her brother, won't it?" asked Andrew in surprise. "Did you not tell me she had a brother who was expected home?"
"Yes, my foster-brother, David. You will like him, I am sure. But he is of the Religion, like his father, and if Lucille should marry a Catholic, * the law would find some way of handing the farm over to him, though David is honest and industrious, and Pierre is a bit of a reprobate. I hope David will come; I should like you to see him."
* I do not like to use Catholic in this sense, but we were in a manner forced to it at that time.—G. C.
"Pierre may be a bit of a reprobate, but he is a good bit of a man as well," said Andrew. "I saw him give that great hulking Antoine Michaud a blow that knocked him flat because he insulted that poor old woman whose grandchildren were taken away from her."
(I forgot to mention that poor old Gran'mère Luchon had been allowed to return to her cottage, being, I suppose, too small game to be worth the bagging, or perhaps with the hope of catching some one else by her means.)
"He knows how to sail a boat, too," continued Andrew. "I went out with him yesterday, and I never saw a boat better handled, though it is a horrid old tub, too. Such a fellow ought to be a soldier or sailor. Many a man has made a good record on shipboard who would never do anything for himself."
"I hope he will be good to poor Isabeau," said I. "But come, Andrew, we must go home."
We had been sitting all this time on the top of the rock, in the very place where Lucille had cleared a spot for her spindle. As we rose, we both cast a glance over the landscape.
"There is going to be a storm," said I. "See how the sea-birds are all flying to shore, and how the fog is beginning to creep in from the sea. I am glad I am not going to cross the Grèves this day. Some one is sure to go astray and be lost."
"Drowned by the tide?" asked Andrew.
"Yes, or more likely sucked under by the quicksands, which extend themselves very much at times. There is hardly ever a great pilgrimage but some one is lost. Come, we must be going. My mother will wonder where we are."
The storm I had predicted came on later in the day, just in time to catch many of the returning pilgrims, and several were drowned, among them, as we heard, the poor little Luchon and the nun who had her in charge.
"One cannot be sorry for the child," remarked my father when he heard the news. "She has escaped a great deal."
"Nor for her companion either, if there be any truth in looks," said Andrew. "I never saw a sadder, more hopeless face. Did you not notice it, Vevette?"
"I did," I answered. "I noticed, too, that she looked compassionately on the poor child, and did not try to force her to tell her beads, like some of the others."
"This storm is an unlucky thing for us," said my mother. "I can see well how it will be used to excite the people more and more against us. Armand, when shall we leave this place, and put our children and ourselves in safety?"
"As soon as Mrs. Grace is able to travel," answered my father. "We could not leave her behind, or take her with us at present. I trust another month will see us in England. I would not leave my people so long as my presence was any protection to them, but I think, as things are now, they would be better without me."
"Could not your brother in Paris secure you a protection from the king?" asked Andrew. "He seems to be a great courtier, and greatly in favor."
"So great a courtier that he would not risk a frown from the king to save my whole family from destruction," answered my father dryly.
"No, there is nothing to hope and everything to fear from attracting the notice of any one about the king. I have looked the matter all over, and tried to gain every light on the subject that I was able," continued my father gravely; "I have also asked counsel of such of our pastors as I have been able to meet with, and my mind is made up. So soon as Grace is able to travel we must endeavor to escape. So, my wife and daughter, you must pack up your valuables and necessaries in the smallest possible compass, and keep the bundles where you can lay your hands upon them at any moment."
"But mind, the necessaries must be reduced to the lowest point," he added, with that sorrowful smile I had learned to know so well. "Vevette cannot carry her story books nor her carved wheel, nor madame her rose-bushes or her poultry, or Mrs. Grace her precious marmalade. A very few clothes and the jewels and a little money are all we can take with us."
These words fell coldly upon my ear and heart. I was familiar enough with the idea of flight, but I had not realized that flight meant leaving behind all my most cherished possessions—my beloved books, my lute, my pet cows, all that I treasured most. I went up to my pretty little room, and, sitting down, I wept as if my heart would break for a while. Then I knelt down and prayed, with all sincerity and earnestness, that I might have grace cheerfully to abandon all I had, yea and mine own life also, if need be, for the kingdom of heaven's sake.
And after a while, feeling comforted and strengthened, I arose and began looking over my possessions, to see what should be taken and what left. I do not think that in this I was foolish or even childish. It is not seldom that very little things bring home to us the bitterness of grief. I have seen a lady who was perfectly cool, collected, and sweet-tempered through all the dangers of a terrible storm and shipwreck and the miseries of dreadful sea-sickness, protracted for weeks, break down in an agony of grief because the little dog she had brought from France was swept overboard from the wreck an which she might herself go down at any moment.
But poor Mrs. Grace was destined to take a longer journey than that we proposed, and to find a refuge where neither danger nor home-sickness can enter—where the wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at rest. She had been for several weeks confined to her bed.
One day my father and mother, Andrew and myself set out for a long walk over the domain. It was rather a silent and sorrowful expedition, for, though no one said so, we all felt that it might be a last farewell. We called at Simon Sablot's farm, and any father confided to Simon certain weighty deposits and an important secret concerning his own affairs, and told him where certain valuable packages would be found in case he should be obliged to send for them.
I should say that for several nights my father and Andrew had been busily occupied in conveying to places of safety so much of our stock of plate as could be removed without suspicion. This was the more easy because we used very little silver every day, the rest being secured in a strong closet which opened from my father's room. We went through the orchards and the little vineyard, visited the old people at the lonely grange, walked through the chestnut wood and filled our pockets with the nuts, which were just ripening and falling.*
* The fine chestnut-tree at the south end of the house is from one of these nuts. I trust no one will over cut it down.—G. C.
"There is a fine harvest of chestnuts at least," said my mother, sighing. "I hope some one will be the better for them."
My father pressed the hand that lay on his arm, but he could not trust himself to speak. The moment was an unspeakably bitter one to him. He had taken great pains with his estate, and had laid out much money in improvements, not only for his own profit but still more for the good of his tenants. Every field and tree and vine, yea, every bush and stone, was dear to his heart, and though he did not hesitate—no, not for a moment, when he had to choose between these things and the kingdom of heaven—yet he could not but feel the wrench when he had to tear himself away from them. I sometimes fear, in these days when the church and the world are so mixed together that it is rather hard to see any division line between them, that people will utterly lose the meaning of such places of Scripture as the tenth chapter of St. Matthew.
We had not reached the tower when Julienne came running to meet us, her face as pale as her cap.
"Thank Heaven, you are come, madame!" said she breathlessly. "I have sent everywhere for you. Mamselle Grace has had a swoon, and we cannot bring her to herself."
"A swoon? How was that?" asked my mother, as we all quickened our steps. "I thought she was feeling very well this morning."
"She was, madame; but you were no sooner out of the house than she would make me help her up and dress her, and she has been up ever since. She would even walk into your room, leaning on my arm, and sat there while I dusted the furniture, though I had dusted it all not more than an hour before," said Julienne, in an aggrieved voice. "Then she would have her work-basket and darn a cambric ruffle of monsieur's, and all I could say she would not lie down. I assure madame that I did my best to persuade her."
"I doubt it not, my good Julienne; but what then?"
"Then, just as the bell rang for noon, she said she felt tired, and would lie down. I called Marie and Annette, for I saw she looked dreadfully ill; but we had not got her on the bed before she fainted, and we cannot get a sign of life from her any more than if she were dead. So I sent for madame."
We had reached the tower by that time, and any mother run up-stairs to Mrs. Grace's room, closely followed by myself. Though I had never, to my knowledge, seen death before, I knew, the moment I set eyes upon Grace, what had happened. People talk of death and sleep being alike, but I can never see the resemblance. We tried a long time and in every way to bring back animation, but it was of no use, and we soon came to perceive that our good faithful friend had left us forever.
I cannot describe my mother's grief on the occasion. Grace had been her own personal attendant ever since she could remember. She had been taken into my grandmother's nursery a little maid of nine years old, and had been specially assigned to my mother. She had followed her mistress to a strange land, had been with her through all her ill-health and the loss of her many children, had been nurse, friend, companion, and servant, all in one. I loved Grace dearly, lamented her deeply; but the event was not to me what it was to my mother.
However, she was gone, and there was an end. The servants wept, too, as they prepared her body for the grave. They forgot all the scoldings she had given them, and only remembered how she had nursed them in sickness, and the numberless kindnesses she had shown them and their friends at home.
"I was vexed enough at her this morning," sobbed Julienne, who, as a bit of a slattern, and especially as being guilty of the crowning enormity of having a sweetheart, most frequently fell under the displeasure of Mrs. Grace; "but I am sure I would dust all the furniture of the house thrice over if it would do her any good."
"And what will madame do without her?" asked Marie. "Nobody can know her ways like Mamselle Grace, though there are perhaps others who can govern the household as well, or even better. I always thought she was very wasteful of sugar and honey in preserving the fruits."
"Yes, you would like them as sour as last year's cider," retorted Julienne. "Mamselle Grace was not a skinflint, whatever else she was."
"What will you do about the funeral?" asked Andrew of my father. "Shall you send to Granville or Avranches for an undertaker?"
"No indeed!" answered my father. "I have given special orders to the servants not to say a word about poor Grace's death. It would be sure to bring down upon us a visitation. Mathew is making her a coffin now, and we must place the body in the vault beneath the chapel, as soon as may be—this very night, if possible. There she may perhaps rest in peace. I would not, if I could help it, have my poor old friend's body thrown out into a ditch like a dead dog."
"They would not dare to do it," said Andrew, aghast.
"They would be sure to do it," was my father's answer. "Things have not improved since the Duke of Guise kicked the dead face of brave old Coligny. If it were only the dead who were warred upon, it would not be so much matter."
"And yet somehow an insult to the dead seems baser and more cowardly than one offered to the living," said Andrew thoughtfully. "Many a rude fellow who would knock a man down as soon as look at him, as we say, would be horrified at any rough treatment of a corpse. Why is it?"
"Partly, perhaps, from superstition, but more from an idea that the dead are helpless to defend themselves," answered my father. "If a man have any manhood in him, his heart will be touched by the plea of helplessness. It is only when men are turned into demons by war or cruelty or lust that they will disregard the plea of helplessness."
That very night at midnight, the corpse of our good old friend was conveyed down to the vault, beneath the ruined chapel, and built into one of the niches of the wall with some of the rough stones which lay loose about the floor. I had never been in the vault before, and my father cautioned me to beware how I stepped. The floor was of the natural rock, rough and uneven, and in some places were deep cracks from which issued a solemn roaring sound, now loud, now faint and almost dying away. By one of the niches I have mentioned which surrounded the vault, and which were like small chambers hewn in the rock, was placed a little pile of building materials. In this chamber was placed the body of our good old friend.
My father read from my mother's prayer-book the funeral service of the Church of England, so solemn, touching, and comforting. Then the vault was built up with stones taken from the floor, and carefully daubed with mould and slime, to look as much like the rest of the wall as possible. It was a dreary funeral enough, but not so sad as was many another in these sad days, when many a dutiful child had to look on and see the body of a father or mother dragged away on a hurdle and cast into a bog or buried in a dunghill.
[CHAPTER VIII.]
FLIGHT.
THE next day my father took Andrew and myself once more into the vault—this time by the secret passage which led from the pastor's room in the tower. We had a lantern with us, which we lighted as soon as we had shut ourselves in, for the lower passage and the staircase were quite dark.
"I made a discovery in this place some years since, which I think may be of great service to us, if worse comes to worst," said my father. "There used to be a legend to the effect that a great cavern existed under this vault which had an outlet to the sea-shore, and to which there was formerly an entrance from this place. It was said that this entrance had been built up on account of some dreadful crime committed in the cavern. However that may be, in trying when a young man, to satisfy my curiosity upon the subject, I found an underground passage leading from hence to the little ruined tower in the orchard, which you were teaching Vevette to sketch the other day."
"How curious!" said Andrew. "What could it have been used for?"
"Probably for a sally-port in the days when the house was fortified. Such underground ways are not uncommon in old buildings. It may serve us a good turn upon a pinch; but you must help me to open it, and you, Vevette, must hold the light. I built it up myself with the hewn stones which seem to have been left here from ancient times, perhaps from the time that the entrance was closed to the cavern below. No one knows the secret but old Sablot, who died the other day, and who assisted me in the work. So as there is no one else about the place whom I dare trust, I must even ask you, my fair son, to turn laborer for once, and help me with these same stones."
"I want no better fun," said Andrew, pulling off his coat at once. "I have been suffering for some hard work ever since I came here."
"Is that the reason you go out so often with Pierre Le Febre in his new boat?" I asked.
For my father, seeing that Pierre was really making a great struggle to do well, had given him a fine new fishing-boat, to be paid for in very small instalments, as he could afford, and the poor fellow and his wife were very grateful.
"Partly for that reason, and partly because I am interested in the man himself," answered Andrew. "He is one who, under good teaching, would have made a brave seaman. If I read him aright, he is one of those people who need grand motives—more than the mere living and working from day to day, and I have been trying in my stupid way to set before him something of the sort. He was as much astonished when I told him that God was his Father, and was pleased when he did well and grieved when he did ill, as if he had been brought up among the heathen I have seen in the Indian seas. But I beg your pardon, sir; I did not mean to preach."
And Andrew caught himself up and blushed like a girl, for, like other young men, he was dreadfully ashamed of having any one think he was trying to be good.
"I do not see why you should beg my pardon, dear son," said my father, with a smile—that sweet, sudden smile which does so light up a usually grave face, and which I see again sometimes on my sober little Armand. "Surely it is a blessed work, and one which God will own. But I must warn you that it is not without danger. You may be accused proselyting, which is one of our deadliest sins in the eyes of our enemies."
"Well," said Andrew, with a great sigh, "I think I shall appreciate it, if I reach a land where a man may open his mouth. Why should you delay any longer? Why not fly to-night?"
"Because my arrangements are not yet complete," said my father.
"If you wait till everything is ready, you will never go at all," said Andrew.
"That is true; but there are certain things yet to be arranged concerning those who stay behind. I must see our friends at Avranches, and leave with them some means of raising funds to help themselves withal. To-morrow I shall go thither, and the day after I hope to go—but why should I say hope?" he murmured, in the sad voice I knew so well. "Weep not for the dead, neither bemoan him, but weep, son, for him that goeth away, for he shall return no more, nor see his native country."
"If my native country was such a step-dame as this, I don't think I should bemoan it very much," muttered Andrew between his teeth.
"Don't the people who have gone away and settled in America long to see England again?" I asked.
"No, I don't believe they do," he said. "They are as self-satisfied as any people I ever saw. And yet I don't know," he added. "The names they give their children are very touching, especially those on the stones in their burying-ground."
"What names?" I asked.
"Such names as 'Hopestill,' 'Waitstill,' 'Submit,' 'Resignation,' and the like. I read one epitaph over a little baby girl which runs thus:
"'Submit submitted to her Heavenly King,
Being a flower of that Eternal Spring!
Near three years old, she died, in Heaven to wait;
The year was sixteen hundred forty-eight.'
"Not the best of poetry, you will say, but very affecting to my mind."
"Come, come, son," said my father; "we did not come into this mouldy old hole to repeat verses. Let us set to work."
Andrew blushed again, and at once bent himself to the task of removing the heavy stones. This was hard work, especially as it was necessary to make as little noise about it as possible. But it was accomplished at last, and the arched entrance of the passage made practicable. More my father did not care to do.
"Now for the other end," said my father. "Vevette, are you afraid?"
"No indeed!" said I indignantly.
"Vevette is a real Corbet woman!" said Andrew. "She is afraid of nothing."
"Except of being laughed at," returned my father. "Come, then, give me the light. I will go first, and do you young ones follow, carefully, and looking to your steps."
I was about to speak, but my father put his finger upon his lip.
"We will not talk," whispered he; "we are now outside the bounds of the vault, and may be overheard."
Accordingly we proceeded in silence for some hundred yards, sometimes able to walk upright, sometimes bending almost double, as the walls and roof contracted, till our further passage was barred by a heap of large stones. These, however, being loosely piled, were easily removed, and we found ourselves in a cellar-like vault, in which were piled up old cider-casks. (All such places in that part of Normandy always are full of useless old casks, though what they are kept for I cannot say.)
From this vault a ruined but passable staircase led up to the level of the ground. I shall never forget how beautiful everything looked to me as we emerged from the deeps of the earth and saw the whole landscape bathed in the mild autumnal sunshine. My heart bounded for a moment and then sank as in a deep of cold, bitter waves, when I thought how soon I must leave all this beauty, never, never to see it again. English people sometimes fancy that French people do not care for their homes because they have no one word which answers to the English one. It is just one of those pieces of insular pride and—I was going to say stupidity—which always enrage me, though I am half an English woman by birth and wholly one by adoption.
"Ah, fair France!" said my father mournfully. "Thou that killest the prophets and stonest them that are sent unto thee. Surely the day will come when thou shalt desire to see one of the days of the Son of Man, and shall not see it. Thou hast condemned and killed the just, and he doth not resist thee!"
"And that is where the just is not of my mind," muttered Andrew between his teeth. "If he were, he would have one fight for it."
My father did not hear, but I did, and gave Andrew a look, partly of approbation, partly of warning. I felt as he did. If we could only have fought for our lives, I should not have minded it so much.
We returned by the fields, after my father and Andrew had shut up the entrance to the passage with the loose stones in such a manner that they could easily be removed. As to the other end, we were not afraid to leave it open, since not one of our farm or house servants would have descended into the vault for any consideration. We found my mother anxiously expecting us.
"You are gone a long time," said she. "Here is a strange visitor—no less than a Capuchin friar—who says he used to know you, and desires much to see you."
"A friar!" said my father, turning pale. "What can he want? Where is he?"
"Eating and drinking in the dining-room at this moment, if he is not asleep in his chair," answered my mother. "I could do no less than offer him hospitality, especially as he asked no impertinent questions, and had nothing to say about religious matters. He seems a harmless old soul enough."
"Many of them are, I believe, while others are wolves in sheep's clothing," said my father; "but I shall soon see to which class our friend belongs."
My father went to the dining-room, where he shut himself in with his guest and remained a long time, apparently in earnest conversation. Finally, however, we saw him accompany the friar to the gate and take a friendly leave of him.
"Well, what had your ghostly father to say?" asked my mother when my father returned to us.
"Nothing more than I knew already," replied my father. "Did you not know him? It was my old playmate and companion in arms, Louis de Reviere."
"I thought there was something familiar in his face and voice," said my mother. "But what brought him here, and in that dress?"
"He has taken the tonsure, and is now a Franciscan," answered my father. "He had always rather a turn for a religious life, as they call it. As to his errand, he came ostensibly to convert me—really to warn us of danger, and beg us to fly. He says that a company of dragoons will be at Avranches next week. Ah, my poor people!"
"Do not give way, my Armand," said my mother tenderly. "But now, tell us clearly, what is your plan?"
"To set forth by night and travel to Honfleur by the most retired roads, disguised in the peasant dresses I bade you prepare. You and Vevette will ride the donkeys. Andrew and myself will walk beside you. We will also have another beast laden with poor Grace's dried fruits and confections which we are carrying to Honfleur to sell. Once there we shall find English ships, and, I trust, have no difficulty in making our way. Simon Sablot is in the secret, and will have the animals all ready."
"And when shall we set out?" I asked anxiously.
"To-morrow night, my little one. I must go once more to Avranches to bestow in safety the money belonging to our consistory, which thou knowest is in my hands."
"Could not Simon take the money to Avranches?" asked my mother.
"And thus run the risk while I was escaping? Nay, my Margaret, that is not spoken like thyself. But, in truth, my risk would be much less than his. Thou knowest I have made many errands thither of late, concerning the houses which are being repaired in the market-place. No one will think it at all strange."
My mother shook her head, but both she and I knew that, once my father's mind was made up on a point of duty, there was no more to be said.
The day passed quietly and sadly enough, for we all felt it was probably the last day we should spend in the dear old house. Our preparations were all completed, even to filling the panniers of the spare donkey with the dried fruits and other matters which were to form our ostensible errand to Honfleur. As my father said, he had laid by a considerable amount of wealth in diamonds and other jewels, which, being of small bulk, could be easily concealed about our persons. We had also about three hundred Louis in gold, which was divided between us. We dared take but very few clothes, and as for books or any treasures of that sort, they were of course quite out of the question.
I think none of us slept that night. I am sure I did not. It seemed to me as if I could not endure to lose sight for a moment of the things and places I was so soon to leave forever. At daylight my father called us all together, and for the last time we joined in prayer about that family altar which was so soon to be laid in ruins, never to be builded in that place again.
But why should I say so? Never is a long day. Perhaps some time, in the councils of heaven, that altar may be once more erected.
We took our breakfast together very silently, and then my father kissed us all and mounted his horse to go to Avranches, taking Andrew with him. My mother called all the servants and paid them their wages, with a little present into the bargain. I believe the good souls had an idea of what was going to happen, though none of them said a word. It was a weary day, for we had done everything we could think of by way of precaution, and the time hung heavy on our hands. My father was to have returned by three o'clock, but the hour struck and he did not come. Alas, never again!
I had gone down to the gate for the tenth time to look for them, when, as I opened the little wicket, I met Pierre Le Febre face to face.
"Thank the holy archangel," said he breathlessly. "I was wondering how I should get speech of you, mademoiselle. But let me come in, for I have somewhat to say."
I let him into the courtyard, and called my mother to hear Pierre's tale.
"I was standing by the great gate of the hospital, as they call it," said he. "I had sold my fish to the Sisters, and was waiting for my money when the wicket suddenly opened and Lucille Sablot looked out. Ah, madame, how changed! But, as I said, she looked out, and, seeing no one, she put this little packet into any hand."
"'Quick, Pierre, if ever you cared for me,' said she. 'This for Mamselle Vevette, and make haste. Life and death are in thy steps. Tell Vevette I dared not write, but she will know what this means by the English name.' Then she drew in her head, and I heard some one scolding her within for looking out of bounds."
Breathlessly I opened the paper. There was nothing in it but a grosse mouche, what in English we call a bluebottle.
"A fly," said I. "Fly! That is what it means, maman. Lucille has sent us a warning. She knows of some danger that threatens us immediately. What shall we do?"
"Oh, if your father were but here!" said my mother, wringing her hands convulsively.
"There he comes," said I, and at that moment appeared, not my father, but Andrew, riding across the fields at break-neck speed, his horse covered with foam. He sprang to the ground, flinging his reins loose anyhow.
"Armand! My husband!" said my mother. "Where is he?"
"To the tower first, aunt, then I will tell you all. Pierre, if ever he or I did you a good turn, do me one now!" said Andrew sharply. "I do not ask you to risk yourself, but let me have your boat. The wind is fair. We must run for Jersey as soon as it is a little later. Go, and get it ready."
"My boat does not go without me, monsieur," said Pierre. "I can bring it back, and if I am out two or three days I am kept by the wind. You can never manage it alone; you do not know the channels, and I do."
"As you will; but have it ready by ten this night. It will be very dark, but so much the better. Run, now. Come, aunt, for Heaven's sake, for your child's sake."
For maman stood like a marble statue.
"I will not move till you tell me news of Armand," said she.
"He is with God," answered Andrew, with a convulsed face. "His last words were, 'Tell Margaret to escape, for my sake, and the child's. We shall meet again.'"
"True, we shall meet again. It is but a short parting," said my mother musingly.
Then, as Andrew stamped his foot with impatience, she seemed to rouse herself.
"I am ready, my dear son. What shall we do?"
"Go, you and Vevette, and put on your peasant dresses, and secure the money and jewels, while I warn the servants. I want them to find an empty nest. Stay in your room till I come."
We obeyed at once. My mother was pale as ashes, but calm, and even cheerful. As to myself. I believe I retained only one rational thought at that moment—to do as I was bid. We changed our dresses and made our other arrangements with the speed of thought, but we had hardly finished before the noise of voices and clapping of doors told that the alarm had been given. In another moment Andrew appeared.
"I have told them that the mob are coming, and that their ladies have already escaped. I have bid them take to the woods for the night. Come, now! Leave everything in all the confusion possible to look like a hasty flight. It will all the better throw them off the scent."
We entered the secret passage, and closing it securely after us we sought the upper floor of the tower—not, however, the uppermost one, but the second.
"Do you know the way, Andrew?" I asked. "My father said these floors were not safe."
"They are safe enough for us, but our enemies will not find them very safe," was Andrew's response. "Step lightly, and follow me exactly."
We went around the side of the room to a cupboard with shelves, masking a door so entirely that no one would have known it was there. This door opened into a second and much smaller room, which again opened upon the staircase up which I had led the preacher.
"We can take breath now," said he. "We need not seek the vaults till we hear them approaching, and not then unless they come into this tower."
"They will come," said I. "Remember the staircase from the gallery."
"Let them," was Andrew's grim reply. "There are a few secrets about this place which even you do not know, Vevette."
As he spoke he stooped down, drew out two large iron bolts and laid them on the floor.
"The trap is set and baited," said he; "now let the rats walk in whenever they please."
"But how—how was it," I asked in a whisper, for my mother never said a word. The fact that my father was dead seemed enough for her.
"We had hardly reached Avranches when we heard the uproar in the market-place," returned Andrew. "At first we did not think of the cause, but as soon as we caught sight of the place we saw what was going on. They were pulling down the houses of the Protestants, and dragging out the women and the little children."
Andrew shuddered and covered his face. "I saw one man in a friar's gown take two little baby girls in his arms and try to carry them out of the press, but they were torn from him. Then they caught sight of us, and one cried out, 'There is the arch heretic. There is the man who shelters the preachers.' And a volley of stones flew about our ears. We turned to fly, as there was clearly nothing else to be done, but a man named Michaud—I don't know whether you know him—"
"My father saved him from the galleys," said I.
"Well, he raised his arquebus and deliberately fired at my uncle, wounding him in the breast. He did not fall nor lose his presence of mind, and by lanes and by-ways we gained the wood. Then he sank to the ground, and I saw that he was dying.
"'Lose no time with me,' said he faintly. 'Hasten home at once. Did we not hear them cry, "To the tower!" Remember the secret passage. Hide as long as you can, if you cannot get away. Go not by the road, but across the heath. Why do you stay?'
"But I did not leave him till he had breathed his last. Then I drew his body aside into the bushes, and hastened hither."
"And do you think they will come?" I asked, as soon as I could speak.
"I most surely do," he answered. "The hope of plunder would bring the rascals, of whom there are abundance. The priest sets on the zealots and others join because they are afraid of being suspected of favoring the cause."
We sat in silence for what seemed a very long time, till the great clock struck eight. At that very moment we heard a shout and the trampling of many feet, while a strong glare shone through the little grated casement of the room.
"There they are," said Andrew, stepping to the window. I followed him and looked out. On they came, a mob of ruffians and abandoned women, with many, too, of whom I should have hoped better things. Heading the press was one of the curés of Avranches, a man whose openly dissolute life was a scandal to his own people. There were also two or three friars, among them the one who had visited us the day before.
"Ah, the traitor!" said I. "My father's old companion in arms, and but yesterday eating his bread."
"I believe you do him injustice," said my mother, in as calm a tone as if she were speaking of the most ordinary matter. "He has come in the hope of rendering us some service. Poor, miserable, deluded people!"
"I would I had some charges of grapeshot for these poor people," said Andrew. "They would go farther to dispel their illusions than a deal of reasoning. Anything but hiding like rats in a hole. But we have no choice. Not a word or sound, for your lives. But what is here?"
It was something which in my excited state almost sent are off into a hysterical laugh—namely, my great, long-haired, white cat Blanchon, which had followed us into the tower, and now mounted upon the window-seat was growling savagely at the intruders. He was an odd creature, very fond of his friends, but formidable to his enemies, and he had this peculiarity, that he never mewed. A strange yell, which sounded like that of a human being in the wildest rage, when he flew upon his enemies, and a loud purr were all the noises he ever made.
"Let him be. He will do no harm," said I. "He never makes any noise. What shall we do now?" as the mob made their onslaught on the gates with a savage yell which made me shudder.
"Keep quiet," was the reply. "We are safe enough unless they set fire to the tower."
In another moment the gate yielded, and the people poured in. Before one could speak they were all over the house, calling to each other and venting their rage at finding no one by breaking and destroying all before them.
"To the old tower, comrades!" finally cried a voice. "There is the hiding-place."
I suppose numbers gave the people courage, for I am certain not one of them would have dared invade the domain of the white chevalier alone. We heard the rush up the stairs and then the battering down of the door. Then there was a short pause.
"Come on," cried the same voice, which I now recognized as that of Michaud, our old gamekeeper, whom my father had saved only to be murdered by him. "Come on. Who cares for ghost or devil?"
There was a rush into the room, then a cry from those nearest the door.
"Take care! The floor!"
But it was too late. The loosened boards gave way, and down went a dozen men, Michaud among them, through a yawning gulf clear to the ground floor.
"Back! Back! The tower is falling!" was the cry, while the shrieks of the men below added to the confusion. The tower was at once deserted, and we presently heard sounds which told us that the fallen men were being rescued from amid the ruins of the floor.
"To the cellars!" cried now the voice of Pierre Le Febre. "Let us taste the old chevalier's wine and brandy."
"Good, Pierre!" said Andrew. "Once let them get among the casks and bottles, and we are safe."
"If Pierre does not get among them himself," said I.
"I do not believe he will, and in any case we have the boat. But it is time we were stirring. Aunt, can you walk?"
"Oh, yes! I can do anything you wish," answered my mother, in the same calm way. She seemed to have all her wits about her, but she did not speak unless we spoke to her.
"Come, then," and he opened the door of the secret passage into which pussy led the way, majestically waving his tail and looking back as if to say, "Come on, and fear nothing! You are under my protection."
I remember smiling, in all my grief and anxiety, at his air of patronage.
I went first, after I had lighted the lantern, then came my mother, and lastly Andrew.
We heard only distant and muffled sounds, and judged that the people were busied in the cellar, where was stored not only wine and liquor, but abundance of old cider, strong as brandy itself.
We had just reached the level of the chapel and were about passing the door which led into it, when Blanchon the cat stopped, growling fiercely. In another moment a light shone through the opened door. The next Blanchon sprang forward with his wild, unearthly yell of onset, and flung himself into the face of a man who had just put his head through the opening. There was a scream of quite another character, and the man fled stumbling and falling on his way out, while Blanchon came back to us with the loud purr, which was his way of expressing complacency.
"Good cat," said Andrew. "That man won't find his way back in a hurry, but some one else may. Hold up the light, Vevette."
I held up the light while Andrew pulled to the door and with a stone smashed the spring-lock.
"Nobody will open that, even if any one dares try," said he. "Now for all the haste we can make."
I caught up Blanchon and carried him, to which he made no objection. We were soon in the open air, and walking quickly down the course of the stream which had scooped out the valley, we found ourselves in the little hamlet. It seemed to be deserted. Not a man was to be seen, nor a light, save in Isabeau's cottage. The night had grown wild and stormy, but it was not very dark. And we could see the mast of the boat, which lay at the end of the little pier.
"Now if Pierre has been true," said Andrew, and at that moment we heard his voice.
"Monsieur and madame, is that you! All is ready; but we shall have a wild night."
"Never mind, so long as the wind is fair," returned Andrew, in the same whisper. "I would rather face the sea than the devils we have left behind."
We were assisted into the boat. I holding fast to my cat, and set sail. I can give little account of the voyage. I know it was a rough and tempestuous one, and that we were many times in the greatest danger from the rocks and counter currents which make navigation in those parts so difficult.
Andrew had the helm most of the time, while Pierre, whose smuggling and other lawless exploits had made him well acquainted with the channel, directed our course. My mother sat quite still under the half-deck of the boat, and I dozed by fits, with Blanchon in my lap, who now and then uttered a peevish growl, as he vainly tried to lick himself dry.
"There comes the morning at last," said Le Febre joyously; "and here is the blessed St. Aubin's bay spread out before us, if we can but get into it. I would we had a better pilot than myself."
"Yonder comes a boat which has been out all night," said Andrew. And he stood up and hailed her in English:
"Boat ahoy!"
"Hilloa!" came back, as the stranger rapidly overhauled us. "Who are you?"
"English," was the answer. "We have ladies on board. Where are you bound?"
"To St. Aubin's," was the reply. "Follow us, and you will do well enough."
"Good!" said Andrew to my mother. "We shall land close at home. And now that we are comparatively safe, tell me, Pierre, did I not hear your voice at the tower last night?"
"You did, monsieur," was the reply. "I had a mind to see what was going on, for I knew I would get back in time, and without being missed. It was I who put the rascals up to break into the cellars. The priest tried to draw them away after him to search the old chapel, but he did not know his men so well as I did. Then, when I saw them well engaged, I took to my heels and reached the pier before you, not having so far to go, or knowing the way better. But where were you when the floors fell? I trembled for you then."
"We were safe enough, and not far off," was the reply. "Was any one much hurt?"
"Yes; Michaud will die, and a good riddance too. There were some broken heads and bones; I don't know how many. But, monsieur, what could have been in the chapel which handled the priest so terribly. I found him in the court blinded in both eyes and his face torn to pieces as by a wild beast, and he said something sprang at him in the old chapel. Could it have been that devil of a white chevalier, think you? Could a ghost handle a man like that?"
"I do not know whether or no ghosts can scratch," answered Andrew gravely; "but the one who attacked the priest has been a passenger with us."
And he raised my cloak and showed Blanchon, who had abandoned the attempt to keep himself dry, and lay a wet and sulky heap in my lap.
Pierre's face fell.
"A white cat," said he. "If I had known we had a white cat on board, I should have given up in despair a dozen times. However, all is well that ends well," he added, brightening up; "and here we come sure enough."
"And yonder is your cousin's house, Vevette," said Andrew, pointing to a comfortable-looking mansion not far-away. "We shall soon be under a roof once more."
The family of the fisherman whose boat had preceded us were gathered at the landing to see us come in, and loud were their exclamations of wonder and pity as my mother and myself were assisted from our cramped position in the bottom of the boat to the landing-place.
By one of the boys Andrew sent a message up to the house, and in what seemed a wonderfully short time we were surrounded and conveyed to the mansion Andrew had pointed out, by a troop of excited boys and girls, under the leadership of an elderly considerate manservant. Here we were warmly welcomed, kissed, fed with hot soup and mulled wine, and finally put to bed in the most fluffy of feather-beds, my mother and myself in adjoining rooms. Maman was still in the same curiously passive state, but not unconscious.
"Go to rest, my Vevette," she said, kissing me as I hung over her. "Have no fears for me. I shall do well. Thank God that you are in safety. Ah, if thy father were but here!" And for the first time, she burst into tears.
"That is well, my love," said my oldest cousin, to whom I looked in anxiety. "These tears will relieve your mother, and she will sleep, and all the better if she knows you are at rest. Go, my child."
I was used to obey, and my kind motherly cousin inspired confidence by her very tone. I undressed, put on the dry warm flannels provided for me, and crept into the bed, on which Blanchon was already established.
Oh, the delicious depths of that English bed! I thought I should lie awake to listen to the sounds from the next room, but I was worn-out, and fell asleep before my head was fairly on the pillow.
[CHAPTER IX.]
IN JERSEY.
I SLEPT till afternoon, and when I waked I could not at first tell where I was, everything about me was so utterly different from anything I had been used to. My bed was surrounded by light curtains of blue and white checked linen, and through these at the foot I could see that the hangings of the latticed window were of the same. The bed was covered with a white spread worked with a curious pattern in colored crewels. Everything was very quiet, but I could hear the distant hum of a spinning-wheel, and the singing of a robin outside my window.
I lay quietly a long time, half asleep and dreaming, half bewildered, feeling as if I had died and wakened into a new world, of which all I knew was that it was safe and friendly. At last I raised myself, put aside the curtain, and looked out.
The room was small, very little larger than the one I had inhabited—oh, how long ago—but it was very different. The window was not a mere slit almost lost in the thickness of the wall, but a peaceful lattice, broad and low, into which, late as it was, looked a cluster of noisette roses. The floor was of boards instead of tiles, and covered here and there with rugs, evidently of home construction. A little table stood at the head of the bed, on which were placed a bright brass candlestick, a Bible and prayer-book, and a little cup of flowers, and a shelf on the wall held a slender row of volumes. On an arm-chair near the bed was laid a change of clean linen, and beside it a mourning frock.
The sight of that black frock brought back to my mind all that had passed in the last twenty-four hours. I had been through so much, and the need of action had been so instant, that I had had no time, as it were, to feel what I had lost, but now it came upon me in one moment. My father was dead—murdered by the very man whom he had saved from the effects of what he believed to be a false accusation. His body lay unburied at this moment, a prey to wild animals or more savage men. My mother and myself were exiles in a strange land, never again to see the home where I had grown-up, and where I had lived so happily, in spite of uncertainty and danger.
"Oh, if my father were but here, I would not care for anything else!" I sobbed, and covering my head I wept till I was exhausted, and once more I fell asleep.
I was waked by some one who came very softly into the room bearing a shaded light, and I started up in alarm.
"What has happened?" I asked, only half awake. "Have I been asleep? Has not my father come home?"
"It is I, my love—Cousin Marianne," said the new-comer in a soft, ladylike voice. "Do not be frightened. All is safe. Your mother is awake, and I thought perhaps you would like to rise and take some refreshment with her."
"Is it very late?" I asked, still bewildered. "Has neither my father nor Andrew come back?"
"Recollect yourself, dear child," said my cousin, setting down her light and coming to the bedside. "Do you not remember what has happened?"
"Oh, yes, I remember!" said I, and my tears flowed again.
My cousin sat down on the bedside, laid my head on her shoulder, and wept with me for a while. Then she began gently to soothe and hush me, and by degrees I grew composed, so that when she again proposed to me to try to rise, I was quite ready to comply. She assisted me to dress, but looked a little displeased when she saw the black gown.
"That was thoughtless of Katherine," said she. "We are wearing mourning ourselves, but she might have got out a colored frock for to-day."
"It does not signify," said I. "I must put on black, of course. How is my mother, madame?"
"She seems well in health, and very quiet and composed," was the answer; "but I have persuaded her to remain in her room, for I am sure she must need rest after the events of yesterday and last night."
"Yesterday!" I exclaimed. "Is it possible that it was only yesterday morning that I saw my father and Andrew set out from our gate to go to Avranches?"
"So I understand from Andrew," was the reply. "I dare say it seems an age to you. My love, how curly your hair is."
"It curls worse than usual because it has been wet," said I, almost laughing at the odd transition. "Maman says it is real Corbet hair."
"Yes, you are like your mother's family, all but the complexion. Here is a fresh cap for you. They say that in London young ladies do not wear caps, but I cannot think that a modest custom. There, now, you look like an English maiden, and a very sweet one," said the dear old lady, kissing me, and then holding me off and regarding me with great satisfaction, much as if I had been a doll she had just dressed.
"Now I will let you go in to your mother, as I dare say she would rather see you alone just at first. The next door to this on the right hand, remember. I will go down and send up your supper presently, and you must try to make dear mamma eat something."
And Cousin Marianne glided away with that peculiar swift, short step of hers, which never seemed to make any noise even on a tiled flour. I never saw any one else move in the same way or get over so much ground in the same time.
It was with a feeling of awe that I opened my mother's door. She was up and dressed, and lay back in a great chair, with her little worn prayer-book in her hand. I now remembered seeing her slip it into her bosom when we changed our dresses in such a hurry. She held out her arms to me, and I fell into them weeping; but she did not weep, and I never saw her shed a tear but once afterward.
Seeing how calm she was, I tried to quiet myself, and succeeded.
Then she read to me that prayer in the Litany which begins, "O God, Merciful Father," and then for a while we were silent.
"Do you feel quite well, my Vevette?" she asked at last.
"Yes, dear maman, only tired," I answered truly; for though my head was a little inclined to be giddy, and I had an odd feeling of bewilderment, as though I were some one beside myself, I had no pain. "Why do you ask?"
"Your eyes are heavy, and your cheeks more flushed than usual; that is all."
"And you, maman?"
"I am quite well, my love, only weary, as you say. Have you seen any of the family?"
"No, maman; only that kind, gentle old lady. She called herself my Cousin Marianne. Who is she?"
"She is your cousin, as she said—the sister of Mr. George Corbet, the rector of this parish, and whose household she has governed since his wife died. A better woman never lived, nor one on whom advancing years made less impression. We have fallen among kind friends in our exile, my Vevette, and we must take care to show that we appreciate their kindness. You will find your cousins' ways quite different from anything you have been used to; but do not fall into the common error of thinking that therefore those ways must be wrong. Even if they should laugh at you, take it in good part and laugh with them."
"I do not feel as if I should ever have the heart to laugh again," said I, sighing.
"Ah, my dear one, you are young, and youth is elastic. Your father would not wish to have all your life wrapped in gloom because he hath been so early and so easily removed to his eternal rest. But oh, my child, if you are ever tempted to sin against your own soul by denying your religion, remember it was for that your father laid down his life."
"I will never deny my religion!" said I almost indignantly.
"I trust not; but no one knows how he may be tempted. There are other inducements besides that of escaping persecution. The smiles of the world are far more dangerous to natures like yours than its frowns, and more than one of our religion has given up to blandishments and to ambition what he would never have yielded to the rack. Your father was attacked on this side many a time, with promises of high command, of court favor, and kingly grace, but he never yielded an inch—no, not, as I believe, in his inmost thoughts. Remember it, my Vevette, and let his example be, next to your duty to Heaven, the guiding light of your life."
The entrance of Cousin Marianne, followed by a neat maid bearing a tray of good things, interrupted our conversation. With that gentle, noiseless quickness, which was one of her characteristics, she spread a little table with a clean white cloth and arranged thereon the tempting dishes she had caused to be prepared. She also set out two cups and saucers of delicate china-ware—such as David had once brought to my mother from Dieppe.
A signal dismissed the maid, who, however, presently returned carrying a small silver coffee-pot—the first one I had ever seen; for though coffee had come into quite common use in London and Paris, it had not yet penetrated to Normandy.
"I have made you a small pot of coffee, cousin," said she. "My brother learned to like it in London, and though I do not approve of its constant use, yet tempered with cream it is refreshing and wholesome when one is weak or tired. Now I shall leave you to wait upon yourselves, and do try to eat. It will be hard, I dare say, but you will be the better for it."
"Why does Cousin Marianne make one think of poor Grace?" said I. "She is not in the least like her."
"It is the Cornish accent," said my mother. "Grace always retained it, and so does our cousin, though she has lived so long abroad. But, my child, you do not eat a mouthful. Are you not hungry?"
"I thought I was," I answered; "but somehow I do not wish to eat now the food is before me. But I like the coffee," I added, sipping it with great satisfaction. "Do you not think it is good, maman?"
"Very pleasant indeed. I have tasted it before when it was a new thing even in London; but you must not drink much of it without eating, or it will keep you awake. Take one of these saffron-cakes. They are like Mrs. Grace's."
I tried to eat to please my mother, but with all my efforts I did not succeed very well. Whether owing to the coffee or because I had slept so much during the day, I cannot say, but I passed great part of the night lying broad awake and going over and over again, even to the minutest circumstance, the events of my life. They seemed to pass before me in endless succession, from the very earliest things I could remember in Jeanne Sablot's cottage, and that without any volition of my own, so that it was as if some one unfolded before me a set of pictures, and I lay and looked at them.
When at last I fell asleep, it was to be tormented by poor Lucille's messenger, the bluebottle fly, which kept buzzing round my head, saying something which I could not understand, though it was of the last importance that I should do so. Then I was being built up by my father and Andrew in one of the niches in the sepulchral vault, while I struggled in vain to tell them that I was not dead. Oh, how glad I was to wake at last and see the cheerful sun just darting his first beams into my casement!
I abandoned the attempt to sleep, and rising I dressed myself quickly and softly, for I was possessed by an overmastering desire to get into the open air. I slipped down the stairs, admiring the beautiful neatness of the house, the brightness of the glass and the furniture, and the general air of comfort. The door of a sort of little parlor was open, and I peeped in. The walls were hung with brown hollands worked prettily in colored wools with leafy and flowery designs, and an unfinished piece of the same kind of embroidery in a great swinging frame stood by a window. There was an old-fashioned East Country cabinet, such as I had never seen at that time, a good many books, or what looked a good many to me, a lute and a pair of virginals—an instrument I had never beheld before, with a pile of music-books.
A sash door opened from this room to a terrace, and seeing that it was only fastened by an inside latch, I ventured to open it and step out.
The house stood somewhat high upon the hill-side, overlooking first a sloping grass-plot and flower-garden, where late blossoms still lingered, which had faded on the mainland long ago. Below was an odd pretty little old church, all surrounded by a green graveyard full of mouldering stones. Beyond were the sands of the bay, over which the tides were coming up in that peculiar boiling, swirling fashion which belongs to tides about the islands, and still beyond were wooded abrupt slopes.
On the top of these, I could see a single farm-house, from whose chimney rose a tall, thin column of blue smoke touched into a rosy glory at the top by the rays of the low sun. Nobody seemed to be stirring. Two or three fishing-boats were anchored off shore, and a few skiffs were drawn up on the beach. A very distant church bell was ringing and a few birds pecking and chirping about the hedges; but these sounds, with the rush of the advancing tide, seemed only to render the stillness more tranquil.
I stood and gazed like one entranced, till I heard steps approaching, and looking about I saw Andrew for the first time since we landed at the little quay, where Le Febre's boat was still lying. I could not speak, but I held out my hand. He pressed it warmly and long, and we stood in silence, looking over the scene.
"You are up early," said I at last.
"I saw you from my window, and came to join you," he answered, and then asked, in a tone of concern, "Are you quite well, Vevette?"
"Yes, of course!" I answered pettishly. "I can't think why every one should ask me whether I am well."
"Because you do not look so," he answered. "But that is no wonder, considering—" and then he broke off and was silent again.
"How beautiful everything is, and how peaceful!" said I at last. "Do you know it seems so strange to me to think that we are safe. I can hardly believe it."
"It is hard to believe it, even to me, to whom safety comes natural," he answered. "I can scarcely think that yonder is a Protestant church, where all the village will presently assemble to worship, and that my cousin will preach, and say just what he pleases about the mass or anything else."
"Is my cousin the minister?" I asked.
"Yes, the rector, as we call him here. It is but a poor cure, but Mr. Corbet has property of his own. Have you seen any of your cousins yet?"
"Only Cousin Marianne, as she bade me call her. I think she is charming. Is she a widow?"
"No, she has never married."
"Why was that?" I asked, surprised.
"Because she did not choose, I fancy," replied Andrew, smiling. "In England, my cousin, women do not have to choose between a husband and the cloister. I have known more than one lady who has never married, but lived to be a blessing to all about her. Others, I am sorry to say, waste their time in miserable frivolity—in cards and dancing and dress."
"A woman who would live like that when single would most likely do the same if she were married," said I sagely. "And then her family would have to suffer. But I must go back to the house. Maman will wake and miss me."
"And here comes Eleanor to call us," said Andrew. "Dear good Eleanor. She is not as bright as the rest, but I am sure you will like her."
Eleanor came forward, and shook hands with me cordially enough. She was pretty and fresh-colored, but I noticed in a moment that her cap was awry, and her fresh lawn apron already creased and tumbled. Nevertheless, I took a fancy to her in a moment.
"Do you know whether my mother is up?" I asked, after we had exchanged some commonplace remarks.
"I think she is. I heard her moving," she said, and then asked abruptly, "Don't you want to carry her some flowers? I would have gathered them, but I thought you would like to do it yourself. There are plenty of late violets and rosebuds in the garden."
I was pleased with the idea, and with the odd kind of consideration it showed. We collected quite a nosegay, which I carried to my mother's room. I had acted as her maid and attendant of late, though I am sure I but poorly supplied the loss of poor Grace, and I was surprised to find her up and dressed.
"Oh, maman, I ought not to have stayed so long," said I; "but the morning is so beautiful, and I longed so to breathe the fresh air—"
And then I stopped, and had much ado not to burst out crying again as I observed that my mother had put on a black dress and a long mourning veil after the fashion of widows in England. I checked myself, however, and put into her hand the flowers Eleanor had helped me to gather.
"Thank you, my love. They are very charming," said my mother, who loved flowers with a kind of passion. "But I fear you have been making too free with your cousin's garden."
"Oh, no, maman; Eleanor showed me where to gather them. It was her thought in the first place. See what beautiful rosebuds, for so late in the year. We have none such in Normandy. But I suppose our poor flower-garden is all trampled into the earth," I added, and then seeing that my mother's lips turned white, and that she grasped the back of the chair for support, I sprang forward, exclaiming, "Oh, dear maman, I beg your pardon. I did not mean to hurt you."
"There is no fault to be pardoned, my child," said my mother, recovering herself as by a great effort, and kissing me; "but, Vevette, I must be selfish enough for the present to ask you not to speak of—"
Her lips turned pale again, and she seated herself in the chair. I bathed her face with some sweet waters which stood on the toilette-table, and she was soon herself, nor did she again allude to the subject.
When she was quite recovered, we said our morning prayers together, and read the Psalms for the day, as we had been used to do at home. We had but just finished, when Cousin Marianne tapped at the door, which I opened.
"So you are both up; and I hear—my dear, what shall I call you?" said she, with one of her abrupt transitions. "That name of Genevieve does not suit an English girl, to my thinking."
"Call her Vevette," said my mother. "It is the name she has always gone by. Or you may call her by her first name, Agnes, if you like."
"Oh, my dear, Agnes is an unlucky name—at least for Cornish folks. Vevette answers nicely, though it does sound a little like a cat," she added reflectively. "However, it does not matter; and I am sure such a nice cat as that of yours is a credit to any family. Why, no sooner did it see me cutting some cold meat than it sat up upon its hind legs, and spread out one paw exactly like a Christian. But, my dear Margaret, will you join us at breakfast and family prayers? Do just as you please."
"We will come certainly," said my mother.
And leaning upon my arm, she descended to the parlor below—not the one I had been in before—where we found the whole family assembled, including my Cousin George, who came forward to meet us.
Of all men that ever I saw, Cousin George came the nearest to my idea of a clergyman, at least in appearance and manners. He was a tall, slender man, with curling hair as white as snow. His face had that hale, healthful red, like that of a winter apple, which is so beautiful in old age, and shone with a benignancy and purity that I cannot describe. It was the light within shining out which did so illumine his countenance, for a sweeter, more godly, and withal more kind and genial soul never inhabited a mortal tenement. There was nothing of the sour ascetic about Cousin George, though he could fast at proper times, and was self-denying by habit; but he loved to see and to promote innocent enjoyment. If ever any man fulfilled the command to rejoice with those that rejoiced, and weep with those that wept, he did, and he was equally at home at the bridal or in the house of mourning.
My other cousins all rose when we came in, and remained standing while their father greeted my mother with a tenderly spoken blessing, and led her to a seat by his side. They looked at us with a sort of reverence and awe, as young folks of any feeling are apt to do upon those who have just come through any great danger or affliction. There were five of them—three girls, and two little boys much younger. I found out afterward that the birth of these two twin boys cost the life of their mother.
As soon as we were seated, my Cousin George read the tenth chapter of St. Matthew. Then all together sang a version of the twenty-third Psalm:
"My shepherd is the living Lord.
Nothing therefore I need;
In pastures green near pleasant streams
He setteth me to feed."
Then my cousin read prayers. Nobody who has not been placed in like circumstances can guess how strange it seemed to me to be reading the holy Word and singing psalms with open windows and in absolute security. I saw the girls look at one another and smile, but by no means unkindly, when I started nervously at a passing footstep outside. It all added to that bewilderment which had been stealing over me all the morning, and which seemed now and then to quite take away all knowledge of where I was or what I was doing.
The breakfast was very nice, with abundance of cream and new milk, fresh-laid eggs, and brown and white bread, but I could take nothing save a glass of milk, which I had hard work to dispose of. I saw them all look at me with concern, and again Cousin Marianne asked me whether I were ill.
"No, madame," I answered; "I am not ill at all."
I caught a look of surprised reproof from my mother, and became aware that I had answered pettishly.
"Indeed, I am not ill," I said more gently; "please do not think so."
I suppose it was a part of the bewilderment of my head that I somehow felt annoyed and hurt that any one should think I was not well.
My cousins came round me after breakfast, and carried me off to the room I had seen in the morning.
"This is our own den," said Katherine, the elder sister. "To-morrow we will show you our books and work. The lute is Paulina's, and the virginals are mine. Eleanor does not play or sing at all."
"But she works very nicely," put in Pauline, the second sister, while Eleanor never spoke a word, but looked at me like a good dog, which says with his eyes what his tongue cannot utter; "and she can tell tales better than any of us when she is in the mood. Can you tell tales, Cousin Vevette?"
"I do not know, I am sure," I said. "I love to hear and read them. But what is that?" I asked, with a start, as the near church bell swung round and then rang out loudly. "Is it an alarm?"
"That is the church bell," said Paulina, with a little laugh. "How you start at everything. I noticed it when my father was reading."
"If you had been through what she has, you would start too," said Eleanor, speaking for the first time. "Can't you understand that, Paul? Will you go to church, cousin?"
"I don't believe she ought to go," said Katherine; "she looks so tired and overwrought."
"I would much rather go, if maman is willing," said I.
There was some demur among the elders, but it was finally settled that I might do as I pleased, and I presently found myself walking with my cousins through a shady lane which led from the rectory to the church. Once inside the gates, we found ourselves amid a throng of people, all well-dressed and comfortable-looking, and, as it seemed, all talking together in an odd kind of patois which was not English, and not any French that I was used to. However, by a little attention I understood the tongue well enough, and I found it not so very different from the Norman French spoken in La Manche.
There were a good many English people in church, and some whom I guessed to be French exiles, like ourselves. I saw Pierre Le Febre seated along with a decent-looking family of fisher-folks, and as I glanced at him from time to time, I saw him listening with the greatest attention and an air of profound amazement, not to say alarm, which made me smile. The prayers and sermon were in the language of the island, but, as Katherine told me, the afternoon service was always in English.
I was still listening, as I thought, to my cousin's sermon, when to my great amazement, I found myself in my little blue and white bed. It was toward evening, as I guessed by the light. My mother was bending over me, and Cousin Marianne with a strange gentleman were standing on the other side of the bed.
"There is a great improvement, madame," the stranger said in English. "I think I may say that with care there is nothing more to fear. But I cannot too strongly recommend absolute quiet and silence for the present."
"What does it mean, maman?" I said, finding my voice somehow very hard to get at, and very thin and tremulous when found. "I thought I was in church. Have I been ill?"