The Chevalier's daughter : or, An exile for the truth

By Lucy Ellen Guernsey

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Title: The Chevalier's daughter
        Or, an exile for the truth

Author: Lucy Ellen Guernsey

Release date: April 9, 2024 [eBook #73365]

Language: English

Original publication: London: John F. Shaw and Co, 1880


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CHEVALIER'S DAUGHTER ***

Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

[Illustration: 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.



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[Illustration]

                             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._

[Illustration]



                                    CONTENTS.

CHAPTER

     I. Early Recollections

    II. The Tour d'Antin

   III. Youthful Days

    IV. Trust and Distrust

     V. Guests at the Tour

    VI. The Lonely Grange

   VII. A Sudden Summons

  VIII. Flight

    IX. In Jersey

     X. To England

    XI. Tre Madoc

   XII. Mischief

  XIII. The Book

   XIV. A Wedding

    XV. Stanton Court

   XVI. London

  XVII. My New Friends

 XVIII. A Great Step

   XIX. Another Change

    XX. "You shall have no Choice"

   XXI. The Convent

  XXII. The Voyage

 XXIII. Conclusion



[Illustration]

                          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.

[Illustration]



[Illustration]

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?

[Illustration]



[Illustration]

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.

[Illustration]



[Illustration]

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.

[Illustration]



[Illustration]

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.



[Illustration]

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.

[Illustration]



[Illustration]

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.

[Illustration]



[Illustration]

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.

[Illustration]



[Illustration]

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?"

"Yes, my love. You were taken ill in church, and were brought home. Do
not talk now. By and by you will understand all about it. Let me give
you a little food and refresh your pillow, and then perhaps you will
fall asleep again."

"I should like something to eat," said I. "I feel hungry, though I
could not eat this morning."

My mother smiled sadly, and I saw Cousin Marianne suddenly turn away
to the window almost as if she was crying. I wondered vaguely what she
was crying about, but it did not disturb me. I took the cup of broth my
mother held to my lips, and presently fell asleep again.

I lay in this state of childish weakness for many days and weeks,
coming gradually to understand that I had been ill some time, though I
had no notion how long the time was.

The girls flitted in and out, and Eleanor often sat by me hours at
a time, working away at her plain white seam. I liked to have her
with me best of all. She never put on airs of bustle and authority
like Katherine, who seemed to think that the only way to take care
of a sick person was never to let that person do or have anything
she wanted. Neither did she lean against the bed, or pat the floor
with her foot, or talk of half a dozen things in a minute, like good
little Paulina, who thought I needed to be enlivened and diverted. She
just sat quietly, with her sewing, where I could see her without any
trouble, and was always ready to wait on me and to save me the trouble
of speaking by anticipating my wants. My mother said of her that she
had the precious nursing talent, which is one of the best gifts ever
bestowed on man or woman.

I lay quietly in my bed, as I said, very little troubled as to the
lapse of time or anything else, taking what was given me, perfectly
content so long as I had my mother or Eleanor by me. I learned
afterward that this long-continued passiveness of mine was a source of
great alarm to my friends, who feared that my mind was irretrievably
injured by what I had gone through. However, such was not the case.

The bow had been terribly strained, but not cracked, and by and by, it
recovered its elasticity.

One morning I woke feeling much stronger, and very decidedly interested
about what I was going to have to eat. The curtain was undrawn from the
casement, and I raised myself on my elbow and looked out. Lo, the great
willow was hung with catkins, and the hedgerow was budding. What did it
mean?

My mother was resting, half asleep, in the great chair, but roused
herself and came to the bedside as I moved.

"Maman, what time of year is it?" I asked.

Her lips moved, and I was sure she said "Thank God!"

Then she answered gently—

"It is spring, my Vevette; the last of March."

"March!" I repeated wonderingly. "I thought it had been December. And
what, then, has become of Christmas?"

"It has gone where all other Christmases have gone before it, no
doubt," answered my mother, smiling. "It passed while you were so ill
that I dared not leave you for a moment, and all the congregation on
that day prayed for you. Do you not recollect anything of your illness?"

"No," I answered. "The last I recollect clearly was being in church
listening to the sermon, and then waking in my room and hearing some
one say I was better. But that was some days ago, was it not?"

"Some weeks," said my mother. "But do not talk any more now. Here comes
our good Eleanor, with your breakfast. The dear child has been like an
own daughter to me."

"I remember Eleanor," said I, taking her plump hand in my thin one and
kissing it. "She has been here a good many times. But what are these
flowers? Violets? They really are violets and primroses."

"I thought you would like them," said Eleanor; "but don't let your
broth get cold while you look at them."

And she would have fed me, but I took the spoon and helped myself.

From this time, my recovery was rapid. I was soon able to sit up by the
window, and then to walk about the room, and at last, I got down-stairs
and out of doors. Every one was very kind to me, and T had only one
trouble, over which I used to cry in secret sometimes. I had a ravenous
appetite, and though I had half a dozen meals a day, they would not
give me half as much as I wanted to eat.

[Illustration]



[Illustration]

CHAPTER X.

TO ENGLAND.

AS I said, my strength increased every day, so that I was soon able
to walk about the garden and to take some long rides upon my cousin's
gentle old pony, accompanied by Andrew and sometimes by Eleanor, to
whom I still clung, though I was on the best of terms with the other
girls.

We sat together in the brown parlor, as it was called, with our work
or our music. Katherine taught me to play the virginals and also the
organ, on which she was no contemptible performer. I never saw a girl
who could do so many different things so well; but she had some faults,
one of which was that she did not know how to help. Whatever was going
on, she always wished to take the whole command, whether the scheme
was her own or another person's. Paulina could give advice as to one's
embroidery, modestly point out what she believed to be improvements,
and after all, be content that you should take your own way. But Kate
always had some greatly better plan or pattern of her own, and was
inclined to be offended, if one did not adopt it.

I observed that the little boys, though they were fond of Katherine,
yet came to Paulina with their little manufactures of kites, etc., as
well as with their lessons, and to Eleanor with their bruises, cut
fingers, and little difficulties of all sorts. In return for their
instructions, I taught the girls to do English cut work, to work lace,
and to knit, of which accomplishments they were quite ignorant.

Cousin Marianne was in and out, up-stairs and down, looking well to the
ways of her household, keeping every part of the family in place and
working smoothly, by using oil or a rasp, as the case might require. I
never saw any one who better fulfilled the part of the wise woman of
King Lemuel, except that she had no husband to be known in the gates
(I always wondered what kind of woman King Lemuel married, after all
his mother's instructions. I dare say she was some shiftless, helpless
beauty, who could not mend her own hose, and did not know wheat from
barley).

I must not forget to say that Pierre Le Febre returned to La Manche,
having been well rewarded for his great services, which money alone
would never pay for. He was not afraid to go back, as he had a
plausible story enough to tell of contrary winds and the breaking of
his boat, which was indeed a good deal damaged. But it seems he did not
find himself comfortable. He fell under suspicion, notwithstanding all
his precautions, and he was not well treated by his own family, who
never forgave his marrying poor Isabeau.

So one night, he loaded his most valued possessions into his boat,
along with his wife and child, and ran over to Jersey. He was
hospitably received, on account of the great service he had done to my
cousin's family, and he settled down into a respectable, steady father
of a family, and became, for one in his station, quite a rich man. All
this Eleanor wrote me long afterward.

Andrew had always said that poor Le Febre had the making of a man in
him, and the event showed he was right.

It was a delightful novelty to have comrades of my own age to work and
play with, for, except poor Lucille, I had never had any girl friend.

As the spring came on, as my strength increased and the island became
more beautiful with every passing day, I grew more and more content,
and should have been well pleased to make Jersey my home as long as I
lived.

But my mother's health, which seemed so well to have borne the strain
of that terrible night and the fatigues of my long illness, now began
to fail. She had feverish nights and a slight cough, which made Cousin
Marianne look grave whenever she heard it; and she became restlessly
anxious to go home, as she said—to see once more the house where she
was born, and the places where she had wandered when a child.

"It may be an idle fancy," said she one day to Cousin Marianne; "but
since I cannot share my husband's grave, I should like to lie beside my
father and mother."

"You must not give up life for a bad business," said Cousin Marianne.
"Wish and try to live for your daughter's sake."

"I should strive to live, if striving would do any good," said maman;
"but my life is in better hands than mine. As to wishes, I believe I
have none, unless it be this one—to see Cornwall once more."

"I should urge you to stay longer, if I did not believe that your
native air might do you good. I have some longings for a sight of that
same Cornish home myself," she added, with a little gentle sadness in
her voice. "It comes to me in my dreams at times, but I can never leave
my cousin till one of the girls is old enough to govern the family, and
by that time I fancy, I shall be ready for a better home even than the
old house at Tre Madoc."

Andrew, too, was anxious to depart. His ship was to sail in June, and
he wished to see us in safety, and to spend a little time with his
mother and sisters before setting out on his long voyage to the Indies,
whither his ship was bound.

So at last, it was settled that we were to sail for England with the
first good opportunity, spend a few days in London, to dispose of my
mother's jewels to advantage, and then go by sea to Plymouth, from
whence the land journey would be but short.

An opportunity was not long delayed, for a good merchant-ship, with
whose captain Andrew was well acquainted, touched at the island, and as
the accommodations were better than any we could have hoped for, we got
ready and embarked without delay.

I gave my white cat Blanchon to Eleanor. I grieved to part with him,
for he seemed a link to my lost home, but I should not have known how
to dispose of him in London, and Eleanor had grown very fond of him; so
I was glad to do something for her in return for all her goodness to
me. So Blanchon was left behind.

I parted from my cousins with many tears. They are all living still,
and the two elder ones in homes of their own; but Eleanor has never
married, and now governs her elder brother's house, as my cousin
Marianne did her father's.

Our voyage, though somewhat rough, was prosperous, and the morning of
the third day found us in lodgings which Andrew had procured for us in
a good situation. It was in one of the new streets which had been built
upon the ground covered by the great fire, and was therefore clean in
comparison with other parts of the town. But oh, how dingy and dirty
and forlorn it all seemed to me!

It is true, many of the buildings were very magnificent, and the
equipages quite wonderful to my country eyes; but what did that
matter, when half the time one could not see them for the fog and the
smoke of the sea-coal, a kind of fuel of which I knew nothing? I well
remember my dismay when, on putting my hand on the banister in going
down-stairs, I found it as begrimed as a blacksmith's.

We remained in London about two weeks. My Uncle Charles, my mother's
brother, was out of town with his family when we first arrived, but he
soon returned, and came at once to see us, with his wife. They were a
very fine lady and gentleman indeed, and dressed in the extreme of the
fashion. My aunt especially was quite wonderful to behold, with her
great bush of false hair, almost white, which formed an odd contrast to
her dark eyes and eyebrows. Her forehead and cheeks were spotted with
patches in the form of crescents, stars, and what not, and she wore the
richest of brocades with heaps of silver lace. She was a very pretty
woman, and very good-natured as well, though rather affected. I admired
her hugely, as the first specimen of a fine lady I had ever seen. They
were very kind and attentive to us, and my aunt was earnest with my
mother to remain with her, instead of going down into that barbarous
Cornwall, as she called it.

"Meg does not think it a barbarous desert, you see," said my uncle,
with some pique in his voice, I thought. "And as you have never seen it
and she has, she is perhaps the better judge."

"But such a lonely place," said my lady, with a very little pout; "no
society, no gentry! I should die of megrims in a week."

"Margaret will not die of megrims, I'll engage," said my uncle; "nor
my niece here. Come here, child, and let us look at you. I protest,
Margaret, she is a beauty. Leave her with us, if you will not remain
yourself, and we will find her a good husband."

"Vevette's market is already made," said my mother, smiling, though I
could see she was annoyed. "You know it was an old family compact that
she is to marry her cousin Andrew, and both the young folks are well
suited therewith."

"Andrew Corbet! Why, he is not even a captain, and the estate at Tre
Madoc cannot be worth more than four hundred a year all told," said my
uncle. "Besides, unless he abandons his profession, the child will be
a widow without any of the advantages of widowhood. There, I beg your
pardon, Meg. I did not mean to hurt you."

My mother made no reply, but began to ask after other members of the
family—the Stantons and Corbets of Devonshire.

"Oh, poor Walter is dead of the plague, and his young wife also! He
married a girl young enough to be his daughter, and a great beauty, but
neither of them lived long."

"I thought his wife was that Margaret Matou, who lived at the court
with the former Lady Stanton," said my mother.

"Yes, she was his first wife, and a charming creature, I must say,
though not handsome; but the second was quite different. However, she
died, poor thing, and left no children, so the old house stands empty
at present."

"There was a daughter, was there not?"

"Yes, she lives with Mr. Evelyn, her guardian, who is bringing her up
in his strait-laced fashion."

"To be a companion to his pattern Mrs. Godolphin," said his wife,
laughing.

"He might do worse," returned my uncle. "But come, sister d'Antin, make
up your mind to leave your daughter with us for her education. I assure
you she will have every care and advantage of masters, and we will make
her a girl you shall be proud of."

My aunt seconded the invitation most kindly, but my mother was quite
firm in declining it. We promised them a visit, however, to my secret
delight.

When Andrew came back from the navy office, whither he had been to
report himself, and heard what had passed, his brow darkened, and he
said anxiously:

"You will not surely think of it, aunt. You will not leave our Vevette
here to be made a fine lady of?"

"Have no fear, Andrew," answered my mother. "Nothing is farther from my
thoughts than to put my child into such hands. I would almost as soon
have her in the hospital with poor Lucille."

"I am sure my uncle and aunt seem very kind," said I rather
indignantly, and feeling somehow vexed that Andrew should say "our
Vevette," though he had often done so before. I was quite dazzled, in
truth, by the splendor of these new relations, who revived in some
degree my old daydreams.

"They are so in their way, but that way is not ours," said my mother;
"and even were the advantages they offer greater than I think them, I
do not believe my child would wish to leave her mother for their sake."

"Oh, no, no!" I cried, feeling for the moment all I said. "Not for
worlds."

"That is settled, then," said my mother. "And now tell us, Andrew,
where have you been?"

Andrew told us he had been to the naval office, where he had met an old
friend, Mr. Samuel Pepys, with whom, knowing him to be a man of honor
and wise in such matters, he had taken counsel as to the sale of my
mother's jewels. He said further that Mr. Pepys believed he could find
a merchant who would give good value for the said jewels, and that the
gentleman proposed to bring his wife to visit us on the morrow, if it
would be agreeable.

"I must warn you not to judge him by the outside, for he is a vain
little fellow in some ways," said Andrew, smiling; "but he is in truth
a good man, and his wife is a bright little body."

Of course my mother could say no less than that we should esteem the
visit an honor, and the next morning they came. I had thought my
uncle's dress wonderful fine, but it was nothing to that of Mr. Pepys,
though I must say the latter was both richer in itself and better
fancied. His wife was a pretty, black woman, who spoke French very
nicely, and indeed it was in some sort her native tongue. Mr. Pepys
bought some of my mother's lesser jewels himself, especially a diamond
in a clasp which his wife fancied, and promised to find a purchaser for
the rest—a promise which he fulfilled to our great advantage.

His conversation was an odd mixture of worldly shrewdness and an almost
childlike simplicity, but I observed with approval that he did not load
his discourse with oaths as my uncle, and even his wife, had done. On
the whole, I liked our new friends very well, and when he proposed to
carry me out and show me something of the parks and the city, I looked
to my mother rather anxiously for her approval. She made no objection;
so Mr. Pepys came by and by with his coach (which I fancy he had not
possessed a great while, he seemed so proud of it), and took us into
the park, and there showed us many great lords and ladies, pointing
out to us, with a kind of awful reverence, my Lady Castlemaine, and
some other person of the same stamp. I saw my mother flush as with
indignation as she said, half to herself:

"And it is in such a world as this that they would have me leave my
child to be brought up!"

"You must not think, madame, that all the ladies about the court
are like these," said Mr. Pepys. "There are many who bring up their
families in all virtue and godly living, like my good Lady Sandwich and
others I could name. But I am quite of your mind as to Mrs. Genevieve,
and if I were so happy as to be blessed with a daughter, she should,
if possible, grow up in the country. His Majesty is a most noble
prince—Heaven bless him, with all my heart!—but his example in some
things hath done our young people little good."

It seemed that the merchant to whom we hoped to dispose of our jewels
was out of town, but as he was to return in a few days, Andrew advised
us to wait for him. Meantime, at their earnest entreaty, we spent a few
days with my uncle and aunt.

My mother indeed passed much of her time in her own apartment, which,
as her widowhood was so recent, no one could decently object to; but I
went out several times with my aunt to the park, and even to Whitehall,
where I saw the king and queen, and many great people besides. It
seemed that the king had heard something of our story; at all events,
he noticed me, and asking who I was, I was informally presented to him.
There was less formality about the court at that time than ever has
been before or since. He spoke kindly to me—for he was always kind when
it cost him nothing—asked after my mother, and made me a compliment on
my good looks. I noticed after this, that my aunt was rather in a hurry
to get me away, and she never took me thither again.

But the mischief was done. All my old daydreams of wealth and ambition
waked to life again, and I began to indulge them more and more. My
conscience did not let me fall into my old courses without warning
me, it is true; but I began to disregard its teachings, and to repine
at the strict manner in which I had been brought up. I had grown very
handsome since my illness, and I was quite aware of the fact—as what
girl is not? And when I was away from my mother's side and in my aunt's
drawing-room, I received many flourishing compliments, such as were
then in fashion, from the gallants who visited her.

I soon began to compare my good Andrew with these fine gentlemen, not
at all to his advantage, and I wished, if it were my fate to marry him,
that he had a more genteel figure, and knew better how to set himself
off. My aunt and uncle did not scruple to say before me that it was a
shame I should so sacrificed—sent down to the country to be brought up
by a set of Puritans, and married to another, without any chance to
raise myself by a good match, as I might easily do.

"'Tis a poor thing for Andrew, too," I heard my uncle say one day; "he
ought to marry some rich merchant's daughter, and renew his estate."

"Why do you not tell him so?" asked my aunt. "There is Mrs. Mary
Bakewell, who would jump at the chance of making herself a lady with
her thousands. Truly, she is plain enough, and something the elder, but
she is a good creature after all. Why not propose it to him?"

"I did," replied my uncle, laughing; "and you should have seen him. He
treated me to a real Cornish thunder-gust."

"Why, what did he say?" asked my aunt, while I listened with all my
ears, as we say.

"He said he would rather travel the country with an ass and panniers,
selling sand to the old wives, than sell his manhood for a fortune. I
said the lady was a good lady, and well nurtured, and he answered:

"'So much the worse,' and then added, 'You mean kindly, I dare say, and
I thank you, but I am old-fashioned enough to desire to love my wife.'"

"He is a rustic, without doubt," returned my lady, with a little touch
of sarcasm in her voice. "I think you may as well let matters stand as
they are, Charles. You will gain nothing by meddling, and 'tis but a
thankless office, educating of other people's children."

"I believe you may be right," said my uncle, "and yet I confess I
should like to keep the girl."

My aunt made no reply, and the conversation was dropped. I must say
I looked on Andrew with a good deal more favor after this. It was
something to have a servant (that was the fine phrase at that time) who
had refused a great match for my sake.

Our visit at my uncle's was cut rather short from two circumstances, I
fancy. One was that he was displeased my mother should have taken Mr.
Pepys' advice about selling her jewels. My lady herself had a fancy for
these same jewels, and would have bought them on credit, which we could
ill afford. Besides which my mother told Andrew and me that it was not
well to have money transactions between near relatives.

"They are sure to lead to misunderstanding and coldness, if not to open
rupture," said she. "Moreover, from what I have seen, I believe my
brother to be already embarrassed with debts."

"I know it for a fact," said Andrew; "and I believe you have done
wisely. Mr. Bakewell is now returned, and is ready to treat with you
for the jewels at any time."

"Then we will finish the affair as soon as may be, that we may turn
our faces homeward," replied my mother. "I long for the sight of green
trees and running streams, and, above all, for a cup of cold water
from St. Monica's well. I can see it now, bubbling up under the ruined
arch," she added musingly, with that far-away look which had lately
come to her eyes. "Some day, Andrew, you must restore that arch."

"I will," said Andrew, with a certain solemnity, and they were both
silent a moment. Then he added, more cheerfully, "Then I will tell the
good woman at our lodgings that you will return to-morrow."

"This afternoon," said my mother; and so it was settled.

I believe another reason why my mother was willing to cut her visit
short was that she saw the influence my aunt and her way were beginning
to have upon me. I shall never forget how she looked at me when, in
some fit of impatience with my work; I gave vent to one of my aunt's
modish oaths. Those of the Religion in France looked upon all such
expressions with as much abhorrence as the Puritans of England or
America.

"Genevieve," said she sternly, "what would your father say?"

"I did not mean anything," said I, abashed and vexed at the same time.

"And there is just the fault," returned my mother. "Against what is the
commandment aimed, if not at the use of sacred names without meaning
anything?"

I did not reply, of course, and I was more careful in future, but
inwardly I murmured at my mother's strictness and Puritanism, as I
called it. I had learned this phrase from my uncle and his friends,
with whom everything serious or reverent was Puritanism.

I should have said that I went to church on Sunday with my uncle and
aunt. I was quite amazed at the splendor of the church, which had
recently been refitted, and delighted with the service, especially with
the chanting and singing. The sermon also I thought very good, though
I did not quite like the preacher's manner. But if I was pleased with
the clergyman, I was horrified at the manners of the congregation. I
saw the fine ladies and gentlemen bowing and curtsying to each other,
whispering—nay, all but talking aloud—and passing snuff-boxes and
smelling-bottles back and forth. One of the gentlemen I had seen at
my aunt's the day before, bowed to me as he came in, but I looked the
other way.

"What a gracey sermon—just like a Presbyterian," said my aunt, yawning,
without any disguise, almost before the congregation was dismissed.
"And why did you not curtsy when Mr. Butler bowed to you? Did you not
see him?"

Then I made one of the great mistakes of my life. I yielded to that
miserable shame of doing right, which is the undoing of so many, and
answered, "I was looking another way."

"Oh, I thought perhaps it was against your principles," said my aunt,
in that light tone of contempt which always stung me to the quick. "I
know some of our Puritans will not acknowledge a salute in church.
I don't believe my old Lady Crewe would return a bow from the king
himself, if prayers had begun."

"Yes, she is true to her colors," said my uncle. "I like her the better
for it too," and he sighed a little.

I heard afterward that he had been a great precisian in the days of the
Protector, though, like many others of the same sort, he went to the
other extreme now. Their fear of God, like mine own, was taught by the
precept of men, and therefore was easily enough overthrown by the same.

"But you must have your wits about you, child," said my aunt. "'Tis a
dreadfully uncivil thing not to return a salute. Mr. Butler will think
you a little rustic."

I am ashamed to say that I was more troubled at the thought that Mr.
Butler should think me a rustic than at the lie I had told. When I came
to my mother, she asked me of the sermon, and I told her all I could
remember.

"'Tis a great privilege to hear the blessed Word preached openly to all
the people," said my mother, sighing a little.

"'Tis a privilege a good many do not seem to appreciate," said Andrew,
who had come in as usual to see my mother; "you should see the king
and countess at church, madame. The Duke of York spent the whole of
sermon-time this morning talking and laughing with some painted madams
or other, through the curtains of the pews. If my cousin had been
the preacher, I believe he would have spoken to them before all the
congregation. What can you expect when our rulers set such an example?"

"What did the king do?" I asked.

"He was more attentive to the preacher. He is not one to hurt any one's
feelings by incivility, though he would not care for his going to the
rack, so he did not see it."

"Hush, my son!" said my mother reprovingly. "'Tis a besetting sin of
yours to speak evil of dignities."

Andrew shrugged his shoulders, but he had too much respect to answer my
mother back again.

But I am going back in my story. That very afternoon we returned to our
lodgings. Our friends took leave of us cordially enough, and my aunt
made me several very pretty presents, especially of a pocket working
equipage, containing scissors, needles, thimble, and other implements,
beautifully wrought, and packed in a very small compass.

Besides these she gave me a volume of plays and poems, which last, I am
ashamed to say, I did not show to my mother. My mother presented her
with a handsome clasp of Turkey stones and pearls, and my uncle with a
gold snuff-box, which had belonged to her husband's father, and had a
picture of some reigning beauty—I forget whom—enamelled on the lid; so
we all parted friends.

The next day being Sunday, we went to a French Protestant church, where
the worship was carried on according to the forms used by us in our
own country. There had been an attempt made in the days of Charles the
First to compel the French Protestants to conform to the Church of
England, but it had not been carried out in the present reign. Great
numbers of the refugees did in fact conform to the church, and indeed
take orders therein, not considering the differences as essential; but
others preferred the ways they were used to, and these had chapels of
their own. It was to one of these churches, in Threadneedle Street,
that we went; and here a great surprise awaited us.

We were no sooner seated than I began to have that feeling we have all
experienced, that some one was looking earnestly at me, and turning
my head about I saw in the gallery Simon and Jeanne Sablot. I could
hardly believe my eyes; but there they were, decent as usual, though
poorly dressed enough, and sadly changed since I had seen them last.
Simon's hair was white as snow, and Jeanne's ruddy cheeks were faded
and sunken. They both smiled, and then Jeanne's face was buried in her
hands and her frame shaken with sobs.

I had no time to direct my mother's attention to them, for the minister
at that moment entered the desk and the service began. Here was no
whispering, no exchange of salutes or snuff-boxes. Many of those before
the preacher had but just escaped from their enemies, thankful to have
their lives given them for a prey, as the prophet says; and it was
to them a wonderful thing to attend upon their worship openly and in
safety.

It was not the regular minister who preached, but one who had but
lately escaped from the house of bondage, and was able to give us the
latest account of the unhappy country we had left behind. It was a sad
tale of oppressive edicts, pressing always more and more severely upon
our brethren; of families desolated and scattered; of temples pulled
down and congregations dispersed. There were still sadder tales to be
told, of abjurations and apostasies—some forced by harshness, others
brought about by bribes and cajolery. Then the preacher changed his
tone and spoke of midnight assemblies, like that of ours in the cellar
of the old grange; of consistories held and discipline administered in
caves and lonely places of the mountains, and of our fallen brethren
coming, with tears and on bended knees, imploring to be restored to
that communion to which to belong meant shame, imprisonment, and death.
The old man's face shone and his voice rang like a trumpet as he told
of these things, stirring every heart in the assembly, even mine. I
felt miserably ashamed of my late frame of mind, and resolved that I
would forsake the world, and live for heaven once more.

The sermon was long, but it came to a close at last, and the Lord's
Supper was administered. It was then that my mother discovered our two
old friends. I feared at first that she would faint, but she recovered
herself, and when they came to us after sermon, she was far calmer and
more collected than they were. She invited them home to our lodgings,
which were not far distant, and they spent the rest of the day with us.

"How and when did you leave home?" was naturally the first question.

"About two weeks after the house was burned, madame," answered Simon.

"It is burned, then," said my mother.

"Oh, yes, madame. The mob plundered it thoroughly and then set it on
fire, and little is left but the shell. A fine gentleman came down from
Paris a few days afterward. He was very angry at the destruction, and
threatened all sorts of things if the plunder was not brought back,
but he recovered very little. Our house was also set on fire, but
owing to the rains it did not burn, and after a few days we ventured
to return to it and gathered together some few things. I have a parcel
for you, madame, intrusted to my care by Monsieur, which the wretches
did not find. Our small store of ready money also escaped their hands.
David, whom you know we were expecting, came just then, and we returned
with him to Dieppe, and after a week or two, he found us a passage to
England. As I said, we had a small store of ready money, but it soon
melted away, and though, by Jeanne's skill in lace-making and mending
and my own work with a market gardener, we have made shift to live, it
has been poorly enough. But why should we complain? We are in safety,
and can worship God according to our conscience."

"But David!" said I.

"He would not come, mamselle. He is in high favor with his employer,
who protects him, and he says he has so many opportunities of helping
others, that he will not as yet abandon his post. Besides, he cherishes
a hope, though I believe it is a vain one, of rescuing Lucille."

"Why do you think it a vain one?" I asked.

"Because, mamselle, she does not wish to be rescued. She has made a
profession, as they call it, and we hear she is high in favor with
her superiors, and a willing instrument in their hands in coaxing or
compelling the poor little children to abjure. We thought it a great
mercy when she, the last of five babes, was spared to us; but now I
wish she had died in the cradle, like the rest."

"She is not yet out of the reach of mercy, my poor Simon," said my
mother. "We must all remember her in our prayers." She paused, and then
added, with a great effort, "Do you know what became of my husband's
body?"

"He rests in peace, madame," answered Sablot. "Jean La Roche and myself
buried him at midnight, by the side of my own babes, in our orchard.
We levelled the ground and laid back the turf, so that none should
suspect."

My mother rose and left the room, making me a sign not to follow her.
When she came back at the end of an hour she had evidently been weeping
bitterly; but she was now quite calm. She asked many questions about
our servants, our tenants, and neighbors. The maids had all escaped,
in one way or other, he told us. Julienne, he thought, would conform,
as her sweetheart was earnest with her to do so. Marie had gone to
Charenton. Old Mathew was found dead in the orchard, but without any
marks of violence, and Simon thought he had died of the shock, as he
was a very old man. Of Henri, he knew nothing.

"And what will you do, my poor friends?" said my mother. "How can we
help you? If I were not going to the house of another, I would take you
with me."

"Oh, we shall do very well, madame," said Jeanne cheerfully. "I get
a great deal of fine washing and mending, especially of lace, and if
Simon could buy some turner's tools of his own, he might set up a
little shop."

"I have a better plan than that," said Andrew. "My mother writes
me that our old gardener is just dead, and she knows not where to
find another. You shall go down to Cornwall and take his place. As
for Jeanne, she can wait upon madame, and teach old Deborah to make
omelettes and galette. That will be better than living in a dingy
street in London, will it not?"

"May Heaven's blessing rest upon you, my son," said my mother, while my
poor foster-parents could hardly speak a word, so overpowered were they
with the prospect suddenly opened before them. I was as pleased as my
mother, and at that moment would not have exchanged my sailor for the
finest gallant about the court.

The next day the business of the jewels was finished, and so favorably
for us that we were made quite independent in point of means. My mother
insisted on Simon's retaining at least half of the package of gold
he had brought away with him, and which he had never broken in upon
in his greatest needs, and Jeanne was soon neatly dressed in English
mourning. In a few days, we embarked with all our goods, which indeed
were not burdensome by reason of quantity, in a ship going to Plymouth.
We had a short and prosperous voyage, and after resting a day or two in
Plymouth, we took horse for the far more toilsome journey into Cornwall.

[Illustration]



[Illustration]

CHAPTER XI.

TRE MADOC.

IT was a toilsome journey. Andrew had taken great pains to provide easy
horses for us, and we carried some comforts in the way of provisions,
biscuits, gingerbread, two or three flasks of wine, and small packages
of coffee, and one of the new Chinese drink called tea, which had just
begun to come in fashion, and which has now become quite common, even
in tradesmen's families. For this, as for many other kindnesses, we
were indebted to Mr. Pepys and his good little wife.

We did not travel very rapidly, the roads being bad, even at this
time of the year, and such as in many places forbade our travelling
otherwise than in single file. The weather was charming—that was one
comfort—and the air as delicious as any I ever breathed in my life.
As we crossed the high moors, we saw abundance of those old heathen
monuments which abound in Normandy, and still more in Brittany, and
once we passed one almost exactly like that above our orchard, where my
father and I had our memorable conversation.

We stopped for rest and refreshment in little country towns, and
sometimes at lonely inns standing by themselves, such as would not have
been considered very safe abiding-places in France, and where we should
have been at a loss to make ourselves understood but for Andrew and the
sailor whom he had taken along from Plymouth. The Cornish tongue, which
is now fallen greatly into disuse, was at that time generally spoken
among the common people. I picked up a good deal of it afterward, but
at that time it was all heathen Greek to me, though my mother could
speak it a little.

I must needs say that, though we must have appeared as outlandish to
them as they did to us, the good folks were most kind to us, especially
when they had heard something of our story. They would express their
sympathy by sighs and tears, and by bringing out to us the best that
they had; and the men would often leave their work and walk miles
beside us to guide us on our way.

Simon kept up his courage very well, and indeed he enjoyed the journey;
but poor Jeanne's spirits sank lower and lower, and I think she would
have given out altogether had we not come, on the fifth day, to
cultivated fields and orchards. The sight of these last revived her
drooping courage, and when at last we reached the village of Tre Madoc,
always a neat little place, and passing it came to the brow of the hill
from which we looked down on the house of Tre Madoc, nestling amid
great trees in its south-land valley, with the clear stream falling in
a cascade at the upper end and rushing down to the sea, she was quite
another woman.

"Is this not beautiful, Jeanne?" said my mother, her eyes filling with
tears as she gazed on the old home, unseen for so many years.

"It is, madame; I won't deny it, though the house is nothing in
grandeur to the Tour d'Antin. And the cottages do look snug and
comfortable; but after all it is not France!"

"No, it is not France: don't you wish it were?" said I. "How nice it
would be to see a party of dragoons coming after us over the hill, and
to be afraid to pass yonder tumbling old cross lest some one should see
that we did not bow to it!"

I am conscious that I spoke these words all the more sharply because I
was myself dreadfully homesick—not for France so much as for London,
with which I had fallen in love, though I had begun by disliking it so
much. I had had a taste of that life of which I had so often dreamed,
and I found the cup too sweet to wish to have that taste the only one.

My mother looked at me in surprise, but she had no time to speak the
reproof which her eyes uttered. It seemed that we were expected and
watched for. We saw a little lad, who had been sitting with his dog and
clapper watching the birds, leave his occupation and run down toward
the house, and presently an elderly lady, surrounded by three or four
young ones, came out upon the porch.

"There are my mother and sisters," said Andrew "and," he added to me,
in a lower tone, "your mother, too, Vevette! I hope you will love her."

"I am sure I shall," I tried to answer graciously, though I felt
inwardly vexed. I always was provoked when Andrew said any such thing
implying a kind of property in me.

I felt an unaccountable shyness of these new relatives, such as I had
not been conscious of either in Jersey or London, and I wished the
meeting with them could be postponed. But our tired beasts now put
themselves into brisk motion, rejoicing, poor creatures, in the thought
of rest and food. We descended the hill, passed through a short avenue
of nut-trees, and came out before the same porch, overgrown with ivy
and a groat Virginia vine, as we used to call it, and found ourselves
in presence of our friends.

Andrew sprang from his horse and assisted my mother and myself to
dismount. The older lady clasped my mother in her arms.

"Dearest sister Margaret," said she, kissing her on both cheeks,
"welcome home! It is a happy day that sees you enter your father's
house once more. And this is my new daughter. Heaven bless you, my
love! I have a flock of maidens, as you see, but there is plenty of
room for one more. And who are these?" Turning to Simon and Jeanne, who
had also dismounted and stood modestly in the background.

My mother explained matters, and our poor friends were welcomed in
their turn and committed to the care of a very nice old woman, to be
made comfortable, while one of half a dozen old blue-coated serving-men
led away our horses and attended to our luggage.

Then we were conveyed into a parlor, a large low room wainscoted with
cedar and hung with handsome though faded needlework. Here we were
relieved of our riding gear and presented to our other cousins, of whom
I was too tired and confused to see aught but that Betty was small and
dark, Margaret tall and fair, and Rosamond very much like somebody I
had known, I could not say whom.

"But you are both tired with your long journey, I am sure," said my
aunt, after the first greetings had been exchanged. "Rosamond and Betty
shall show you your lodgings, and when you have refreshed yourselves we
will meet at supper. I have given you the gilded room, Margaret, and to
Agnes—or do you call her Genevieve?—the little chamber over the porch
beside it. I might have given you a more sumptuous apartment, my dear,"
she added, turning to me; "though indeed we are but plain country folks
at best; but the porch room hath a pleasant lookout, and I thought you
would like to be near your mother."

I murmured something, I hardly knew what, and my mother answered for
me. "Vevette is not used to luxury, my dear sister, and the porch room
is good enough for any young maid. May I ask you to send Jeanne to me?
She will feel herself very strange, I fear."

"She shall attend you directly," answered my aunt; "and glad I am that
two such confessors for the faith should find a shelter under this
roof."

"Take heed to the steps," said Rosamond, as we came to the foot of the
staircase; "they are somewhat slippery."

That they were, being of dark oak, and polished like glass with age
and much scrubbing. However, I was used to polished floors, and so did
not get a fall. We traversed a long gallery hung with pictures, and
came to my mother's room, which was large and low. Above the wainscot,
the walls were covered with old-fashioned stamped and gilded leather,
such as one seldom sees now. The bed was of needlework, with wondrous
white and fine linen—a matter in which we Corbets have always been
particular. There was a small Turkey carpet on the floor, and quite
a fine Venice glass, with branches, handsomer than that in my aunt's
dressing-room in London. I thought the room as pretty as any one I
had ever seen. Indeed, the whole house was finished with a richness
uncommon in remote country houses at that day, for the men of the
family, taking naturally to a seafaring life, had brought home from
abroad many articles of luxury and beauty.

My own room was by far the prettiest I had ever inhabited, even at any
aunt's house in London. It was partly over the porch, as my aunt had
said, and had a kind of projecting window which commanded a lovely view
of the sea and the shore. The bed was small and hung with white, and
there was a queer old cabinet or chest of drawers, which reminded me at
once of Jeanne's cherished bahut, which she often sighed over.

"That cabinet came from the south of France, they say," said Rosamond,
seeing my eyes fixed upon it. "My grandfather brought it home for a
present to his wife."

"There she goes," said Betty, laughing. "Rosamond knows the history of
every old piece of furniture and tapestry and every old picture and
sampler in the old house, and will retail them to you by the hour, if
you care to listen to her. They are all precious relics in her eyes."

"I am sure I shall care," said I, seeing that Rosamond looked a little
dashed. "I love things that have histories, and that old cabinet is so
like one that my poor foster-mother used to have, that I fell in love
with it in a moment; I think Rosamond and I will agree finely."

It was now Betty's turn to look a little vexed, but her face cleared up
directly.

"You will have abundance of entertainment, then, for the house is a
museum of old furniture and oddities. But this old tabernacle is a
convenient affair. Here are empty drawers, as you see, and a place to
write, and in this large drawer you will find clean towels and napkins
as you want them. Come, Rosamond, let us leave Agnes to dress herself.
I am sure she must feel the need of it."

I did indeed need such a refreshment, after my long ride. My mail was
already in the room, and it was with considerable satisfaction that I
arrayed myself in one of the new frocks which had been made for me in
London, and which, as I could not but be aware, set off to considerable
advantage my slender, erect figure. Then, very well satisfied with
myself, I went into my mother's room, where I found Jeanne, much
refreshed in mind and body, and disposed to regard her new home with
more favorable eyes. My mother was already dressed, and, seated in
a great chair covered with needlework flowers in faded silks, was
directing Jeanne in the unpacking of her mail and the disposition of
her clothes.

"You look well, my child," said she, holding out her hand to me. "Have
not the lines fallen to us in pleasant places? Even Jeanne admits that
the Cornish folk are Christian people, since, though they cannot speak
French, they know how to make cider."

"And very good cider too, madame," answered Jeanne; "and though I think
them not very polite to smile at the English which I learned so well to
speak in London, yet one must not expect too much of them, living as
they do at the very world's end. Why, they tell me, at least that old
sailor did, there is absolutely no land between the shore yonder and
that savage country of America. Do you think that can be true, madame?
It makes one almost afraid."

"It is quite true, my Jeanne; but I see no cause for fear," answered
my mother, smiling. "Some of our own people have settled in America,
and are prospering well. We have even relatives abiding there. My
husband and I have sometimes talked of the possibility of going thither
ourselves. Is not this a pretty place, my Vevette?"

"Yes, maman, very pretty, only—" and here I stopped; for something
choked me, and I felt a great disposition to cry.

"Only it is all strange and new, and my little one is overwrought,"
said my mother, kissing me. "I forget it is not a home-coming to you as
to me. Yet I hope you will try to be happy here," she added, regarding
me wistfully.

"Indeed I will, dear maman," I answered, making a great effort to
control myself, and succeeding pretty well. "I think the house is
beautiful, especially this room and my own; and only think, Mother
Jeanne, there is a bahut almost like yours, and my cousin Rosamond says
it came from the south of France. Perhaps it was made by the same man."

"That could hardly be, mamselle, for my great-grandfather made mine. He
was a skilful man, I have heard say, and made many beautiful pieces for
great houses."

"Then why not this one? Go and look at it," said I.

Jeanne obeyed, and soon came back in great excitement.

"It was—it really was made by my great-grandfather, madame!" she cried.
"There are the two doves pecketting on the top just the same, and the
very sign—the olive-leaf marked with a circle—which he used to put on
all his work. Is it not wonderful, madame? Is it not a good omen?"

And again she went back to examine the cabinet, and I followed her,
listening with interest while she pointed out the maker's sign carved
here and there upon the doors and drawers, and the peculiar beauty of
the steel hinges and locks.

This little incident diverted my mind and put me into better spirits,
and when Rosamond came to call us to supper, I was ready to meet her
with a smile. The meal was served in another room from that we had
seen before—a high-arched room with a gallery crossing one end, which
was situated—so Rosamond told me—in the older part of the house, and
was formerly the great hall. The meal was well served, and seemed
wonderfully abundant, though I was growing accustomed to English
profusion in the matter of eating and drinking. I could not but admire
the white, glossy sheen of the damask cloth and napkins, and the
beautiful china dishes, more beautiful than any I had ever seen. China
collecting was a great passion then, and my aunt in London would have
given one of her little pink ears for the curious standard dish full
of early strawberries which adorned the supper table, or the tall jug
crowned with frothy whipped cream beside it.

We young ones were more or less silent, of course, while my mother
and my Aunt Amy talked about old times, and who was dead, and whose
son had married which one's daughter, and all the rest of the chat
which goes on when old neighbors come together. My dear mother was—no
disparagement to her either—a bit of a gossip; though, as we had few
friends among our French neighbors, she had had little opportunity of
indulging her tastes; but now she grew more animated and interested
than I had ever seen her, in hearing all the news my Aunt Amy had to
tell.

"And what about our cousins at Stanton?" asked my mother presently.
"From what Andrew tells me, I suppose the present lady is not much like
the one I knew."

"No more than chalk is like cream cheese," answered Aunt Amy. "Yet she
is a good lady, too, and a kind stepmother to the lad who is left,
though she had two daughters of her own when she married my lord."

"And what like are they?"

"Nay, that you must ask Andrew. He has seen more of them than I have."

"Theo is well enough," said Andrew. "She is a merry girl, who cares not
much for anything but pleasure and finery, but she is good-natured at
least. Martha is a girl of another stamp. I pity the man who marries
her. She hath far more mind than Theo, but such a temper! Disagree with
her ever so little—do but dare to like what she hates or know something
she does not—and she is your enemy for life."

"Gently, gently, my son," said his mother, with a little laugh. "What
hath poor Martha done to you?"

"Nothing to me, mother, but I have seen enough of her doings to others.
I believe there is but one person in the world she stands in awe of—her
mother—and but one she loves—her half-brother, the young lord. I do
think she cares for him."

"Ah, well!" said my aunt easily. "If she has such a temper, it brings
its own punishment."

"And the punishment of a good many others also, unluckily," said
Andrew, and then the conversation turned to other things.

After supper Andrew proposed that we should go up and see the gardens.
The elders preferred sitting in the house, but we young ones went out,
after proper injunctions to keep moving and not to stay out after the
dew began to fall. Gardening, it appeared, had also been a fashion with
these curious Corbets, who seem to me from the earliest records to
have made their homes as pleasant as possible, only to run as far-away
from them as the limits of the world would allow. The flower-beds were
in their spring beauty, and were filled with rare plants and flowers,
which I never saw anywhere else.

The climate of Cornwall is very mild, so that the myrtle grows to a
great size out of doors, and many tender trees flourish which will not
live at all about London. I particularly admired a tall shrub With
red-veined leaves and covered with little scarlet bells in immense
profusion, and asked its name.

"I cannot tell you that," said Andrew. "My father brought it from the
West Indies, where it grows very large. This other bush, with bright
scarlet flowers and broad leaves, is from the Cape of Good Hope, but it
will bear no frost, so we take it in, in the winter."

"What great rosemary and lavender plants!" said I. "They make me think
of what Jeanne has told me about Provence, where they grow wild."

"They do fairly well, though the place is damp for them. See, yonder is
a tulip-tree. Is it not a grand one? The Americans make great use of
the wood, which, though soft, is very lasting for some purposes."

"What a pity to cut down such beautiful trees!" said I.

Andrew laughed.

"Trees are the great enemies over there," said he. "It did look
terribly wasteful to me to see great logs of bard maple, chestnut, and
oak, rolled into heaps and burned in the field, just to get rid of
them."

"What a shame!" said Betty. "Why not at least give them to the poor for
fuel. Goody Penaluna would be glad enough of such a log."

"If Goody Penaluna were there, she would have wood enough for the
asking," replied Andrew. "One can hardly say there are any poor, for
though they have often had hard times enough, yet it mostly comes share
and share alike."

"I believe Andrew hath a hankering after those same colonies in his
secret soul," said Betty. "You will find yourself transplanted thither
some time or other, Agnes."

Again I felt annoyed. I did not know why.

"Do not call me Agnes; call me Vevette," said I. "That is the name I
have always been used to."

"But Agnes is so much prettier. Vevette is like a nickname," objected
Betty.

"It is a sort of pet name, I suppose—short for Genevieve," remarked
Margaret. "If Vevette likes it best, she certainly has a right to
choose."

"But it is French," objected Betty again, "and she is an English girl
now. I am quite sure mother would prefer to have her called Agnes, and
Andrew too; wouldn't you, Andrew?"

"I should prefer that she should have her own way in the matter,"
answered Andrew shortly, and there the discussion ended for the time;
but we were no sooner in the house than Betty began it again, appealing
to her mother to say if it would not be much better for me to be called
by my English name now I was come to live in England.

"That is for her mother to say," replied Aunt Amy. "I presume she will
prefer to call her by the name she has been used to."

"I certainly shall prefer to do so, and to have others do so," said my
mother. "The name of Agnes was never a favorite of mine."

Betty said no more, but she never lost an opportunity of calling me
Agnes, till I took to calling her Elizabeth, to which name she had a
special aversion.

The next morning and for many succeeding days my mother was very
unwell, and I naturally spent most of my time with her in her
apartment, which was at some little distance from the rest of the
house. Jeanne attended on her, and Simon worked in the garden, taking
great pleasure in the variety of plants and flowers he found there. He
got on very well with his fellow-servants, being of a quiet and sober
disposition. He did not at all disturb himself when laughed at for his
mistakes in English, but only laughed back, or contented himself with
quietly correcting his mistake. But Jeanne's southern blood was more
easily stirred, and she more than once came to my mother declaring that
she could endure her life no longer.

Betty used to take pleasure in teasing her, as indeed she did every
one who came within her reach, except her mother and Andrew, of whom
she stood in awe. She and I had more than one encounter, in which I
can safely say that she met her match, and she did not like me the
better for it; but Rosamond was her especial butt, and she made the
poor girl's life miserable. Rosamond was of a studious turn of mind,
and loved nothing so much as to get away by herself, with a great
chronicle, or with her French or Latin books. It was a somewhat
uncommon disposition at that time, when the education of women was much
neglected, even more than it is now. But the Corbets have always been
rather a bookish race, and Rosamond was a true Corbet in all things.
She loved acquiring new ideas above any other pleasure in the world.
She made Simon tell her all about Normandy and Brittany, and there were
several old sailors in the village to whose tales of foreign parts she
was delighted to listen for hours, albeit I fear they were sometimes
more romantic than reliable.

Aunt Amy never interfered with this taste of Rosamond's, but allowed
her to read as much as she pleased, though she never cared to open a
book herself. Margaret was Rosamond's champion in all things, though
she thought so much reading a waste of time; but Betty was always
tormenting the poor girl, hiding her books, destroying her collections
of dried plants and shells, and laughing at and exaggerating the
mistakes which she now and then made in her preoccupation. I must say
that in general Rosamond bore all with the utmost sweetness, but now
and then she would fly into a passion. Then Betty would provoke her
more and more till she succeeded in driving Rosamond into a burst of
passionate crying, which generally ended in a fit of the mother, which
brought my aunt on the scene.

Then Betty would be all sweetness and soothing attentions to the
sufferer, bringing everything she could think of to relieve her, and
affecting to pity and pet her till, if it had been me, I am sure I
should have boxed her ears. Aunt Amy never saw through these manœuvres,
but when Rosamond recovered, she would talk to her seriously about the
necessity of governing her temper, and Rosamond would listen humbly and
meekly promise to try and do better. There was always more real worth
in her little finger than there was in Betty's whole person, but her
timidity and absent-minded ways often made her appear at a disadvantage.

She and my mother were soon great friends, and she used to bring her
precious books to our apartment, where Betty dared not intrude. Here
she would read aloud to us for hours, or practise her French and
Italian with maman and myself. She spoke them both horribly, but was
very desirous to improve, and made great progress.

Margaret also joined in the French lessons, but she had a great
many other things on her hands. She took a good deal of the care of
housekeeping off her mother. She visited the poor in the village, and
worked for them, and she had taken upon herself a kind of supervision
of the dame school, which furnished all the education for the village
of Tre Madoc. Old Dame Penberthy, who taught or rather kept it, had not
been a very good scholar in her best days, I imagine, and she was now
old and half blind. The little children were sent to her to be kept out
of mischief, and taken away as soon as they were fit for any sort of
work. Some of the brightest of them learned enough to pick out, with
much stammering, a chapter in the Testament, and these were the dame's
best scholars, whom she exhibited with great pride.

Margaret, however, had lately taken the school in hand, moved thereto
by something she had read, and also by Andrew's wish for a better state
of things. He had seen in the American colonies day-schools established
for all sorts of children, and he wished for something of the same sort
at Tre Madoc. So Margaret had persuaded the dame to take home an orphan
grandniece, a clever girl who had lived a while at the court, and the
old woman easily fell into the way of letting this girl, Peggy Mellish
by name, have most of the charge of the school.

Margaret herself went every other day, to inspect the sewing and
spinning, and to hear the children say their horn-book and teach them
their Belief and Commandments. * By and by she would have me join her
in this work. I was fond of walking and of children; my mother and
Andrew favored the plan, and so I took hold of it with great zeal, and
after a few visits along with Margaret to learn her ways, I even took
charge of the school on alternate days, and soon knew as much about the
families of the children, their wants and ways, as Margaret herself.

   * A horn-book was a printed sheet containing the alphabet and some
other lessons, protected from moist little lingers by a sheet of
transparent horn.

Thus it came to pass that Betty was in a manner left out in the cold.
It was her own fault, I must needs say, for she laughed equally at
Meg's and my teaching and Rosamond's learning; but she was not any more
pleased for that; and so, partly from idleness, partly for revenge, she
set herself to make mischief between Andrew and me. But I must put off
the relation to another chapter.



[Illustration]

CHAPTER XII.

MISCHIEF.

I HAVE said that my mother was very unwell for a time after her arrival
at Tre Madoc, and my aunt feared she would go off in a quick decline.
But by degrees she recovered strength again, so as to walk into the
garden to help my aunt in the still-room and dairy occupations, of
which she was very fond, and after a while to ride the easy old pony as
far as the village, to see some of the sick and old people.

An accident had happened to Andrew's ship, the Enterprise, which had
put off her sailing for some weeks. We were all very glad of the
respite, my mother especially, to whom Andrew was most devoted—more so
than to myself, which was very sensible of him. He used to walk at her
bridle-rein, gather flowers for her, and in short, pay her a great many
attentions which were more lover-like than filial. He had never again
spoken to me on the subject of marriage, and always sharply hushed up
any allusion to the matter on the part of other members of the family;
and though he was very kind and very attentive to my comfort, it was
more as a brother than a lover.

It was the course, if he had known it, just calculated to make me care
for him, if only out of pique, and accordingly I began to watch for
his coming, to wonder whether he would ask me to walk with him, and to
dress so as to please his eye. I began to take an interest in the farm
and garden, as indeed I had been used to do at home, and I was more
than ever zealous in visiting and working for the school and the poor
folks. My aunt had taken to me at once, and I to her, and I believe
but for the meddling of another we should never have had a falling
out. My charitable work and my studies with Rosamond and my mother had
again brought my better self uppermost, and despite Betty's teasing and
an occasional sigh for London, or a spasm of home-sickness for dear
Normandy, I was very happy.

I have said that Betty set herself to make mischief, and she succeeded
certainly to her heart's content, or one would have thought so. She is
gone to her account long ago, poor thing, and I feel tenderly toward
her memory, for she was my Andrew's sister; but I cannot make my story
understood without speaking of her faults.

She began with Jeanne. The housekeeper and chief personage under
Margaret was an old woman named Deborah Permuen, an excellent person,
but of somewhat irritable temper, and very jealous of her authority
and her influence with her mistress. She and Jeanne had begun by being
great friends; for Deborah was a hot Protestant, and a Presbyterian to
boot, who, though she regularly attended the parish church on Sundays,
as regularly went on Thursdays to a gathering of her own sort of folks,
which was held in a cottage on the verge of the estate. She even
condescended to learn of Jeanne how to prepare an "omelette aux herbs"
and several other French dishes, imparting in return various important
culinary secrets of her own.

By degrees, however, her friendship cooled. She began to throw out
hints about interlopers, and French Jesuits in disguise coming to
interfere in peaceable families. She declined anything but civilly a
proposition of Jeanne's to teach her the true way of making a galette;
and at last—the crowning offence—threw into the pig's mess a fine
salad with crawfish, which Jeanne had prepared for Andrew's birthday,
declaring that she would not have her young master poisoned with French
pig-wash.

Jeanne rushed to my mother with complaints, not observing or not
heeding that my aunt was in the next room looking over a drawer of
linen in the cabinet. Then Deborah was called upon the scene, and told
her story, which she did with many tears and exclamations that ever she
should have lived to see the day that she should be supplanted by a
foreigner, and so on.

"You foolish old woman, what do you mean?" said my aunt, out of
patience at last. "Who is thinking of supplanting you?"

"Why, that French woman there?" sobbed Deborah, pointing to Jeanne,
who, burning with indignation all the more because my mother had
imposed silence on her, stood behind her mistress' chair. "Did not she
say that she would have me out of this house in a twelvemonth, and that
when her young lady ruled the roast in the parlor it would be her turn
in the kitchen?"

"I don't believe she said so," said my mother; and she translated
Deborah's remark for Jeanne's benefit.

"Indeed, indeed, madame, I never said such a word," was Jeanne's reply.
"I never thought of such a thing. I had too much respect for Deborah,
let alone Madame Corbet, ever to say a thing so un-polite, so improper."

"What did you say to Mrs. Betty then, when she asked you about it?"
demanded Deborah, beginning to calm down a little.

"Nothing at all," was the answer. "Mrs. Betty said to me that she
supposed I should be the—what say you?—the manager, when Mrs. Vevette
and the young master were married, and that she hoped I would give them
more nice things than Mrs. Deborah did; to which I answered nothing;
for it did not seem to me, craving madame's pardon, that it was a
proper way for a young lady of the house to speak to a servant. So,
when she added something more, I said I was Madame d'Antin's servant,
and at her disposal; and I added no more. My feelings have been much
hurt by Mrs. Deborah's remarks of late; and to-day especially I was so
moved by her treatment of my salad—ah, madame! Such noble salade des
écrevisses! That I fear I forgot myself. Alas, it is too easy to wound
the heart of an exile and a childless mother."

And here Jeanne wept in her turn, and Deborah began to look rather
ashamed, and to mutter some thing about "not meaning."

"I see how it is," said my aunt, who with all her easiness of
disposition was not a person to be despised. "Deborah has allowed
herself to be prejudiced, and to believe her mistress capable of the
most unworthy conduct."

"Oh, mistress, don't!" implored Deborah, weeping afresh.

"And she has been guilty of great unkindness toward a stranger and a
foreigner, and one of her own religion," added my aunt, with emphasis;
"while Jeanne has perhaps been too hasty and ready to take offence."

"I own it, madame," sobbed Jeanne in her turn; "I have been too hasty;
but to be called a Jesuit, when I have suffered so much by them; and
then my beautiful salad, which the young master used to like so much in
France—"

"Well, never mind," said my aunt. "I am sure Deborah is sorry she
called you by such an ugly name; and as to the salad, I think if we
can forgive the loss, you can. Come, now, let me see you shake hands
and make friends, like Christian women; and let me hear of no more
quarrels."

The two combatants obeyed, with a very decent grace on Deborah's side,
and with considerable effusion on that of Jeanne, who adored my aunt,
and, to do her justice, was always placable.

Deborah departed to her own dominions, and my aunt, going to her own
room, sent for Mrs. Betty, who did not appear at dinner, and who was at
least more careful in her conduct for some days, though I have reason
to think her heart was little affected by her disgrace or her mother's
admonitions. It was only a few days afterward that Jeanne came to her
mistress again, with a humble request that she would intercede with
Madame Corbet to allow her to change her room. For since my mother had
been so unwell Jeanne had occupied a room at the end of the gallery
leading to our apartment, which, as I have said, was somewhat separated
from the rest of the house.

"Why, what is the matter with the room?" asked my mother. "I thought it
a very nice one."

"And so it is madame, but—"

"But what?"

"I would rather not sleep there, madame."

"Some one has been telling you ghost stories," said I, a sudden idea
coming to me. "Is it not so?"

"Ah, mamselle!" and Jeanne began to cry, as usual.

"Do be reasonable," said my mother, rather impatiently, for she was
tired and not very well. "Stop crying, and tell me what has scared you."

It was not easy to pacify Jeanne, but we succeeded at last, and then
the truth came out. Mrs. Betty had told her that a headless woman with
fiery eyes came out of a secret closet in the hall of that room, which
no one had been able to find, and that whoever saw her became blind.

"Where does she keep her fiery eyes, if she has no head—in her pocket?"
I asked, laughing at this very original ghost. "Perhaps she carries
them on a dish before her, like St. What's-her-name in the picture."

"Ah, mamselle! Do not laugh. I did indeed see something—two fiery eyes
in the dark—and my eyes have not felt right since."

"The eyes of that great gray cat which is always following you
up-stairs and down," said my mother. Then, seeing that the poor woman
was really unhappy, she tried to reason her out of her fears on
religious grounds, but, as usually happens in such cases, without much
success. Jeanne owned the truth of all she said; but—

Finally my mother gave way, and asked my aunt to allow a cot-bed to be
put into the large light closet which opened from my mother's room.

"Why, certainly, if you like to have her there," said my aunt. "You
know I thought it would be more convenient for you, in the first place."

"It is not that exactly," replied my mother; "but Jeanne has taken
a fit of superstitious terror and is afraid of, I know not what
apparition, which some one has told her comes out of a closet in the
wall of her room. I have reasoned with her, but, of course, to no
purpose."

"Is there really such a ghost about the house, aunt?" I asked.

"There used to be an old story to that effect," said my aunt; "but I do
not know that any one has ever seen the apparition. Cornwall is famous
for such things. You shall hardly find an old hall or mansion in the
country which has not its tale of wonder."

"I think there is more of it than there used to be in Normandy even,"
I remarked: "Old Dame Trehorn was quite in despair about her sons
yesterday, because she says she heard the old shoes dance of themselves
in the press the night before last, and she is sure their owners either
are or will be drowned. And Mary Mellish would not let the children
come to school yesterday because some one heard the wish-hounds the
night before."

"It is a pity the poor people would not learn to have more faith in God
and less fear of apparitions and the like," said my mother.

My aunt looked a little displeased. "I suppose, sister Meg, you will
hardly go so far as to say there are no such things as ghosts and
fairies and the like," said she. "That would indeed be to be wiser than
our fathers."

"But, Aunt Amy, we are wiser than our fathers in a great many things,
or think we are," said I. "Our fathers used to believe in purgatory,
and worshipping of images and the like, but we do not."

My aunt deigned me no answer.

"As to Jeanne, sister, you will of course do as you please, since she
is your woman, and the apartment is yours. I would, however, that you
would try to teach her to live on better terms with Deborah and the
other woman. I am not used to these quarrels below stairs."

I would have spoken, for I felt very warm in defense of my
foster-mother, but maman checked me with a look, and said gently that
she hoped not to need Jeanne much longer, and after that she would of
course lodge with her husband at his cottage.

"Why, there it is," said my aunt. "As soon as one speaks a word, you
take offence. And now that we are on the subject—" (she did not say
what subject), "I must say that I cannot think it becomes Vevette to
remark upon my housekeeping before the maids. She is not yet mistress,
however she may come to be, and I think young maids had best learn in
silence and not pass their judgment on what is done by their elders.
Ours Catechism teaches young folks to order themselves lowly and
reverently to their betters, whatever yours may do in France."

And here my aunt stopped, having talked herself quite out of breath.

"What do you mean, aunt?" I asked, quite bewildered by this accusation.
"When have I censured you?"

"Oh, you know very well what I mean, I am quite sure. It might be only
thoughtlessness, but you ought to be more careful."

"But, aunt, indeed I do not know; I have not the least idea," said I,
which was quite true.

"Will you be so kind, sister Corbet, as to tell my child and her mother
to what your allude?" said my mother, with all that stateliness which
was natural to her, but speaking kindly. "I assure you that if my
daughter hath done wrong, either wilfully or carelessly, she shall ask
your pardon."

Aunt Amy had had time to cool. "Ah, well, I dare say it was but
thoughtlessness; and young maids must be young maids, I suppose."

"But what was it?" my mother persisted, to my secret delight, for I was
not conscious of any offence.

Aunt Amy could not remember the words; only Betty had told her that
I had found fault with the housekeeping, and said that when I was
mistress I would have things thus and so. I began to see daylight.

"Dear aunt, I will tell you how it was," said I. "We were all gathering
lavender-flowers for the still, and I saw that Peggy, the still-room
maid, had been crying, and asked what was the matter. She said the
mistress had been scolding her because she had on ragged stockings, and
because she did not keep her head neat; and Betty asked me if I did not
think that was hard on the poor girl, when she had so much to, do. And
I said no: if I were her mistress I would make her knit her own hose
and wear a clear-starched cap every day, as the maids do in Normandy.
Then Meg laughed, and said I would be a pattern housekeeper, no doubt;
and I said I did not believe I should ever be as good-natured as you
were. That was the whole of it. I am sure nothing was farther from my
thoughts than any disrespect; and as to your housekeeping, I think it
is as perfect as can be—only, of course, many of the ways are different
from ours, and when I notice them 'tis natural to speak of them."

"Betty made much more of the matter than that," said my aunt. "Well,
sister Meg, I will have a cot-bed sent up, and you can place it where
you please. I am sure I want every one under my roof to be comfortable,
each in their degree. But another thing I must speak of."

Aunt Amy was like many other easy-going folks: when she got started she
never knew when to stop.

"I don't want you, Agnes—I mean Vevette, or whatever your name is—I
don't want you turning my girls' heads with romances and plays and
stories of London gaieties and London fine gentlemen and ladies. If you
have a taste for such matters, it is a pity you had not stayed with
your uncle, and married some fine gentleman about the court, instead
of poor Andrew, whose estate will stand no such doings, as I warn you
beforehand. There, I want no answer; but don't do it again." And with
that she bustled away.

"What does it all mean?" I asked, when I was left alone with my mother.

"It means what I might have considered before we came here—that no one
house was ever yet large enough for two families," said my mother. "But
what is this about turning heads with stories about London?"

"Why, maman, you know how Rosamond is—how she is always longing to hear
about places one has seen. The night before last I said I had told her
everything I could think of about La Manche and Jersey, and I should
have to begin upon London. So I told her of the parks and the palace
and other places where I went with my uncle and aunt and with Mr. and
Mrs. Pepys. Then Betty began asking me whether my uncle and aunt did
not see a deal of company, and so I told her something about that, and
about the dresses in the park, and so on. Rosamond did not care to
hear, and went away to her book, but Betty kept me telling a long time.
And last night she asked me about it again, and whether I would not
have liked to live with any aunt Jemima in London."

"And what did you say?" asked my mother. "I said, 'Not to leave you;'
and besides, since I had come down here and learned to know the people,
I liked the place; and so I do. Only I shall not like it, I am sure, if
my aunt turns against me."

"Let us hope she will not," said my mother. "Sister Amy is a good
creature, but she has an oddity of disposition which belongs to her
family. She will let herself be prejudiced against her best friend by
any mischief-maker who will take the pains to do it. Her sister, who
was my great friend when we were young, was just so. She made a hasty
marriage, against the wishes of her father and of her husband's family,
and though they forgave her afterward, she was for some time in a good
deal of trouble. I stood by her through all, yet she let herself be
altogether set against me by some of her husband's relations, who had
themselves said the most shameful things about her, even affecting her
reputation as a virtuous woman."

"She must have been very silly," said I.

"In that respect she certainly was. But, my Vevette, let me hear no
more of these talks with Betty about London. They are not very good
for yourself, who have, I fear, now and then a longing back-look to
the courts of Egypt, and I doubt their being good for Betty herself.
You had best avoid her company, so far as you can without offence, and
above all do not have any confidences with her. Margaret and Rosamond
are as open as the day, but unless I much misread poor Betty, she is a
born mischief-maker."

Here the conversation ended. That evening Betty began again to ask me
about London, having drawn me away from the rest of the young folks who
were assembled on the green; but I gave her short answers, and at last
plainly told her that I could say no more about the matter.

"But why not?" asked Betty. "You talked long enough about it last
night."

"Yes, and you went and told your mother, and she lectured me this
morning about turning your head with stories of London tine gentlemen."

Betty assumed an air of innocent surprise.

"Did you not want me to tell, then?" said she. "I never thought of
that. I have no secrets from my mother."

I was too angry to trust myself with a word, and I turned back to where
the rest of the family were standing, looking at a pair of hawks which
Andrew had taken from the nest and trained himself; for, sailor as he
was, he was very fond of field sports, specially of hawking. I placed
myself at his side, and began admiring and petting the hawks, which I
had often fed till they were fond of me. Andrew looked pleased.

"I shall leave them in your care," said he; "only old Joslyns must take
them out now and then or they will forget how to fly."

"I am sure I shall like to have them," said I. "And, Andrew, will you
get me a new hare's-foot for Dame Penaluna? She says hers does no good
because it was cut off below the first joint."

"What does she want it for—to paint her face withal?" asked Andrew.
"That is what the fine ladies use them for, is it not?"

"So I have heard," I answered, laughing; "but the dame wants hers as a
spell against the colic."

"She shall have it," said Andrew, and again he looked pleased, as he
always did when I made any little request, which was not often, for I
had grown shy of him of late. "You seem to be in the confidence of all
the old women in the hamlet, from what I hear. What do you do to make
them like you so much?"

"I don't know, unless it be that I listen to their stories," I
answered. "I think old folks usually do like that. They like to tell,
and I like to hearken, so we are both suited."

"Vevette is practising her part beforehand," said Betty, who had
followed me back to the green. "She means to be perfect in it by the
time she comes to be Lady of the Manor. My mother has never had time to
do so much listening."

Andrew shot one of his fiery glances at his sister, while I was so
confused and so angry both at once that I could not say a word. I was
going into the house when he called me and asked me to walk with him to
the end of the lane and look out upon the sea.

Betty said she would go too, but Margaret called her back rather
sharply, to my great joy, for I hardly felt like keeping terms with
her, and I was determined not to quarrel if I could help it.

"You must not mind poor Betty," said Andrew. (Why is the most
exasperating member of a family always spoken of as poor so and so?)
"She has always been the contrary feather in the family nest, ever
since she was born."

"I do not mean to mind her," said I, "if only she would not make
mischief. But I think it is too bad in her to lead me on to tell her
about London and my uncle and aunt there, and then go and tell your
mother, as if it had been all my doing. And then—but there, what is
the use?" I added. "You cannot understand, and there is no need of
troubling you with the matter. Only I wish we had stayed in Jersey—that
is all," I concluded, with a quiver in my voice.

Andrew pressed my hand, and we were silent a few minutes.

Then he said, "I have a favor to ask of you, Vevette."

"I am glad of it," said I, as indeed I was. "What can I do for you?"

"You are a famous knitter," said he. "Will you knit me a pair of long,
warm woollen hose before I go?"

"Yes indeed; but do you not want more than one pair?"

"I did not suppose you would have time for more than one."

"That is a likely story!" said I. "As if I could not knit more than one
pair of hosen in four weeks. I will begin them directly. I know Jeanne
has been spinning some famous yarn."

We talked a little longer about various matters—about the places where
Andrew was going, and the time when he would return—and then we fell
into graver talk, and from that again to jesting, till I had quite
recovered my serenity.

The next morning was my turn at the school, and I walked thither with
my head quite full of schemes for the improvement of my little folk
which I meant to talk over with Andrew, for somehow our walk and that
the night before had put us in some degree upon our old brotherly and
sisterly footing again. I found the children assembled and ready to
welcome me, and we had a prosperous morning.

When I came out, there was my mother on her pony, with Andrew at her
bridle-rein as usual. My little regiment sent off quite a feu de joie,
as I may say, of bobs and curtsies, showing their black curly heads
and white teeth to great advantage; for they were, almost without
exception, handsome. Cornwall was and is a country of handsome folk,
and our hamlet is no exception to the rule.

"And how does the college prosper?" asked Andrew, after he had spoken
to one and another of the young ones, and had acknowledged the salute
of Peggy Mellish, who stood smiling and curtsying in her clean kirtle
and apron, quite a picture of a young school-mistress.

"Very well," I answered; "only just now we are greatly in need of
certain articles called knitting-pins. There are none to be had, it
seems, nearer than Plymouth, if indeed they are to be found there. I
want to teach the elder girls to knit, but I cannot, if I have no pins."

"That does stand to reason," answered Andrew gravely; "but perhaps the
blacksmith could make some of these same pins, with a little of my
assistance. I am a bit of a smith myself."

"So you ought to be. The knights of old could forge their own armor,
you know. But I think you are a little of everything," said I. "If ever
we should be cast away upon a desert island, like the folks you read
of yesterday, you could set up housekeeping, and make yourself a great
king among the people."

"Jack at all trades and master at none," said Andrew, looking pleased,
as he always did when I made any such remark. "But here is your old
dame's hare's-foot. It has the needful joint, you see. I cut it off
myself."

"Many thanks. I will carry it to her, if you will wait for me."

"Nay, we will all go that way—that is, if Andrew does not mind the
walk," said my mother. "I have a fancy to see the old house at St.
Wenna's Well."

"The walk is nothing, so the ride is not too much for you," answered
Andrew. "As for Vevette, I know she minds walking no more than the old
pony here."

"Very polite, to compare me to a pony," said I, pretending to pout.
"But I shall like to see the old house. Does any one live in it?"

"Only the woman who cares for it; and she is worth seeing too,"
answered Andrew. "Is not this the old dame's cottage?"

It was, and the dame was within, groaning grievously with the colic;
but no sooner did she take the hare's-foot into her hand, such was the
virtue of the remedy or the effect of her faith in it, than she was
presently quite easy.

"Do you suppose it really helped her?" I asked, when we were again on
our way.

"Nay, that I cannot say," said Andrew. "'Tis an old notion, and for
aught I know may have some virtue in it. At all events, it hath this
advantage over some other medicaments, that if it does no good it can
do no harm."

"What is there so odd about the housekeeper at the Well House?" I
asked, when we had gone on a little.

"You will easily discover that when you see her," answered Andrew. "But
aside from her person, there is something peculiar in the manner of
her appearance among us. She was found when a little child, wandering
upon the sea-shore early one morning after a great storm of thunder
and wind. She was very small, but from her ways it was judged she must
be three or four years old, for she could speak plainly, though in a
language none understood. She was somewhat richly dressed, and had
about her neck a thin gold chain and the image of some bird wrought
in the same metal. The folk thought her a fairy changeling or else a
sea-maid, and were almost afraid of her; but an old couple then living
in the Well House took her in and brought her up as their own. She well
repaid their care, having been a most dutiful daughter to them. She
hath never married, and now that the old folks are dead, she lives in
the Well House, to take care of it. She is an odd little body, but very
faithful and honest."

We had by this time come in sight of the Well House, as it was called,
which stood in its own little coombe opening down to the sea at the
very mouth of Tre Madoc valley. It was a pretty little old house, built
of warm red stone and shadowed by a great walnut-tree and an ash. At a
little distance, and indeed almost joining the house, was a very tiny
ruined chapel or oratory, such as one often sees by the roadside in
France. A small bright stream ran through the garden, which was pretty
though rather wild and overgrown. I took a fancy to the place at once.

"It hath not changed in the least," said my mother; "only the trees are
grown and the old chestnut is away. What hath become of it?"

"It blew down a few years since in a great storm," answered Andrew. "I
made a cabinet and table of the wood, which are now in the house."

"Have you any of the chestnuts we brought from the Tour d'Antin?" asked
my mother, turning to me. "If so, you might plant two or three here."

"I have them, but I fear they are too dry to grow," said I. "However,
it can do no harm to try."

(Two of them did grow, and are now fine bearing trees.)

"See, there is the holy well, under the arch yonder," said my mother.
"I wonder do the village maids come on St. John's even to drop needles
into it that they may dream of their sweethearts?"

"Yes indeed; and the water is still sought for baptisms, under the
notion that no person christened with that water will ever be hanged,"
said Andrew. "See, Vevette, there is my fairy housekeeper."

A fairy indeed she looked. I never saw so small a person not to be a
dwarf, yet she was perfectly well proportioned and very upright. Her
hair, a little touched with silver, was black as a crow's wing, and
her eyebrows the same. On the whole, she was a very handsome little
creature, yet there was something about her so different from the
country people among whom she lived that I did not wonder to hear that
they regarded her as something not quite human. She made us welcome
with great politeness, and I could but notice how well she spoke
English. Andrew explained our errand.

"We shall give you some trouble, I fear," said my mother.

"Not at all, madame. It is a pleasure to me, and you are come in good
time, for I have just been opening and airing the house." And indeed we
had observed the open windows as we came up.

"We will not trouble you to go with us," said Andrew. "My aunt knows
the house of old."

She curtsied and withdrew to her own special domain, and we went
through all the rooms, which were in the best order, and certainly did
credit to the sea-dame's housekeeping, being as dry and airy as if used
all the time. In two or three of the rooms, fires were burning on the
hearth, and there was a peculiar air of cheerfulness about the whole
place. I remarked this to Andrew.

"It does not seem at all like a deserted house," said I. "One would say
these rooms were used to pleasant company."

"The village folks would tell you that Dinah entertains her friends
from the sea in these apartments," said Andrew, smiling. "They tell
stories of seeing the house lighted up and hearing music at night. I
determined to look into the thing, thinking possibly that the place
might be the haunt of smugglers; but I found the lights came from the
fires Dinah had lighted to expel the damp, and the music was the old
harpsicon, on which she had taught herself to play, by the help of some
music-books she had found."

"Then she can read," said my mother.

"Oh, yes, and write as well. The people who took her in were of the
better class. They were not Cornish folk, but East Country English, who
came and settled here in the reign of Charles the First. No one knew
much about them, and I fancy they might have had their own reasons for
keeping quiet, but my father never would allow them to be molested.
See, here is the cabinet I made from the old chestnut-tree."

"So you are a cabinet-maker as well," said I. "Another qualification
for our desert island."

"That same desert island seems to take your fancy," said Andrew,
smiling. "Perchance if you tried it, as I have done, you would not find
it so pleasant."

"Were you really cast away?" I asked curiously. "When and where?"

"About ten years ago, on one of the most lovely little islets of the
West Indies. It was like a bit out of paradise. We had landed for
water, but a squall came up, and by some blunder, I was left behind.
I stayed there a week, and most thankful was I to see the face of man
once more. But here we are in the parlor again, and I see Dinah has
prepared quite a feast for us."

She had indeed spread an elegant little repast of bread, cream, and
honey, with fruit from the garden. Of course we did not decline it, my
mother eating to please the good woman, and Andrew and I because we
were hungry.

"What an odd name she has!" said I.

"She called herself Diane when she was found, and for a long time would
answer to no other, but at last her foster-parents took to calling her
Dinah, with which she was content. Well, aunt, how do you like the
house, now you have seen it?"

"So well that I am minded to find you a chap-man," said my mother,
smiling. "What say you? Will you sell the Well House to Vevette and
myself? I wish to buy a home, and would rather have this than any
other."

Andrew opened his eyes wide, as he was wont to do when puzzled.

"What do you mean, aunt? Are you in earnest? And why would you leave
the hall? Hath any one in the family been unkind or uncivil to you?"

"Here is a fine mouthful of questions all in a breath," said my mother.
"I will answer them all in turn. I am quite in earnest, and mean what I
say. I would have the hall, because I think it will be better and more
convenient for me to have my own household, and let your mother have
hers. No one has been uncivil to me. I have had no quarrel with any
one, and I mean to have none. But I never saw any house that was large
enough for two families, and I do not believe Tre Madoc Court is any
exception to the rule."

My mother went on to explain her reasons more at length than I shall do
here. Andrew listened unwillingly at first, but at last he owned that
there was right sense in what she said, and consented to consider of
the matter.

"And what will Vevette say?" he asked, for I had not spoken a word.

"I like it well," I answered. "'Tis not so far but I can go up to
the school. Rosamond can come down here with her books, and Meg with
her knitting, and I dare say even you can make it convenient to stop
sometimes when you come from your fishing."

He shook his head at me. "Well, well, we will consider of it," said he.
"In truth, madame, you have a right to the tenancy of the house if you
choose to live in it. I doubt not you will find it comfortable enough,
and should anything be wanting, I will see that it is supplied. There
is a good garden, a small orchard, and land enough for two cows, if you
choose to keep them. I think Dinah has one at present. But what to do
with her! She looks upon this house as her home, though of course she
hath no right here but on sufferance."

"Let her remain, if she will take the post of waiting-gentlewoman,"
said my mother. "I shall want some such person, and our good Jeanne is
hardly fitted for such a service. I like the woman's appearance. There
is something about her which reminds me of home. Indeed, I think she is
more French than English in her looks."

"Well, well, we will consider of it," said Andrew again. "Have you said
aught to my mother?"

"No, I wished first to see the house."

The project was broached to my aunt that evening. I was not present,
but my mother told me that though Aunt Amy said many kind things and
made many hospitable objections, it was plain that she was not sorry to
consent.

So the next day it was all settled, and we began to make our
arrangements. Rosamond was struck with consternation on hearing of it,
and could not be reconciled till my mother reminded her that she could
come over twice or thrice a week to her Italian and French lessons.

"But you won't give up the school, will you, Vevette?" said Meg. "I
don't know what I shall do without your help?"

"Oh, no; I can walk from the Well House as well as from here."

"But the way is very lonely, and you must pass the Pisky Bank going and
coming," said Margaret. "Won't you be afraid?"

"No, I don't believe I shall," said I. "I have never disobliged the
pixies, and I don't see why they should disoblige me."

"But there is the place where the smuggler was killed," objected
Rosamond.

"Well, if he is killed, he can do no harm. I should not like to meet a
live smuggler, but I don't see how one who was killed forty years ago
can hurt me."

"Vevette does not believe in ghosts," said Betty.

"I would not say that exactly," I returned. "There are many such
stories which seem to rest on good proof. But I think we of the
reformed faith in France do not fear such things as much as people do
here. Our preachers teach us that overmuch terror of ghosts and the
like argues somewhat of a distrust in the care of our Heavenly Father.
I have been in many very ghostly places, and at ghostly hours too, as
Andrew knows, but I never saw anything more alarming than owls, bats,
and spiders. We had a ghost in the château, but I was not nearly so
much afraid of the white chevalier as I was of the village priest."

"Well, I don't pretend to be above all human weakness myself," said
Betty.

"That is a good thing, my dear, for no one would believe you if you
did," interrupted Andrew.

"You are very civil, to take the words out of my mouth," returned
Betty. "I suppose that is French politeness, of which we hear so much.
I mean to say that I do not hold myself to be wiser than all my elders,
and than the rector himself, who believes in ghosts, and is very
powerful in laying them. Why, he is sent for all along the coast, even
to the Land's End and clear into Devonshire, for that purpose."

"I should think he would clear his own parish, then," said I, rather
flippantly.

"But, Vevette, I really did see something on the path to the Well House
one evening," said Rosamond, who had not yet spoken. "It was only last
Tuesday. I had been down to the shore with a basket for old Madge, and
was coming up again, slowly, when just at the turn of the road I saw
a man and a woman walking slowly along. The woman had a veil over her
head and a dark gray gown like Betty's homespun, and the gentleman was
tall and slim and wore a gray cloak. I wondered who they could be, but
I never thought of their being anything uncommon till I came up near
them; and behold, they were gone like a flash!"

"Perhaps they had slipped aside into the bushes," said I. "There is a
ruined cottage close by; perhaps they went into that. Did you look to
see?"

"Look into Torden's cottage!" said Rosamond, aghast at the very idea.
"No indeed; I ran home as fast as I could."

"And wisely too," said Andrew. "But what like was this ghostly gallant?"

"I did not see his face, but he was tall and slim, with a fair
love-lock, which slipped out from under his cloak. That was all I
noticed, but somehow, he made me think of young Mr. Lovel."

"What nonsense is this!" said Betty angrily. "Rosamond saw one of the
village maids out curtsying with her lad. Every one knows she fears her
own shadows."

Betty spoke with so much heat that we all looked at her in surprise,
and a kind of undefined suspicion darted through my mind and was
forgotten the next minute.

"Well, then, if I am afraid I will set up a rival cottage down at the
shore, and so put Meg's into the shade," said I, laughing. "There
are old Madge's grandchildren, and the Polwhele brood, and the Widow
Barker's two maids. That would make a very decent school."

"Yes, a pretty return that would be to Meg for letting you help her,"
said Betty, who was thoroughly out of humor, as it seemed. "I ever
thought she would find a cuckoo in her nest."

"Indeed, I think it would be a capital thing," said Margaret. "It is a
long way for the little children to come, and they make every rain an
excuse for staying away. I should hate to lose her from the school at
the hamlet, too."

"There is no hurry," I replied. "I have not yet served out my
apprenticeship. I am your scholar, Meg, as much as little Peggy is
mine."

"Very humble, truly," said Betty sarcastically, and there the matter
ended.

When I was again alone, Rosamond's tale and Betty's discomposure
thereat again recurred to my mind, and I wondered what interest she
could have in the matter. But I finally reflected that it was one of
her bad days, when she was wont to find matter for annoyance in the
simplest occurrence, and dismissing the matter from my mind I fell
to thinking over another, much more important to me, namely, whether
Andrew meant to ask me once more to marry him before he set sail, and
if so, what I should say to him.

[Illustration]



[Illustration]

CHAPTER XIII.

THE BOOK.

IT was settled that we were to remove the next week, and Jeanne and
Simon with us, for they would by no means consent to stay behind. Simon
was to have charge of the out-of-door matters, the cows and pony, and
Jeanne of the dairy, while Dinah was to fill the post of housekeeper
and waiting-gentlewoman, with the eldest girl in the village school for
a maid under her. This was as much of an establishment as my mother
thought prudent, considering our means, though Aunt Amy was very
pressing with us to take another maid in the home. She was very kind,
and would have given us half the fine linen and blankets at the Court,
and enough of comfits, wine, and other provisions for an army; and she
was even inclined to be angry with my mother for accepting so little.
However, all was settled amicably, and seeing how obliging she was,
I ventured to prefer a humble request that she would lend me the old
French cabinet in my room—a request winch she granted with alacrity,
and added thereto the gift of a small Persian carpet which I greatly
admired.

But I was not destined to leave Tre Madoc Court without a more serious
trouble, which trouble could never have fallen upon me but for my own
want of frankness, and that double-mindedness which was always my bane.
I mentioned that my Aunt Jem had given me as a parting present a book
of plays and poems, and that I had never showed this book to my mother.
In truth, my first concealment had arisen rather from timidity and
embarrassment than from wilful deception. I did not quite know what to
do with the book, not liking to refuse it for fear of hurting Aunt Jem,
of whom I was very fond, and I felt quite sure maman would not let me
keep it, if she knew.

Of course the straight road would have been, as it ever is, the right
one, but I took that middle way of compromise, which is never the right
one, as I may say, and put the book at the bottom of my mail, with a
half resolve to show it to my mother at the first opportunity. But in
truth, in the surprise and joy of meeting Simon and Jeanne and the
excitement of travelling and settling in our new home, I quite forgot
it.

When I came to unpack my mail I found it. Betty was in the room, and
asked what it was, and I told her its history.

"Have you not read it?" she asked, seizing and opening it. "It looks
delightful."

"No, I have not read it, and shall not till I show it to maman," I
answered.

"Then let me have it—do!" said Betty, turning it over with eager
interest. "Or we will read it together. I am sure Aunt Jem would not
give you a wicked book, though she may not be so strait-laced as my
Aunt Margaret. Come, let us read it together. Your things are all put
away, and my aunt is with my mother in the still-room, so she will not
want you. Let us sit down in the window and read."

"I did not know Betty as well then as I came to know her afterward, and
I really had some curiosity about the book, which was partly writ by
that Mr. Dryden, who hath since made a great noise in the world. The
first poem was certainly very beautiful, and innocent enough, so far as
I understood it. The next was a play.

"Indeed I cannot read any more, Betty," said I; "and you ought not
either, till you ask your mother."

"Well, let me take the book, then," said Betty. "I will not hurt it,
and I don't believe it will hurt me."

I refused plumply, but at that moment my mother called me to come and
see some curious ware which she had found in looking over the house
with my aunt. When I returned Betty had taken away the book, and I
could not get it of her again, though I had more than once asked her
for it. It was now returned on my hands, with a witness.

A day before we left the Court, we were all sitting in the cedar
parlor—that is, my mother, Meg, Rosamond, and I—busy in finishing a
certain worked coverlet which my aunt had had in hand a long time, and
which she wished to give my mother for a parting present. Andrew was
reading to us out of an English chronicle, but I fear we young ones
cared more about the flowers on our work than about the wars between
the houses of York and Lancaster. I can see at this moment the daisy
with pink edges and a yellow centre on which I was bestowing all my
skill, when we were all startled by the entrance of Aunt Amy, evidently
in a high state of excitement. I thought I should like to sink into the
earth when I saw in her hand that identical red leather and gilded book
which I had lent Betty, or rather which she had taken for herself.

"So, sister d'Antin!" said my aunt, in her rare tone of excitement.
"This is the way your daughter rewards my hospitality—for I won't say
you, though I must say, knowing what she was, I think you might have
looked out for her—bringing her vile and corrupting books into a decent
house, and lending them to my innocent maids. This is what one gets for
one's goodness in taking in—"

"Mother!" said Andrew, more sternly than I ever heard him speak to her
before or afterward.

"Oh, you may say mother as much as you please, son; but I wish your
father had taken my advice and looked out a good honest Cornish maid
for you, instead of betrothing you to a French mademoiselle whom none
of us knew, to bring her corruptions in here. Just look at this book
which she lent Betty, and told her not to tell her mother, and which
the poor child just now came and brought me, confessing with shame and
tears how wicked she had been. Just look at it, that is all!" And she
flung it on the ground as if it had been a snake or spider.

Andrew took it up, looked at one or two places, and then, with a glance
I shall never forget, he gave it to me. My mother took it from my
unresisting hand.

"What does this mean, Vevette?" said she. "Where did this book come
from?"

"My Aunt Jemima gave it to me," I answered, hardly able to speak.

"And you concealed it from me? Oh, my daughter!"

"Of course she concealed it," said my aunt triumphantly.

"Let Vevette speak, mother, since you have chosen to make this matter
public, in what I must needs call an ill-judged manner," said Andrew,
in that calm voice of authority which will be heard.

"How was it, Vevette?"

I tried to explain, but between my own shame and confusion and my
aunt's interruptions, I am conscious that I made but a lame business of
it. I did manage to say, however, that though I sat down and read the
first poem with Betty, I had refused to read any more, and that I had
absolutely refused to lend the book to Betty, who had taken it without
leave.

"Yes, I know all about that!" said my aunt.

"Betty told me herself, poor wretch, that you told her you would not
lend it to her; but can you deny that you went away and left the book
in her hands? Can you deny that you were angry with her, and reproached
her for telling me of your private curtsying about London, and London
fine gallants, and other things that young maids should not know, much
less tell on? You are an adder and a viper—that you are! And come of
viper's brood—nasty, frog-eating French!"

My mother rose. "With your leave, sister Corbet, we will withdraw,"
said she, assuming the chatelaine, as she well knew how. "I shall not
justify my child till I hear from her all the circumstances of this
unlucky affair. Nephew Andrew, I will thank you to order the pony."

"The pony—and for what?" asked my aunt, cooling down, as she always did
when my mother took this tone.

"That I may withdraw to my own house, since I am so happy as to have
one," replied my mother. "When this matter is cleared up, sister
Corbet, you shall have all proper explanations and apologies. In the
meantime, 'tis neither for your dignity or mine that I should remain
longer under a roof where such language has been applied to me and
mine. I thank you from my heart for your hospitality, but I can partake
of it—no, not an hour longer."

My aunt, upon this, began to cry, and to retract what she had said.

"I did not mean you, sister d'Antin—and perhaps it was not so bad; but
you see she does not deny that she had the book, and that Betty got it
from her—and I know I am hasty when I am roused; and the French do eat
frogs, for you told me yourself; and you said they were good—you know
you did, sister d'Antin. And Betty is artful, I confess; but that does
not make it right for Vevette to lend her bad books, nor for Andrew to
look at me so, as if—and I am sure I am his own natural mother and not
a stranger, and 'tis unknown the trouble I had in rearing him, because
he was a May babe, and my mother said he would never be lucky."

"Mother and my aunt," said Andrew, in his grave, commanding tones,
"will you be so good as to let this matter rest for to-night? It hath
been made far too public already. Aunt, if I have ever done you any
service, I beseech you to remain under my roof till to-morrow." (I
never heard Andrew say my roof before.)

"Yes, do," said my aunt, who had cooled rapidly, as usual. "Indeed
I regret that I was so hasty; and I will take back all I said about
vipers and adders."

My mother suffered herself to be prevailed upon so far as to say she
would remain till the time originally set, for her departure. Then she
withdrew to her room, and I followed, like one going to execution.
Once there she addressed me in a tone which I had never heard from
her but once before, requiring me to give her a full account of this
transaction. I fell down on my knees before her, and told her the whole
story from beginning to end.

"How shall I believe you? You have already deceived me," said she sadly.

"Indeed, maman, I have now told you the truth," said I, weeping. "I
only read the first poem in the book, and then I would go no farther.
And I did not lend it to Betty. She took it from the room when you
called me to look at the china, and I never could get it again, though
I asked her for it ever so many times. Oh, maman, do believe me!"

"Vevette," said she, laying her hand on my shoulder, and looking me
through and through as I knelt before her, "as you hope ever to meet
your father again, tell me the truth. Have you any more of these books?"

"No, maman, not one."

"Have you ever had any of them since I forbade you reading them?"

"Yes, maman, I had two or three that my Uncle Charles sent to the
tower, but the day before we went to the Supper in the old grange I
burned them, every one."

"And you have not read the rest of this book?"

"No, maman, only the first poem, in which there was no harm. Betty
wanted to read on, but I would not. Oh, maman, do forgive me!"

"I forgive you, my child, but you have grieved me to the heart," said
my mother. "Go to your room, and pray for forgiveness and cleansing.
Do not leave it this night. By and by, when I am rested, we will talk
farther."

I retired to my own room, feeling as miserable as any girl of my age
ever felt in the world, mid that is saying much, for the capacities
of such girls for misery are very great. It seemed to me as though I
could never be happy again. In all my little difficulties with my aunt
and Betty heretofore, Andrew had always been on my side; but now, he
too had turned against me. How plainly I could see the look he gave me
when he handed me that detestable book—a look full of anger and grief.
I knew that he hated lying above all things. It was the only sin with
which he seemed to have no patience.

I had not told a lie in words, to be sure, but I had been guilty of
deception, and that was enough for him. Now that I had lost him, or
thought I had, I felt how dear he was to me. I had lost his respect,
and I felt sure that all comfort was at an end between us, even though
he should feel bound to fulfil his contract. One thing I made up my
mind to—I would never be his wife if he showed the least unwillingness
to marry me. And then I remembered how pleased he had been when I spoke
of our living together on a desert island, and for the first time I
burst into tears.

I wept for a long time, thus lightening my heart a little, and then
taking up my Bible I tried to read myself into some sort of quietness.
I had just begun to breathe without sobbing when smile one knocked at
the door. I opened it, with my heart throbbing at the thought that it
might be Andrew, and there stood Betty, her eyes cast down with that
affectation of meekness I knew so well, and carrying in her hands a
tray laden with good things.

"I have brought you some supper," said she, in her silver tones. "I
thought perhaps you would not care to come down."

"Oh, you did! You are very considerate," I said bitterly. "You did not
come at all to triumph in the mischief you have made by your lies."

"Why, Vevette," said she, in a tone of astonishment; "what do you mean?
I am sure I did not mean to do you any harm, but only to relieve my own
mind. I can't endure to have secrets from my mother."

All at once Rosamond's ghost story darted into my mind. When the devil
puts such a weapon into the hand of a person in a passion, that person
is very apt to use it without thought of consequences.

"Oh, you cannot! Then perhaps you have told your mother of the pair of
ghosts Rosamond saw disappear near Torden's cottage, one of which had
on a gray homespun gown, and the other looked so much like young Mr.
Lovel. I think I will tell Mr. Dawson about these ghosts, that he may
keep a lookout for them, since he is so skilful in dealing with that
sort of gentry."

Betty turned white, or rather gray, for a moment, and nearly let her
tray fall. Then she recovered herself and said quietly—

"I don't think I would tell any more tales if I were you. You would not
be likely to gain much credit just now. I came to make friends with
you."

"That is false!" I interrupted her. "You came to triumph over me."

"I came to make friends with you," she continued calmly; "but if you
choose to treat me as an enemy, you can do so. I pity you, Vevette, and
I do not blame you as much as I do those who have brought you up in
such ways. Your conduct just shows what that religion is worth of which
we have heard so much."

In a quarrel, the person who has no conscience always has an advantage
over the person who has one. Betty had certainly got the best of it in
this case, notwithstanding the stab I had given her. I shut the door in
her face, and again sat down to try to compose my thoughts, but I did
not find it so easy. Revenge is like the little book of the prophet,
in that though it may be sweet in the mouth it is very bitter of
digestion. I had struck a telling blow, it was true, but I had gotten
it back with interest, and the worst of it was that in this instance
Betty had some truth on her side. I was a discredit to the parents who
had brought me up, and the religion in which I had been educated. I had
brought shame on my dear mother as well as myself.

Betty had indeed done me a cruel mischief, and that not only in the
trap she had so artfully laid for me, and into which I had so foolishly
walked, like a silly hare into a springe, but in coming to enjoy her
triumph as she had just done; for that such was her motive I did not
doubt then, nor do I now. She had drawn toward her that anger which I
had hitherto directed toward myself, and roused in me a spirit of anger
and revenge. I felt as if I could have killed her. In this state of
mind, my mother found me when she came in to talk to me later in the
evening, nor did all her expostulations avail to draw me out of it. I
was ready to beg her pardon in the very dust, and to make my submission
to my aunt, but I could not and would not forgive Betty; nay, I would
not even say I would try.

"Then you must yourself remain unforgiven, my poor child," said
my mother; "under the anger of that Heavenly Father whom you have
offended. Can you afford that? Will you still further grieve that kind
and tender Divine Friend whom you have so deeply grieved already?"

If I had spoken out the thought that was in my heart, I should have
said that I did not believe that Friend loved me so very much, or he
would not have suffered this trouble to come upon me just when I was
trying to be so very good; but this I did not dare to say.

"I cannot help it, maman," I answered her at last. "I never, never
can forgive Betty for the part she has acted. She has been ten times
worse than I, and nobody seems to blame her at all. You don't mind her
coming here to triumph over me—bringing me a tray forsooth as if I did
not know that she will never wait upon any one if she can help it. You
don't mind how much I am insulted!"

It showed how I was carried out of myself that I dared speak so to
my mother. I was scared when the words were out of my mouth. But my
mother was one who knew when to reprove and punish and when to soothe
and comfort. She saw that I was almost beside myself with anger and
excitement—a mood, I must say, which was rare in me.

"We will talk no more to-night," said she. "You had better try to calm
yourself, and to sleep. My poor little maid, I thought I was bringing
you to a safe nest when I refused to leave you in London. But there are
temptations everywhere, since there is no earthly state from which the
world, the flesh, and the devil can be kept out. Go to bed, my Vevette,
and remember, though thou canst not or wilt not pray for thyself, thy
mother is praying for thee."

With that she kissed me and returned to her own room. I burst into
fresh tears, and cried till I could cry no more, and then, feeling my
heart a little lightened, I was preparing to undress when some one
tapped softly at the door, and a low voice said—

"Vevette!"

"Who is there?" I asked.

"Rosamond," was the answer. "Please let me in. I have brought you a cup
of milk and some bread."

I could not resist the pleading tones, and I opened the door. Rosamond
had been crying as bitterly as myself, and as she came into the room
she set down her burden and clasping me in her arms site kissed me and
cried again. My tears flowed too, but they were cool tears now, and
refreshed my burning eyes.

"Dear Rosamond, you won't turn against me, will you?" said I.

"No indeed," she answered warmly, and then added, "Of course you know
I must think it was wrong for you to keep the book, and to read ever
so little, when you knew your mother would not allow it. But every one
does wrong sometimes. If we were not sinners, the dear Lord would not
have needed to come down and die for us."

Somehow these simple words did more to calm my heart, and to show me
my sin at the same time, than anything had done before. The dear Lord
had died for me, and this was the way I had repaid him. He was ready to
forgive me, and yet I would not forgive Betty. I began to see things in
a new light.

"I know I was very wrong," said I, "and I am sorry—indeed I am. But,
Rosamond, it was not so bad. I did not lend Betty the book: I told her
she should not have it; but maman called me, and when I came back, she
was gone. I have tried again and again to get it out of her hands,
and then I meant to burn it up. But what is the use of talking, since
nobody will believe me?"

"I believe you," said Rosamond; "I believe every word you say. But
don't you see that even, then, if you had gone to your mother and laid
the whole before her, all this would not have happened? She might have
been displeased, 'tis true; but she would have forgiven you and got
back the book, and all would have ended well by this time."

"It is true," I answered. "I wish I had done as you say."

"I think the very most straightforward way is always the best way,
especially when one is dealing with one like—like Betty," continued
Rosamond. "There is nothing which deceitful people understand so little
as truth. But, Vevette, if you are sorry, it will all come right in the
end. Let us kneel down and say the fifty-first Psalm together, and I am
sure you will feel better."

We did so, and then the dear maid repeated the thirty-second Psalm. She
was like the holy well at St. Wenna's, which ran with a clear but small
stream, while now and then came a great rush of bright water, bubbling
up through the white pebbles and showing for a moment the crystal depth
below. I had always loved her from the first of our acquaintance, but
from that hour began a friendship which will never end.

We kissed each other on our knees and then rose.

"Do eat a morsel," said Rosamond. "You have had no supper, and you will
be ill to-morrow."

I tried, in complaisance to her, but I could not manage it.

"I cannot eat," said I; "but oh, Rosamond, I am so thirsty."

"I will bring you some cool water from the well in the court," said
she, and taking a jug, she was gone before I could object. When she
came back she looked startled.

"Do you know, Vevette, I am sure I saw that same figure that I saw
before near Torden's cottage with the woman. It was just under the
archway, as plain as could be against the sky, and it slipped away just
as before. Who or what can it be?"

"Some one hanging about after one of the maids, perhaps," said I,
though I had my own thoughts upon the matter. "Now you must not stay
any longer or my aunt will be angry and think I am corrupting you."

"Oh, no, she won't," answered Rosamond. "I asked her if I might come,
and she said yes, and wanted me to bring you all kinds of nice things,
but I thought you would not care for them. I think she is very sorry
she made such an ado about the matter, now that it is over. Well,
good-night, dear Vevette; I hope you will sleep."

But I could not sleep, except feverishly and by snatches, till after
the birds began to sing in the morning. Then indeed I had a good nap,
and waked refreshed. I washed and dressed, and went softly into my
mother's room. She was already up, and kneeling before the table, on
which lay, always open, her Bible, and the little worn prayer-book she
brought from France. She beckoned me to kneel beside her, and we said
our prayers together, as usual. Then, as we rose, she drew me to her
and kissed me.

"The evil spirit has gone out—is it not so?" said she, looking into my
face with a smile.

"Yes, maman, I hope so," I answered. "I am very sorry about the book,
and I will try to forgive Betty."

"That is spoken well, my child; and now I must tell you that I think
you have been somewhat hardly dealt by in this matter. Looking it over
coolly, I can see that I did not make enough allowance for indecision
and embarrassment on your part, after you received the book."

"Indeed and truly, maman, I meant to show you the book, but I quite
forgot it till we came here. Then when Betty carried it off, I did not
know what to do."

"There was but one thing to do, and that was to come and tell me all
about it," said my mother. "That would have saved all the trouble."

"So Rosamond said. Oh, maman, she was so good last night."

"She is a dear maid," said my mother; "by far the best of the three."

"Better than Margaret?" said I, surprised, for I had looked upon Meg as
a pattern of all excellence.

"Yes, because she is truly humble-minded—a rare and most precious
quality. She is truly poor in spirit, while Meg, with all her good
qualities—but we will not discuss the faults of others. Now, do you
know what is to be done next?"

"I must go to my aunt and tell her that I am sorry," said I, "but,
maman, what shall I say? I cannot say that I am sorry for lending Betty
the book, for I did not lend it to her—she took it."

"Tell her just how it was, and say you are sorry for bringing the book
here. I will go with you, if it will make matters easier."

We found my aunt in the still-room—luckily alone—fussing over some
peppermint she was distilling.

"Do see here, Margaret," said she, as we entered. "What ails this
peppermint? See how foul it runs."

"The still is too hot, I think," said my mother, examining it; "and
your peppermint is rather old. I should begin again, and with some
smaller shoots. But, sister, Vevette hath something to say to you."

"About what?" asked my aunt absently, still busy with the refractory
still; and then, recollecting herself, "Oh, about the book. Well,
then, child, I forgive you, only don't do it again. I know I was warm
myself, and said too much, but that is only my way. There, run, that's
a good maid, and cut me some nice lengths of the peppermint. You have
more sense about gathering of herbs, than any of the others—only don't
draggle your petticoats. Why, what ails the child?" catching sight of
my face. "She looks as if she had had an illness."

"She has been very much distressed about this affair," said my mother;
"and so have I; but I think if I were to explain the matter to you as
she has done to me—"

"Oh, let bygones be bygones," interrupted my aunt. "I hate
explanations; and, as I said, I was over-warm. Do you want to cut the
herbs, child? Do just as you please."

"Yes, aunt, I shall like it," I answered, glad of an excuse to get into
the fresh air. I was at once pleased and vexed that my aunt should make
so little of the matter. I went down to the peppermint-bed which grew
under the shade of a yew hedge, and was busy choosing out the very best
shoots when I heard voices on the other side of the hedge. "I shall
never ask her to help in the school again—never!" said Margaret. "I
could not forgive myself, if she should corrupt the children."

"If it had been anything else," said Andrew, in a voice of deep
dejection; "anything but deception."

"To read such a wicked book, too," said Margaret.

"How do you know it was so very wicked, after all?" asked Rosamond.

"Oh, I looked at it last night as it lay on the table," said Margaret,
quite sedately.

"If I knew it was so wicked, I would not have looked at it at all,"
said Rosamond. "And you know she said she only read the first poem, in
which there was no harm."

"Yes, but who can ever believe her? I know I shall never trust her
again. When I have found any one out once, there is the end of it with
me."

"According to your own account you are just as bad as Vevette," said
Rosamond; "that is, if you don't tell lies every day."

"Rosamond, what do you mean?" said Margaret, in a voice of amazement
that almost made me laugh aloud. "I as bad as Vevette?"

"According to your own showing," returned Rosamond, in the same
matter-of-fact way. "Don't you say every day of your life that you have
done the things you ought not to have done, and left undone the things
you ought to have done—that there is no health in you, and you are a
miserable sinner? I don't know what Vevette could say of herself worse
than that."

"Rosamond, you are very pert," said Meg, and I could tell by her
voice that she was offended. "Of course one says those things because
they are in the prayers of the church, and the Bible says we are all
sinners; but I should like to know wherein I fail in my duty. Do I ever
tell lies, or read bad books, or miss my church or sacrament? Don't
I—" Here she stopped, in a little confusion as it seemed, thinking,
I fancy, that it was not quite seemly thus to blazon her good deeds,
however highly she might rate them.

"Then if you never do wrong or omit to do good, why do you say you do?"
persisted Rosamond. "Is that telling the truth? Take care, sister! It
was the publican who went down to his house justified, rather than the
man who thanked God he was not as other men."

"You are very impertinent to lecture your elder sister in this way,"
returned Margaret. "I shall speak to my mother;" and she walked away.

"I believe you are in the right, Rosamond," said Andrew. "We have been
too hard on the poor child. If it were anything but deception!"

"I do not read in Scripture that one sin is worse than another,"
returned Rosamond. "The Bible saith not so, but that he that offendeth
in one point is guilty of all. Besides—"

I did not care to hear more. Indeed I had not heard so much, only the
yew walk was my way to the house, and I had been waiting hoping they
would pass on. I now rose up, and passing through the archway I went on
my way, giving a kind good-morning to Rosamond and curtsying to Andrew
in passing. He would have spoken, I believe, but I did not give him the
chance. When I entered the still-room I heard my aunt say, in a tone of
some annoyance—

"Well, well, sister, we will let the matter rest. It is natural you
should justify your own daughter as far as you can. I have told the
young ones to say no more, and to treat their cousin kindly. So here
she comes. Well, you have got a little color, child, in the fresh air.
Yes, that is very nice. You are one who can mind what you are about,
and will make a good housewife for all that is come and gone. There is
a piece of gingerbread for you, and you had better take a cup of cream
for your breakfast; you look but poorly. I think, sister, I will give
Vevette the small still, and then she will not forget what she has
learned."

[Illustration]



[Illustration]

CHAPTER XIV.

A WEDDING.

I THINK Margaret really did try to meet me as usual, but of course she
did not succeed. She had been vexed at Rosamond for having so much the
best of it in their little argument, and I fancy too she found her
usual self-complacency a little disturbed; so she was very stately.
Andrew did not say much, but he was kind, and would have liked to help
me to everything on the table.

Betty was demure and silent, with eyes cast down, though I fancied I
now and then caught her regarding me with some anxiety. I suppose she
would have liked to find out how much I did know, or whether I knew
anything. In good sooth I did not know anything, but I must needs own
that my suspicions were strong, and grew stronger the more I considered
the matter.

In the beginning of our acquaintance Betty had been much disposed to
make a confidante of me, and she herself had told me that Mr. Lovel
had been a suitor for her hand, but that her mother had rejected him
because he was a spendthrift, and had no good character in other
respects, besides being a total unbeliever—a fashion just then much
affected by a certain class of men who wished to appear strong-minded
and learned at small cost. I could see that Betty was well enough
disposed toward him—indeed she said so.

And our first breach came from my saying I wondered she could think of
such a person for a husband. I expressed myself pretty warmly on the
subject, at which she was very much vexed, and said some sharp things
in her turn. However, we made up the quarrel, but when Betty began to
talk of him again—I, with a degree of prudence rather to be wondered
at, positively refused to hear, telling her that since her mother and
brother were opposed to the match, and with such good reason, she ought
not to allow her thoughts to dwell upon the subject, but to conquer her
regard for Mr. Lovel, if she had any. This little lecture completed
the breach between us, and from that time Betty never lost a chance
of vexing and injuring me, though she managed her matters with such
adroitness that even Andrew did not see through them, and I began to
wonder in myself whether I was not growing touchy and ill-natured.

As soon as breakfast was over, my mother and myself retired to our
apartment, to finish our preparations for the removal to the Well
House. They were not many, for most of our goods were sent thither
already, and the house having been kept in such nice order, there was
but little to do. My aunt, on her part, was busy among her storerooms
and presses, and we presently saw old Matt driving the laden donkey
before him, and carrying as many baskets as would have loaded another.

We meant to have gone away directly after breakfast, but aunt was most
earnest with us to stay to dinner and partake of the feast which had
been put in hand before the unlucky business of the book. So, though I
at least was impatient to be gone, we consented to remain. What a feast
it was, to be sure! What jellies and creams and tarts and pies of every
sort and kind! (The Cornish folk are famous for pies, and 'tis said
that the devil never dared to come into Cornwall lest they should take
a fancy to "a devilly pie." This, however, is not true. He is just as
busy in Cornwall as anywhere else.)

We all parted good friends, and I forced myself to bid a civil adieu to
Betty. Aunt Amy was careful to put into each of our hands a package of
cakes and comfits, that we might not enter our new home empty-handed
and thus bring scarcity upon it. Andrew walked at my mother's
bridle-rein, as usual, and Rosamond and I walked together. Simon and
Jeanne had preceded us.

When we reached the house-door, Andrew assisted my mother to alight,
and then he and Rosamond took a kind leave of us. He saluted me as
usual, but there was a change in his manner toward me which I felt
bitterly enough, though I had too much maidenly pride to show it. Then
they returned home, and we entered our new house together. Dinah and
Jeanne were in the hall to welcome us, and had made a cheerful little
fire upon the hearth of our sitting-room, for though the summer was in
its prime, the evening was cool, and a little mist was drifting up from
the sea.

"The place seems home-like, does it not, my Vevette?" said my mother.
"I must say I am not sorry to be in my own house once more. Ah, if your
father were but here!"

"He is in a better home than this, maman," I ventured to say.

"True, my child, and we will not wish to call him back again. We shall
go to him, but he will not return to us."

She kissed me, and we stood a moment in silence. Then my mother roused
herself and proposed that we should go through the house.

We found everything in beautiful order, and had occasion at every step
to admire my aunt's generosity and Andrew's thoughtfulness.

There was abundance of fine linen and of blankets and everything in the
housekeeping line that could be needed. Dinah displayed with delight
the service of real china, and the silver salts, and the dredgers for
pepper and spices, and the pots upon pots of preserves and honey which
my aunt had provided.

My room opened from my mother's, and contained the old French cabinet
I had so much admired, and also a little clock, which I knew had been
one of Rosamond's chief treasures. From Meg, and marked with her name,
was a pretty coverlet of silk patchwork—a kind of work very fashionable
at that time, and in which Meg excelled, as she did in most things.
From Betty there was a worked cushion, which I am afraid I was spiteful
enough to throw into the darkest corner of the closet. From Andrew I
had some beautiful china and the loveliest little work-table that could
be, besides a case with doors, which being opened I found to contain
a portrait of himself, which I suppose he had had painted in London.
It was beautifully done, and looked at me with his very eyes and
expression—a kind of smiling gravity.

The kitchens and offices were filled up with every convenience, and we
found Jeanne quite in ecstasies over her little dairy and her two line
cows—one a long-horned Devon, the other a comical little black Welsh
cow with no horns at all.

"Ah, madame, had I but a Normandy brass jar for milking in, I should be
quite happy," said the good woman. "To think what beautiful milk-jars I
had, and how they are all fallen into the hands of the Philistines, as
it were!"

"Ah, my poor Jeanne, if it were only the milk-jars that had fallen into
the hands of the Philistines!" said old Simon. "But we must be thankful
that we have been so kindly dealt by in this strange land. Will madame
come to the stable and look at the horses?"

"Horses! What horses?" asked my mother, in surprise.

"The two saddle horses, madame, and the pony for mamselle, and the
donkey. Indeed they are nice creatures. Monsieur Corbet recommended
the gray for madame's riding, and the pony is as pretty and gentle a
creature for a young lady as I ever saw. Monsieur has been training it
for this fortnight."

Of course we must go to see them, and I was in ecstasies over my pony,
but my mother looked a little grave.

"Andrew overloads us with benefits," said she. "I must talk with him
about these same horses. The obligation is almost too great. But never
mind, my Vevette; enjoy your pretty Blanche. See how she stoops her
head to be petted!"

We returned to the house to find supper served, and Dinah, who had
stepped easily enough into the place of waiting-gentlewoman, standing
behind my mother's chair. We had been a little afraid Jeanne's feelings
might be wounded by this arrangement, but she fell into it more than
contentedly. She was born a cook, and her delight in having such a neat
kitchen to rule in her own way overcame every other consideration.
Simon had had great pleasure in putting to rights the rather overgrown
garden, which was now a picture of neatness, and he declared he could
easily take care both of that and the garden at the Court till such
time as Andrew could suit himself with a gardener.

The next day was mine at the school, but I did not go thither, being
resolved, after all I had heard, never to set foot therein till
Margaret came and asked me. With the help of the pins Andrew had made,
I had got three or four of the older girls, along with Peggy Mellish,
nicely started in knitting. Now, as I have said, Margaret could do most
things better than any one else; but she had never known how to knit
till she had learned it of me, and she was by no means quick at it.
The truth was, she had expected to take up the art at once and knit at
the very first start as fast and as well as I did, and when she found
that she must needs begin as slowly as one of the maids at the school,
and that she dropped stitches and split threads when she tried to knit
fast, she was a good deal out of patience. I must needs confess that
it gave me a little wicked pleasure to think of the embarrassment she
would fall into over the knitting.

I busied myself all the morning in arranging our affairs and in looking
over the house and grounds. I made various interesting discoveries—of
an old carved spinning-wheel, which I determined at once to have put to
rights; of various odd bits of tapestry and hangings; and last, but not
least, a light closet full of books. A great many of them were books
of divinity, which I took little interest, but among the other volumes
I found Stowe's "Annals," my old friends the "Arcadia" and Hackluyt's
"Voyages," a volume of Shakespeare's plays, and the whole of Spenser's
"The Faerie Queene," of which I had read only one odd volume. Mindful
of my late troubles, I did not open one of these books till I told my
mother of them and asked her consent.

"I will look them over and then tell you," said my mother.

"You will find no ill in them, madame, I venture to say," observed
Dinah. "Those books mostly belonged to my honored father, and I do not
believe there is one from which my young lady would take any harm."

"Then, if the books belonged to your father, they are yours now," I
observed.

"You know he was not really my father," answered Dinah. "I was but a
foundling, and could inherit nothing, and he never made a will. I have
kept his books and some other things as it were in trust, till the
rightful heir should appear to claim them. At all events, you and Mrs.
Vevette are quite welcome to the use of any of the books."

"You do not remember anything of what your life was before you came
here, I suppose," said my mother.

"No, madame, not with any distinctness. I recollect dimly a fine
mansion-house or castle, and a room hung with tapestry. I remember
a lady who used to pet me and teach me verses and prayers. Then I
recollect being taken from my bed in the dark, hastily wrapped in my
clothes and told not to cry, and being carried abroad in the night.
After that, all is confusion till I came here."

"That is like our own escape," remarked my mother.

"Yes, madame, and I think it likely that my parents may also have been
among those who had to fly for their lives. But who they were or what
has become of them will, I suppose, always remain a mystery."

"You say your mother, or the lady you remember, taught you verses. Can
you recollect any of them?" asked my mother.

"Only a line or two, madame," and she repeated a few lines, which my
mother recognized instantly. "Why, that is the beginning of the 'Noble
Lesson,' one of the most honored symbols of the Vaudois!" said she. "My
husband could repeat it from end to end, and so can I, if I have not
forgotten."

And she repeated a number of lines in the same language which is that
still spoken in the Vaudois vales, and to some extent in Provence. I
never saw any one more delighted than our poor little lady-in-waiting
at this unexpected discovery. She had always liked my mother and me,
but now she seemed ready to kiss the very hem of our garments. She
showed us the little golden dove she had worn around her neck. It
seemed as if made to open, but we could not find the way to do it. My
mother said a dove in silver or gold was a very common ornament among
the Protestants of Provence and Languedoc, to some family of which she
now believed Dinah to belong.

Of course this discovery bound us all the more closely together. Jeanne
was delighted, and would fain have recalled for Dinah's benefit her
native tongue, but Dinah could only remember the few words she had
repeated to us.

That afternoon my mother would go down to the shore and see the poor
fishermen's families, several of whom lived at the entrance of the
Coombe. We found them rude enough in their manner of living, of course,
but courteous, and pleased with our visit, especially old Dame Madge,
who had known my mother when a girl, and who was vehement in her
expressions of delight at having her so near.

"But, do tell, madame; is it true that you have taken Dinah to be your
waiting-woman?"

"Quite true. Why not?" asked my mother. "She is most skilful with her
needle, and well bred, and I think myself fortunate in keeping her
about me."

"And do you think then, madame, that she is a natural-born woman,
and no sea-maid? They say down here that she can go back into the
sea whenever she pleases and bring back the finest fish. Why, my
son-in-law—and a fine good lad he is, and like an own son to me, though
my poor daughter, his wife, only lived with him four years before she
died of a waste—my son-in-law says that she once asked him for some
fish for her father, as she called him. And Ben said he had none, but
if the old gentleman was ill and fancied fish, he would go out and try
what he could do, and she thanked him and said he was very kind; and
if you will believe me, madame, though he had had the worst of luck
for ever so long, that night he had the best catch ever he made. I can
tell you, we were all ready to please Dinah after that. And she knows
more about herbs than any one I ever saw—more than she ought, some
think—though she says she learned it all out of a book she has. Never
was anything like the medicine she made for my poor child's cough."

"It seems, then, that she uses her knowledge to good purpose," said
my mother, smiling. "No, dame, I do not think her a sea-dame, but the
child of some one-wrecked upon the coast."

"Ah, well, no doubt you know best, madame. Anyhow, she does naught but
good that we know on, and 'tis best to be on the right side of such
creatures."

We went next to visit Anne Barker, who was a widow with two daughters,
one of whom was lame and confined to her bed and chair, while the other
was one of the best girls in Margaret's school. We found the poor
thing—Lois was her name—sitting up in her great three-cornered chair,
trying to knit with two slender pegs which she had made from wood.
She had partly learned the stitch from her sister, and was succeeding
but indifferent well. I at once sat down by her and began to give her
instruction, and she soon mastered the stitch, to her great delight.

"Ah, poor maid, she is pleased enough!" said her mother. "She cannot
take the spinning-wheel, and the net-making is too hard for her, so
time hangs but heavily with her."

"What was the cause of her malady?" asked my mother.

"She was pisky-struck, madame. The very week after she was born, the
careless woman who was with me went out and left us alone, and I
asleep with an unchristened babe. I was waked by a great noise, as of
something running up the wall, and the next minute I heard the babe
scream, and there it lay on the ground. No doubt the piskies would have
carried it off altogether, if I had not waked just in time. After that
it never thrived, poor dear."

"Perhaps is was hurt falling from the bed," I ventured to suggest.

"But what made it fall? No, madame, it was the piskies. I had the luck
to displease them by accidentally treading on a fairy ring, and no
doubt they meant to have their revenge."

"You did not see them?"

"No, madame, but I heard them as plain as I hear you. A better maid
than poor Lois never lived, though I say it that shouldn't, but she can
do little for herself or any one else."

"Can you read?" asked my mother of Lois.

"No, madame," was the answer. "My sister hath taught me a little, but
not to read a book."

"And would you like to learn?"

"Oh, yes indeed, madame. My father could read, and we have his great
Bible. Dibby tells me what she hears parson read in church sometimes,
and I often wish I could make it out for myself."

We sat a little while longer and then took our leave, promising to come
again. When we were outside the door, my mother remarked:

"Well, Vevette, here is work come to your hand, and of the sort you
like. Why should you not teach poor Lois to read?"

"I was going to ask you if I might," said I. "And then, perhaps, I
might have some of the others. Really and truly, maman, the walk is
very hard and long for the little ones, especially in bad weather."

"Well, well, we will see. Begin with poor Lois, at all events."

So I did, the very next day. My proposal to teach her was received with
rapture by both mother and daughter. I had always a knack of teaching,
and I soon had Lois prosperously started upon a pair of hose, and able,
with some help, to make out a chapter in the Testament. Besides, I read
to her every day as a reward, and I shall never forget her delight over
the stories in the Gospels. But a good many things happened in the
meantime.

Rosamond came down next day with her Italian book, and we had a lesson
in that and in music from my mother.

The next day she came again, this time with Meg, who in rather a
shamefaced way asked me whether I was not coming to the school any more.

"That depends," said I. "I thought you were not going to allow me."

Then, as Meg colored, I felt sorry for her confusion, and said, "I
suppose you want help about the knitting."

"I can make nothing of it," answered Meg, "and I thought—I did not
know—" then she stopped, still more confused at the smile I could by no
means repress.

Rosamond came to her aid.

"Margaret, why not say at once that you are sorry for what you said
about Vevette, and that you will be glad if she will overlook it and
help you again. That is the easiest way out of the trouble."

I expected to see Meg angry, but she was not.

"Thank you, Rosamond, that is what I mean," said she. "I was too hasty
in condemning Vevette, and I am sorry, and shall be very glad of her
help. Will that be enough, cousin, or must I ask downright Dunstable
here to make my peace for me?"

"That is enough, and more than enough," said I. "I will help you, of
course, though I have also a pupil down here."

And I told her about Lois. She was greatly pleased, and we talked again
over my plan of establishing a dame school for the little ones, under
the care of the widow and her lame daughter. Margaret, with all her
pride, had not an atom of venom or malice about her. Once she made up
her mind to pass over a thing, that was the end of it.

"And how is Betty?" I asked.

"She is far from well, and keeps her chamber the last two days," said
Margaret; "but my mother cannot tell what ails her, only she is giddy
as soon as she sits up. She is very easily disturbed, and likes to stay
alone best."

"I hope it is not a fever," said I.

"No, she hath no fever, and her appetite is good enough. It is only
the pain and giddiness in her head. Then you will come to the school
to-morrow?"

"Yes, if you desire it," said I, and so the matter was settled.

We had not seen Andrew since we parted from him at the door of the
house on our first arrival. Now, however, he came down to walk home
with his sisters. He saluted my mother and myself as usual, and to
maman he was just the same; but there was a kind of sad constraint in
his manner to me which I felt at once.

In my maidenly pride, I was determined to show that I was not affected
by it, and I chatted on with the girls, making a great deal of talk
over the embroidery stitch Margaret was showing me, and laughing at my
own stupidity, while my heart swelled with mingled grief and anger.
I thought Andrew was hard and unjust toward me, and hardness and
injustice from one we love and respect is very hard to bear. I was glad
when they all went away, and I could run up to my own room and relieve
myself by a few bitter tears.

The next day Andrew came again, and this time with great news. There
was a certain estate in Devonshire which should have descended to my
mother by the will of her grandmother, but which had long been in
dispute, and had threatened to eat itself up, as the saying goes, in
law expenses. Andrew brought word that by the discovery of some new
evidence—a later will, I believe—the matter was definitely settled, and
that when our honest share of the expenses was paid the estate would
be worth no less than three hundred a year to my mother and me. He
proposed to go at once to Exeter to attend to the final settlement, if
my mother wished it and would give him proper powers.

"But that is hardly fair," said my mother. "It will take a week or more
out of your short remaining time at home."

"That does not matter," answered Andrew abruptly; and then added,
"Besides, the sailing of the ship is put off another two weeks. I begin
to think she will never go at all."

"Are you, then, in such a hurry to be gone?" I said, without thinking.
I could have bitten my tongue with vexation a moment after.

"Sailors soon grow tired of life on shore," said he not unkindly.
"The sea never lets go of any one it has once taken hold of, and you
know the saying is that it always draws those whose parents it has
drowned." Then, after a little silence, "Vevette, will you walk up the
church-path with me? I want to show you a new plant I have found."

I was in two minds to refuse, but after a moment's consideration I
agreed, and went to fetch my mantle and hood. We walked a little while
in silence, enjoying the fresh evening air and the breeze perfumed with
that strange, sweet scent of the cave and the moorland together which
one meets nowhere but by the sea. Then Andrew said—

"Vevette, if you could tell me one thing it would ease my mind
wonderfully."

"Well," said I, "what is it?"

"Was the other day the first time you—the first time—"

"The first time I ever deceived my mother?" I said, to help him out.
"Was that what you want to know?"

Then, as he nodded assent, "No, Andrew, it was not. When I was quite a
child, not more than twelve years old, my Uncle Charles sent my mother
some tales and play-books, and I stole two or three of them and read
them in secret. I had them till the day before we went to the supper at
the grange, and then I burned them all. Since then I have read nothing
of the sort till that day Betty persuaded me to read with her the book
my Aunt Jem gave me."

"And this is the whole truth!" said he. Then, as I withdrew a step and
looked at him, he added eagerly, "Forgive me, Vevette, but this matter
is of such great importance to me. So much depends upon it."

"So much depends upon it!" I repeated. "What?"

Then, as he did not answer, I went on firmly, though with a mortal pang
at my heart, "Andrew, I want you to understand one thing. If you have
any doubt of me, any doubt whatever of my being worthy, if you have any
hesitation in the matter, I will never consent to be your wife—never,
for all the family compacts ever made in the world."

I spoke vehemently, yet with low voice, as I was apt to do when greatly
moved. We had just come to a turn in the path, and before us lay the
half-ruined cottage—Torden's cottage. It was a place avoided after
dark, for it had an ill name on account of a wrecker who had once lived
there, and who had died a fearful death. As we came in sight of it, we
saw two figures before us—the two whom Rosamond had described—a tall
slender man in a cloak, and a female figure in a gray homespun gown. As
we drew near she turned her head a very little.

Andrew gripped my hand hard. "Betty!" said he, in a hoarse whisper.

"Nonsense," I whispered in return. "Did you not say Betty was ill in
bed?"

But at that moment she turned her head again and I saw her face
plainly. It was Betty. I laid a restraining hand on my cousin's arm,
but he shook it off, and one stride, as it seemed, brought him to the
side of the two before us. They turned at his approach, and stood for
a moment in speechless confusion. Then Betty recovered her presence of
mind, if such it could be called.

"Vevette, you have betrayed us," said she. "So much for trusting a
French girl."

Andrew turned absolutely white as he heard these words.

"How could I betray what I never knew?" I asked, finding my voice, for
at first I was dumbfounded by the unexpected attack. "You never placed
any confidence in me, nor did I ever desire it."

What was my amazement to hear Betty declare that I had been in her
secret from the first, and had aided her in meeting with her lover. She
appealed to Mr. Lovel if it were not so, and he confirmed her words
with an oath. Andrew turned from her to me, with a face full of wrath
and grief.

"What am I to believe?" said he.

"Believe what you like," said I, for my blood was up. "Every word that
Betty says is false, and she knows it."

"Gently, my fair cousin that is to be," interposed Mr. Lovel, with
a supercilious little laugh. "I do not allow such language to my
betrothed bride. Mr. Corbet, methinks you and I can settle this matter
better without female witnesses. Let us attend these fair ladies
to their respective homes, and then we will endeavor to come to an
understanding."

"Charles, remember your promise," said Betty, turning pale.

"Fear nothing, child. I shall not forget that Mr. Corbet is your
brother, nor do I think we shall find it hard to come to an amicable
agreement. Mrs. d'Antin, shall we turn your way first?"

"Do not discommode yourself, sir," said Andrew, with lofty courtesy. "I
am able to take care both of my sister and my cousin. Perhaps you will
have the goodness to call upon me to-morrow, or allow me to wait upon
you wherever you are staying. For the present, I must say good-night."

Mr. Lovel seemed at first ready to fly upon Andrew like an angry
dog, but in a moment, he restrained himself, and replied, with equal
courtesy—

"To-morrow, then, at ten o'clock, I will do myself the honor of waiting
upon you."

And raising his hat, he strode away toward the village. It seemed for a
moment that Betty meant to run after him, but if so she thought better
of it, and snatching her hand from Andrew's, she fled toward home, like
a startled deer.

"Go after her; she may do something desperate," said I. "I can find my
way home well enough."

So saying, I turned from him and walked deliberately down the path till
I was out of sight, when I began to run, and never stopped till I found
myself at home and in the arms of my mother, who had come to the door
to look for me.

"What is it, my child?" she exclaimed, as I clung to her, sobbing and
out of breath. "Has anything frightened you? Where is Andrew?"

As soon as I could recover composure enough to speak, I drew her into
the little parlor and told her the whole story. My mother heard it in
silence, but with a very troubled face.

"Oh, maman, you do not believe what Betty says," I exclaimed, as she
did not speak.

"Tell me the exact truth, my child," said she, "What did Betty ever say
to you on the subject? Try to remember every word."

I did so, and told her all—how Betty had spoken to me of Mr. Lovel,
and, as I believed, had meant to draw me into a confidence, which I had
declined. I also told her of the advice I had given on the occasion.

"That was well," said my mother. "And had you no suspicion that Betty
was keeping up a connection with Mr. Lovel?"

"None at all," I told her. "The first time I ever suspected anything
was when Rosamond told us of the two figures she had seen near Torden's
cottage, and which she had believed to be spectres or somewhat else of
supernatural."

"Why did you not mention your suspicion?" asked my mother.

"Dear maman, how could I?" I asked. "I hardly entertained it a moment.
Then when I saw Betty afterward turn so white when the affair was
mentioned, and when that very night Rosamond saw the same man's figure
in the entrance to the court, I did think more about it; but I had no
proof, and it was no concern of mine, and afterward I quite forgot it.
How could I mention the affair when I had no proofs, and to whom?"

"True, you could not," said my mother; "but it is very unlucky, and I
fear trouble will arise to you from the affair. My sister will believe
harm of any one sooner than of her own daughters, though she knows and
has said as much to me, that Betty is both malicious and deceitful.
Well, my love, we must do our best, and leave the event in other hands.
I believe you have been quite guiltless in the whole matter; and not
only so, but that you have acted with great discretion. But, coming so
soon after the affair of the book, I fear you will be blamed for what
you have had no hand in."

"Then you do believe in me, maman?" I asked, kissing her hand.

"Most surely I do, my child. What did Andrew say?"

"He looked at me and asked what he was to believe, and then I told
him he could believe what he pleased. He had been talking before that
about the book, and asked me whether it was the first time, and I told
him—what I told you, maman. Then he did not speak again till we came
upon Betty and Mr. Lovel."

"Andrew shows a side of his character which does not please me,"
remarked my mother. "With all his good qualities there is a certain
hardness about him. It was not generous in him to bring the subject up
again."

I had thought the same, and I now spoke with a decision and boldness
which surprised myself.

"Maman, you must let me say one thing, and please do not be angry. I
will never consent to marry Andrew while he is as he is now—while he
distrusts me, or shows such a coldness toward me. Nothing shall force
me to it."

"Certainly I shall not force you to it," returned my mother, with equal
decision. "My child shall never go to a cold or unwilling bridegroom."

"I wish I had never seen him," said I, and with that I fell a-weeping
with such violence that my mother was alarmed. She led me up to bed
herself, administered a quieting potion, and sat by me till I fell
asleep.

The next morning I awaked refreshed in body, but so heavily burdened in
mind and heart that I shut my eyes and wished the daylight would never
come. But daylight and darkness do not change to suit our moods, and
I reflected that I must not add to my mother's cares; so I rose and
dressed, and tried to be composed if I could not be cheerful. We had
hardly finished our breakfast when a messenger came down requesting our
presence at the court. We found the whole family assembled in the cedar
room, together with Mr. Level. Betty was pale as death, but demure and
collected. Mr. Level was trying, with some success, to play the easy
fine gentleman and man of the world. Andrew was stern and silent. The
moment we entered my aunt fell upon me with violent and incoherent
reproaches for leading her child astray.

"Hush, mother!" said Andrew. "Let Vevette be heard in her own defence,
if she hath anything to say."

My mother drew herself up, declining the seat which Andrew placed for
her. "Perhaps, nephew, you will allow her mother to understand why my
child is to be put upon her defence. Of what hath she been accused, and
by whom?"

"Betty says," returned Andrew, "that Vevette was in her confidence all
along, and abetted her meetings with Mr. Level."

"She did," said Betty. "We talked of the affair when she first came
here, and afterward, when she was angry about the book, she taunted me
with it and threatened to tell."

"What have you to say, Vevette?" asked my mother.

I simply repeated the story just as it was.

"Can you deny that you taunted me that night with meeting Mr. Lovel?"
asked Betty.

"I did not taunt you with meeting him, for I never knew for certain
that you did meet him. A suspicion came into my mind, and in my anger I
spoke it out."

Betty smiled superior.

"Well, all I can say is, that it was an unlucky day when you ever
darkened my doors, and still more when you were betrothed to my son,"
said any aunt, who was one of those persons that say first and think
afterward.

"Oh, mother!" said Margaret.

Andrew never spoke.

"Ay, and oh mother again!" retorted my aunt. "I say it was an unlucky
day, and I will say so. It is she who has led my child astray and
poisoned her mind with her play-books and her fine stories of London,
to an innocent country maid who had no chance to learn aught of such
wickedness. She has ruined any Betty, and she will ruin my son."

"Have no fears for your son, sister Corbet," said my mother, now fully
roused. "The engagement between him and my daughter is from this moment
at an end. I leave your house, nor will I or my daughter ever again
enter its doors till you have taken back your words. Mr. Lovel, I will
thank you to see that my horse and servant are at the door."

Mr. Lovel obeyed with all courtesy. Andrew started forward, but my
mother rejected his hand with a stately bow, and leaning on my arm, she
left the room. Mr. Lovel assisted us both to mount—for I had ridden my
pony—and proffered his services to see us safe home, which my mother
declined.

Not a word was spoken on the way. When we arrived I would have entered
upon the subject, but my mother declined it.

"Not at present, my child. Let us both be a little cooler before we
talk it over. My poor Vevette, if we had but stayed in Jersey! It was
my self-willed determination to come hither which has brought all this
upon you."

"No, maman, I think not so," I answered. "If Andrew hath such a
temper—so jealous and distrustful—it is well to know it in time. But
who would have guessed it in Normandy?"

"Who indeed! But there was nothing to bring it out. However, we will
talk more another time."

The next morning Margaret and Rosamond appeared early. I dreaded
meeting them; but they both kissed me cordially.

"We do not suspect you—neither Rosamond nor I," said Meg. "Now that my
eyes are opened, I can see a hundred things which might have roused my
suspicions with regard to Betty, if I had not been blind as an owl. As
to Rosamond, she never sees anything."

"But I did see something, and told you what it was, and you did not
suspect more than I," returned Rosamond. "Don't you remember how
confused and angry Betty was?"

"But how is it to end?" I asked.

"Oh, they are to be married. There is no other way, after the scandal
that has been raised. Just think that they made Lucy Trehorn their
go-between, and they have been meeting at her mother's cottage—the old
witch!"

"And they are to be married!" said my mother. "Well, perhaps it is the
only way, but it does not seem a well-omened beginning of married life.
When is the wedding to be?"

"The week after next. My mother is already consulting with Deborah
about the wedding-clothes and so on. She was saying this morning it was
a pity you and Andrew should not be married at the same time, since she
has linen enough ready for both of you."

"She can give it all to Betty," said I; "I shall not need it."

"Are you really in earnest?" said Rosamond.

"I am," I answered firmly.

The girls both looked at maman.

"Yes, it is best so," said my mother. "I cannot give my child to one
who could have her accused as Andrew did yesterday—nay, who could
himself put her on the defence, as if she were the culprit, and never
say a word in her behalf."

"I don't blame you, and yet I am sorry," said Meg. "I think Andrew
greatly to blame, and I believe now he thinks so himself."

"His thoughts come rather late," said my mother. "If he thinks so, why
does he not say so? But we will not discuss the matter. So Betty and
Mr. Lovel are to be married. Where are they to live?"

"With his father for the present," answered Margaret. "The old man now
lives quite alone in his great house at Allinstree, and I believe will
be glad of anything which will keep his son at home. I do not know at
all how he and Betty will agree, for he is a great Puritan."

"Oh, they will agree well enough so long as Betty has anything to
gain," said I. And then recollecting myself, as I saw my mother look
at me, "I crave your pardon, Meg. I should remember that she is your
sister."

"She is no sister of mine," said Margaret. "I will never own her as
such again. She has disgraced us all."

"She is your sister, and you cannot help it," said Rosamond, in that
trenchant fashion of hers. "You cannot reverse the decrees of Heaven
because you are displeased. Betty hath acted a base, treacherous part
toward us all, and especially toward Vevette, but still she is our
sister, and as such we must needs treat her."

"Very true, Rosamond," said my mother. "Betty hath cruelly injured me
and mine as well as you, her sisters, but we must try to forgive her."

Margaret was silent, but I saw in her face the hard expression I knew
so well in Andrew's.

I suppose my mother thought there was no use in argument, for after
a moment's silence, she began to talk of somewhat else, and then she
proposed that we should have a music lesson to quiet our spirits. The
girls agreed, and we got out our music and sang several hymns and
songs, and practised some new chants and anthems which my mother had
got in a parcel from London.

For my Uncle Charles and Aunt Jem still continued their kindness toward
us, though they were a little vexed that my mother should have refused
their offer, and only a few days before we had received from them a
great parcel containing books, music, tea and coffee and chocolate, and
I know not what pretty trinkets and laces for me.

Then, when we were in rather a better frame, my mother talked to us in
her gentle, serious way of those consolations which were so dear to
her own heart, and of that inward experience of the presence and the
love of the dear Lord which was able to support and console under all
trials. Rosamond drank in the discourse like water, but I could see
that Meg was impatient under it.

The truth was that her religion at that time was all outward—a matter
of forms and ceremonies, of fasts and feasts. She made a merit of
always using the right collect on the right day, and never reading the
Psalms but in their appointed order; but to the spiritual treasures
concealed in those Psalms and collects, her eyes were not at that time
opened. This she has since told me herself.

That evening Andrew came down to our house and had a long audience with
my mother. I did not see him, but maman told me the substance of the
conversation. He wished to renew the engagement, and have things placed
upon their former footing, but this my mother positively refused.
Andrew begged to see me, and my mother came to tell me so, but I would
not go down.

"I cannot see him now. Perhaps I may after a time, but at present it is
impossible. Tell him that I agree to all you have said, but I cannot
see him."

"I do not myself think it best," said my mother. "Let matters rest for
the present."

So Andrew went away and I did not see him.

Looking back at this time, I must say I think I behaved pretty well. I
was as nearly broken-hearted as any poor girl ever was, but I strove
against my sorrow, and tried in every way to keep myself occupied that
I need not have time to brood. I had very bitter thoughts of Andrew,
of his family, and even of Providence itself, but I did strive against
them. I went to my school, and to Margaret's also twice in the week,
for she could not quite manage the knitting, though she was improving.
I read to poor Lois, and to an old blind sailor who lived in one of
the cottages, and in every way strove to keep my thoughts occupied. My
mother was all judicious kindness, knowing just when to help and when
to let me alone; but with all my efforts and helps, I passed many sad
hours.

I used to go constantly to church, and found comfort therein; but oh,
how I wished for one of our old pastors, to whom I might open any
heart! Mr. Dobson made a conscience of having daily prayers in the
church, and of reading one sermon of a Sunday; but aside from that, he
gave no more heed to his parish than he did to—the moon, I was going to
say; but indeed he took much more interest in the moon than he did in
his next door neighbors. He was wrapped up in his studies—chemistry, or
rather alchemy, as I fancy, astronomy, and physics. He was looked upon
with the greatest awe by the country people, as one who had powers over
the unseen world, and I doubt not he himself fully believed in these
powers.

Before the wedding we had another guest—none other than our cousin
Lord Stanton, from Stanton Court, in Devonshire. We had the first news
of his approach from a riding servant whom he sent on before him.
My mother, of course, at once sent up word to the great house, and
presently we were surprised by a visit from my aunt, who came down
to hear further particulars, and to ask advice as to how she should
receive the great man. She came in and greeted any mother and me just
as if nothing had happened, for she was always one of those people who
forget their own hard words as soon as they are spoken, and wonder that
any one else should remember them.

"Well, and so my lord is really going to honor us with a visit," said
she, when she had praised my work and admired the cosiness of the
house. "'Tis an honor, no doubt, but one I would dispense with just now
that I have so much on my hands."

"I believe my lord intends to lodge here," said my mother. "I gathered
as much from his letter."

"Here!" said my aunt, staring, as was her way. "Why, how will you put
him up or entertain him or his retinue?"

"As to putting him up, we have plenty of spare chambers, and, thanks to
your kindness, abundance of linen and the like. As to entertainment, he
will be content, I dare say, to fare as we do. As to his retinue, he
has with him but two men servants, who will lodge in the cottage."

"Well, I don't envy you your trouble," said my aunt. "I am sure you are
welcome. Will he stay to the wedding, think you?"

"I dare say he will, if he is asked," replied my another. "He was
always a well-natured gentleman."

"Now if you would only let Vevette be married at the same time, what a
fine wedding we should have! She is young, to be sure, but—" and here
she stopped, arrested by something in my mother's face.

"Have you already forgotten, sister Corbet, how you said before your
whole family that it was an ill day when my daughter darkened your
doors—how you declared that she would ruin your son as she had ruined
your daughter?" asked my mother.

"But I was angry then," answered my aunt. "I did not mean half I said.
Sure you won't break off with my poor son on that account. Why, he
loves Vevette as the apple of his eye."

"He took a strange way to show it, I must needs say," returned my
mother. "No, Amy, for the present any engagement between them is at an
end. Should he wish to renew his suit when he returns, he can do so,
but meantime my daughter is quite at liberty."

My aunt remonstrated, and even cried, but my mother was firm, and when
my aunt appealed to me, I seconded her.

"Well, well, I suppose there is no use in saying more," said my aunt,
wiping her eyes. "Let us hope all will yet turn out well. I only wish
my Betty were half as docile as Vevette, though I can't think it was
right; however, we will let bygones be bygones."

And she began asking my mother's advice about certain details of the
wedding—advice which she gave very readily, for she had no mind to keep
up a quarrel.

"And you won't tell my lord of all poor Betty's misbehavior, will you?"
said my aunt as she rose to go. "It would be such a disadvantage to
her."

"Certainly not; why should I?" returned my mother. "I have no wish to
injure Betty, and I am not given to spreading tales of scandal, whether
true or false."

"I am sure that is true, and I only wish my tongue were as well
governed as yours. And you won't mention the matter to my lord?"

My mother promised again, and my aunt went away content.

I may as well say that my lord had not been an hour in our house before
she had told him the whole story herself.

My lord came that evening and took up his abode with us. He was a fine,
courtly gentleman, with something about him that reminded me of my
father, though he was much older, and was indeed an old man. He greeted
my mother in brotherly fashion, and kissed me on both cheeks, with a
compliment to my good looks, such as old gentlemen give to young ladies
as a matter of course. He expressed himself as delighted with the house
and his accommodations, and we found him a most agreeable guest.

He had come mostly upon business with my mother, concerning the estate
I have mentioned. It seems this estate lay like a wedge between two
farms of his own, and he wished to make some sort of exchange with my
mother; but as he would not have her act in the dark, he brought my
mother and myself an invitation, warmly seconded by a most kind note
from my lady, to make him a visit at Stanton Court, which invitation my
mother, after some consideration, accepted.

She thought the change would be good for me, and I believe also she
wished to make friends for me in my lord's family. My lord also brought
us some three hundred pounds in ready money, which was a very welcome
supply.

Meg and Rosamond were in despair at our going away. My aunt alternately
rejoiced in our good fortune and lamented my obstinacy in not
accommodating matters with Andrew—an obstinacy which both she and
Betty laid to the account of our increased riches, which had as much
to do with it as the flight of the birds. Betty was quite herself
again, demure and graceful, satisfied with herself and her lover. She
fished hard for an invitation to Stanton for herself and Mr. Lovel, but
without success.

"No, I will not have them," was my lord's comment to my mother. "He is
a fool, and she is, above all others, the kind of girl I hate—so sly
and silky. The others are nice maids enough, but I will have none of
Betty."

However, he made Betty a present, and was very agreeable at the
wedding, which we all attended. I would have given a great deal to stay
away, but my pride would not let me: so I went.

All went off very well, only that Mr. Dobson, in his absent-mindedness,
said in the ceremony, "That which God hath put asunder, let no man join
together," which methought was an ill omen. But, indeed, it was but
an ill-omened affair from first to last. Betty looked very handsome I
must say, and so did her bridegroom. Rosamond was glum and Margaret
ill at case, while Andrew was cold, black, and stiff as one of the
stone pillars out on the moor. My aunt, on the contrary, was as easy
and as much pleased as if everything had come about in the best manner
possible. But for her and for my lord, who exerted himself in the most
amiable way, it would have been a sour wedding-party.

The next day Andrew again came to see my mother, and to beg a renewal
of the engagement. He had talked with Mr. Lovel, now that they were
upon more friendly terms, and Mr. Level had quite exculpated me from
any knowledge of or part in his affairs and Betty's, saying with his
easy laugh that he had only confirmed Betty's words because he would
not see the lady he loved put down. Andrew was most earnest with my
mother to overlook his past conduct, which he now confessed to be
faulty, and to let him begin again.

"No, my fair son," said maman; "it would not be best. I can never
forget what we owe you and yours; but my gratitude must be shown in
some other way than by giving you my child under present circumstances.
She is not to be thrown away and picked up again like a toy, to be cast
down again the moment you see or fancy a flaw in her. You say this
is your last voyage. When you return, if Vevette is still free and
you choose to make your addresses to her, well and good, but for the
present matters must remain as they are."

Then Andrew begged my lord's intercession, but my lord, when he heard
the story, declared my mother was right, and that he would do the same
in her place.

"What! Would you see the lady you loved so accused, and never so much
as take her part—never say a word for her? I vow and declare, I like
Lovel's way the better of the two. No, no, wait, and learn the worth of
a fine young lady."

Then Andrew watched and met me on my way home from the school, and
pleaded his own cause. But maman had laid her commands upon me, and I
was bound to obey them. I did not deny that I loved him, and he would
have drawn from me a promise not to marry any one else.

"I cannot give such a promise," said I. "It would be the same as an
engagement, which my mother has forbidden; but I am quite sure I shall
never wish to wed any one."

"So you say now; but how will it be when you are among the gallants of
Stanton Court?" said Andrew. "Confess, now; has not the prospect of
shining there some share in your decision?"

"Why, there it is again!" I returned. "You beg my pardon for one false
suspicion, and the very next moment you begin on another. You cannot
trust me, and how should I ever trust you? If we were to be married
before you go away, you would always be wondering whether I were not
somehow wronging you. No, no, Andrew. Let things be as they are at
present. It is the best way, though it is hard."

And with that I fell to weeping, and he to try to comfort me
alternately with accusing himself of all the meanness in the world, and
with having thrown away his happiness and mine; so that at the last I
was fain to turn comforter myself. At last we agreed to abide by my
mother's decision. We exchanged gifts: Andrew gave me his seal ring
which he had had cut at Jerusalem with the Hebrew word Mitspah—

"For he said, 'The Lord watch between thee and me when we are absent
one from the other,'" said he solemnly; and surely the prayer was heard.

I gave him a little gold locket I had always worn, with the gold chain
which sustained it, and he put it round his neck, saying it should
never leave him. Indeed he wears it to this day.

For two or three days we were very busy arranging for our departure. My
mother had insisted on giving full value for the house and land, which
my lord approved as a good investment, and—what I think made Andrew
feel more than ever what he had done—on paying for the horses and cows
he had provided for us. Dinah was to go with us as waiting-woman.
Jeanne and Simon were to live in the house, take care of it and the
garden, and have all in readiness for our return. We looked forward
at that time to living at the Well House for many years, my mother's
health being to all appearance quite restored, and Aunt Amy very
desirous of having us for neighbors. She did truly love both my mother
and me in her way, and she had sense enough to value what my mother was
doing for Meg and Rosamond.

All was done at last, and we bade farewell with all the kindness in the
world. Betty was not there, having gone with her husband to Allinstree.
We set out in pleasant weather, and arrived safely at our journey's end.

[Illustration]



[Illustration]

CHAPTER XV.

STANTON COURT.

STANTON COURT was and is a magnificent pile of building. The oldest
part, a great grim tower, was built about the time of the Conqueror—or
such, at least, is the family tradition—but the main building, and
that which gives character to the whole, belongs to the early days of
Elizabeth. The fact that the same material—a warmly tinted red stone—is
used throughout gives a kind of unity to the whole. The gardens have
always been very fine, being enriched, like ours at Tre Madoc, with
all sorts of exotic trees and plants, brought home from foreign parts
by those wandering Corbets. There is also an orangery and green-house,
which at that time had been but lately erected, and was a special hobby
of my lady's.

There was a good deal of company staying in the house, for my lord was
fond of society, and made his two step-daughters an excuse for filling
his house with young men. Martha, the elder, was already engaged, and
was to be married before long. We were warmly welcomed by my lady, a
kind and motherly woman, and by Theo, her second daughter. Mrs. Martha
was just decently civil, and that was all. She looked at every one as
if she were mentally taking their measure. I took a dislike to her from
the first moment I ever saw her, and I have never seen occasion to
change my mind.

We had a delightful apartment assigned to us—a large, airy room, with
an adjacent sitting-room, all prettily fitted up, for my mother, and
a turret-room near by for me. My lady made an excuse for giving me so
small a lodging, saying that some of the bedrooms were being refitted
in preparation for her daughter's marriage.

"Pray make no excuses," said my mother. "I venture to say this is just
the sort of room my daughter would choose."

"Yes, indeed," I added, as my lady turned to me; "I love a turret-room
above all things."

"Then we are all suited," said my lady kindly; "but you are not looking
quite well, sweetheart."

I assured her that I was well and only tired with my journey, and so
with more kind words, she left us to ourselves.

We unpacked our mails and dressed ourselves, and then at the summons
of a waiting-gentlewoman, we descended to the withdrawing-room, my
mother having first recommended Dinah to the attention of this same
gentlewoman, who said she would show her to the room of Mrs. Carey, the
housekeeper.

"And is Mrs. Carey still living?" asked my mother. "She must be very
old."

"She is so, madame," answered the waiting-damsel; "but she is still
hale and active, and does all the work my lady will allow. This way,
madame, if you please."

She conducted us to the open door of my lady's withdrawing-room, which
was very splendidly fitted up—quite as fine as anything I had seen in
London—and now filled with company. We were led into the room by my
lord himself, who espied us in a moment, and placed in seats of honor.
Indeed, both he and my lady seemed to think they could not show my
mother too much respect.

A great many people were presented to us, among them Mrs. Martha's
servant Captain Bernard, a fine young gentleman, with a good, serious,
kindly face. The young ladies presently made their appearance, to be
chid by their mother for their delay, to which Mrs. Theo returned a
smiling excuse, and Mrs. Martha none at all.

There were several ladies and gentlemen present from the neighborhood,
some of whom my mother had formerly known, and we were for a while
quite the centre of attraction, a condition of things which did not
seem to please Mrs. Martha at all, to judge by her black looks. She
would hardly even give a civil answer to poor Captain Bernard when he
addressed her, and as I looked at her, I wondered what he could have
seen in her to wish to make her his wife. But I found out long ago that
there is no use in trying to account for such matters.

Mrs. Theo was pleased with everything and everybody, herself included.
She was uncommonly pretty, and dressed herself with great taste. She
was not very deep, but what there was of her was good and sweet, and
she was always kind, even to self-sacrifice when needful. She did not
care for study, and had no special tastes for anything but embroidery,
in which, indeed, she excelled any person I ever saw. We were soon the
best of friends, and have always remained so.

The evening passed pleasantly enough, what with music and conversation,
cards and tables for the elders, and a little dance among the young
folks. I had never learned any dances except those of the peasant folks
in Normandy, and at present I was in no spirits for any such amusement,
but I exerted myself to sing and play, and though a good deal confused,
I believe I acquitted myself fairly.

When we returned to our room, we found Mrs. Dinah well pleased with
the manner in which she had been treated by Mrs. Carey, but full
of righteous indignation at the light conduct of the gentlemen's
gentlemen, one of whom, it seems, had actually offered to kiss her. My
mother soothed and comforted her, and told her she had better sit to
our room or else with Mrs. Carey, and then she would be out of the way
of the men servants.

"Oh, they are not all alike, madame," answered Dinah quickly. "There is
the steward, Mr. Matteson, who is as sober and well conducted a man as
any one would wish to see."

"Well, well, I am glad there is one exception to the rule," said my
mother. "Now we will have our reading and go quickly to rest, for I am
very tired, and my head is quite in a whirl. It is long since I have
spent an evening."

For two or three days my mother was quite unwell, and I was of course
with her most of the time, though I went out to walk two or three times
with Mrs. Theo, who also showed me the house and pictures, which were
very fine. As to Mrs. Martini, she never troubled herself about me in
any way, and that was all I asked of her.

"You must not mind Martha," said Theo to me one day, when she had very
shortly declined an invitation to walk with us. "She goes on her own
way for all any one else, and she is always busy."

"What does she do?" I asked.

"Oh, she reads a great deal, especially in divinity, and she sews for
the poor and visits them very often. She does twice as much for them
as I do, and yet I don't know how it is, they are always glad to see
mother and me, and they do not seem ever pleased to see her. I think
sometimes they do not like so much advice. Do you not think that may
be it?" she asked, raising her pretty eyebrows, and looking at me
reflectively.

"Perhaps so," said I, with a smile, for I was much amused. "Then you do
not give them advice?"

"I, Cousin Vevette?" with an air of great astonishment. "How could I
do that? I do not know half as much as they do. Why, what advice could
I give those poor women about their households and their children,
when I never brought up a child or cooked a dinner in all my life? I
do sometimes just hint to them about washing a babe's face clean or
mending its hose, but just in a pleasant talking kind of way, you know.
And I must say they are usually ready to listen. But I never could go
into their houses when they are at meals and remark upon their waste in
eating fresh butter, or anything like that. Why, I should not like it
myself, would you?"

"Decidedly not!" I answered. "But I think it is pleasant to drop into
cottages and talk with the women when they are at leisure, and play
with the babes, don't you?"

"Oh, yes, and to make christening frocks for them, and the like. Come,
we will go and see the old folks at the almshouses."

We spent three or four weeks very pleasantly at Stanton Court. My lord
was fond of music, and took much pleasure in our singing and playing.
My mother excused herself from returning visits, as her health was so
delicate, but she was always in the parlor of an evening, to help my
lady in entertaining her guests. I soon came to enjoy these evenings
very much, nor was I at all averse to the attentions I received from
my lord's young visitors. I had one letter from Andrew, written from
Plymouth before he sailed. He told me he had hoped to bid me farewell
in person, but that had been made impossible. His ship was to go up
to Chatham, and he would write from thence so soon as he knew his
destination; but he believed that he should go to the West and not to
the East Indies after all.

I shed many tears over this letter, which was as kind and tender as
possible, and as my lord was sending post to London, I answered it
with my mother's permission, and sent Andrew a watch-chain which I had
learned to make from gold cord. Long afterward I heard that he had
written again, but I never received the letter.

My mother concluded her business with my lord, greatly to the
satisfaction, and I believe to the advantage of both parties, since
the property she took in exchange was more immediately productive, and
more convenient for a woman to hold. One morning after a long private
conference with our host and hostess, my mother told me that she had
made Lord Stanton my guardian in case of her dying before I was settled
in life.

"Dear maman, do not speak of dying," said I. "You are looking so well."

"And I am well—better than I ever expected to be," she answered me;
"but no one knows what may happen, and I shall not die the sooner for
having settled my affairs. My lord and lady are good people, and will
do well by you."

I was well content with the arrangement, for I liked both my lord and
my lady. The latter was one of the most evenly good women I ever saw.
She was not one who ever made great demonstrations of affection even to
her own children, but she was almost always the same. As Dinah said,
one always knew where to have her.

My lord was somewhat choleric, and had a knack of exasperating himself
over trifles which sometimes made one ashamed for him; but still he was
a fine, good-natured gentleman, who would have died before he would
do a mean or cruel action, and his manners were perfect, specially to
women. I never saw him speak even to a maid servant without lifting
his hat. He was greatly annoyed by the freedom taken by some of his
young gentlemen visitors with the village maids and the servants; and
when one of these fine sparks came to complain of a ducking in the sea
which he got from one of the Lees "down to Cove" for making too free
with his young wife, my lord said bluntly it served him right, and he
would have done the same if he had been there. The youth blustered, and
I believe would have challenged my lord, but thought better of it and
took himself away.

But a great sorrow was hanging over my head, though I never suspected
it. My mother's health had wonderfully improved of late, and there
seemed no reason why she should not live out the usual term of years.
She told me one evening that she had not felt so well in all respects
since she was a young girl.

"It is not only in bodily health," said she, "but I am sensible of a
great improvement in my spirits—not elation exactly, but a kind of
joyfulness as if I were in certain expectation of good news, and I
constantly dream of your father and of our old home in France which I
have never done before."

I saw Mrs. Dinah shake her head and look grave upon this, but I knew
she had her full share of Cornish superstitions. I myself thought the
improvement in my mother's health and spirits arose from the change of
air and scene, and from the enjoyment of cheerful company. I little
thought what was that joyful news she was soon to hear—joyful to her,
but sad beyond conception to me.

The very next morning, as I was finishing dressing, Dinah came to me,
quite calm as usual, but pale as ashes.

"Will you come to your mother at once?" said she. "She is very ill."

I did not need a second summons. My mother lay in her bed, her eyes
closed, breathing in soft sighs, and only at long intervals. My lady
was already with her, applying salts to her nose and strong essences to
her forehead, while old Mrs. Carey was rubbing the soles of her feet.
They made way for me with looks of solemn compassion. Even then I was
not alarmed.

"It is a fainting fit," said I. "She used to have them in France."

I bent over and kissed her, calling upon her name. She opened her eyes
with a look of unutterable tenderness, and her lips moved. Then she
drew one more sigh and all was still.

"Come away, my dear child," said my lady, disengaging my hand from my
mother's and taking it in her own. "Your dear mother is at rest."

Even then I could not believe it, and I would have them try again and
again to revive her, but soon the deathly chill of the hand and brow
and the white lips convinced even me, and I suffered my lady to lead me
away.

They were all very kind. My lady took me to her dressing-room, and
strove to win me to tears, for I was at first like one stunned. At last
Theo's tearful caresses opened the flood-gates, and I wept myself into
quietness. My lady left me to myself as much as was good for me, and no
more.

Mr. Penrose, the rector, came and prayed with me, and as I was able to
bear it, he talked with me in a gentle and consoling way, which did me
all the good in the world. He was a dry-looking, quiet elderly man,
a native of Cornwall, and had remained in his parish through all the
troubles and changes of the civil wars. My lord was greatly attached to
him, though he thought him needlessly strict in some matters. He was a
fine scholar, and the best preacher I had heard since I left France.

My mother was buried in the churchyard of the old priory church among
our ancestors for many generations. It was a lovely place, all green
and fair with grass and great trees, and luxuriant ivy mantling the old
ruins. Oh, how I wept as I thought of my father's dishonored grave. How
I wished they could have slept together! But it was an idle wish. What
signifies what distance divides our worn-out bodies, if only our better
part—our real selves—are resting together in the Paradise of God?

Of course word was sent to the friends at Tre Madoc, and I received a
most kind letter from my aunt, asking me to make her house my home.
The invitation was warmly seconded by the girls, but my lord and lady
would have me stay with them for the present, and indeed it was my own
desire. I did not feel that I could return to Tre Madoc where all was
so changed, nor, knowing my aunt as I did, could I wish to reside in
her family, specially as matters were so altered between Andrew and
me. I wrote as kindly as I could, specially recommending to my aunt's
care our old friends Jeanne and Simon. One good reason is as good as a
hundred, and I gave no other for remaining where I was than the wish of
my guardian.

I spent the autumn and winter quietly enough at Stanton Court. At
first, of course, I kept myself quite in retirement, but by degrees
I began once more to mix with the rest of the family, and to take my
share in what was going on. My aunt would have me take music lessons
of a gentleman in Biddeford, who came to our house every week for
that purpose, and at last took up his residence there altogether. He
improved me very much in music, both singing and playing, and I also
learned some arithmetic of him, especially such as relates to the
keeping of accounts—a knowledge I have since found very useful.

There was a school at Stanton Court, known as Lady Rosamond's school,
which had been endowed by some former Lady Stanton out of the revenues
of the suppressed priory. This school had been closed for some time,
and the house had fallen into disrepair, but Mr. Penrose was very
desirous of having it opened again, and he had at last persuaded my
lord to put the house in order and to settle a school-mistress once
more. This last was more easily said than done, since no one could be
found who came up to Mr. Penrose's ideas of what was desirable. At
last I was the means of supplying the need, though at a considerable
sacrifice to myself. My lady was one day admiring some work of Dinah's,
and saying what a treasure she was.

"Oh, my lady, why would she not make a good mistress for the new
school?" I exclaimed, struck with a sudden thought.

My lady looked surprised, but by no means displeased.

"I believe that is a bright thought," said she. "But hath Dinah the
needful knowledge?"

"She can read and write beautifully," said I, "and she hath some
knowledge of figures. There is no sort of work she does not understand,
and she is very apt to teach."

"But can you spare her?" asked my lady.

"I shall not like to spare her, that is the truth, my lady; but if
it is for the good of the school, I will not be selfish," I replied.
"I think the place is as well fitted for her as she is for it, and I
believe it will please her well to have a home of her own."

"Well, I will mention the matter to my lord, and do you talk it over
with Mr. Penrose, and we will see what is to be done," said my lady.
"I shall have to depend upon you a good deal in this business of the
school, Vevette. You know I am no great walker. Theo has no turn for
such work, and I know not how it is—" and she sighed—"Martha does
manage so to set every one against her."

"I am sure I shall like the work," I said. "Suppose I go down directly
and consult with Mr. and Mrs. Penrose?"

"Do so if you will, and ask them to come to supper to-night."

When Theo heard where I was going, she said she would walk with me.
We had a pleasant ramble through the wood and down the Coombe to the
village, and were most hospitably received by good Mrs. Penrose, and
entertained with cakes and cream. Mr. Penrose was well pleased with
the idea, and said he would himself talk with Dinah and find out her
qualifications.

"I should like to be a parson's wife," said Theo, as we walked homeward.

"You Theo!" I exclaimed, in amazement. "You of all people."

"Yes, I of all people," she returned gaily. "It seems to me such a
useful, pleasant, quiet life."

"But I thought you did not like quiet," I said. "You always seem to
enjoy company so much."

"Well, so I do; and I like to dress prettily, just as I like everything
to be pretty and neat; but any head is not set on such matters—no, not
so much as Martha's, though she is so demure. Perhaps not so much as
yours is."

"You would make a good parson's wife in many ways, I am sure of that,"
said I. "You would make every one like you."

"I know I am not so very bright," said Theo; "I cannot sing and play
like you, nor read great books like Martha, nor do any other grand
things. But I like to help people enjoy themselves in their own way,
and to comfort them in trouble if I can."

"I am sure you do," said I. "Janey Lee said the other day when her
child died it was a comfort just to have you come in."

"Did she? I am very glad," said Theo. "But I don't know what I did,
only to sit by her, and let her weep, and by and by draw her on to
talk of the poor babe and its little pretty ways. I never can preach
to people in trouble. It seems somehow unfeeling to talk to them of
judgments and so on. No, if I should marry a parson, I should let him
do all the preaching, you may be sure of that. I should content myself
with making his house pleasant, and cooking up messes for the poor, and
making baby things for the lying-in women. That is my idea of a happy
life."

It seemed as if Theo's idea of a happy life was like enough to be
fulfilled. She went on a little visit to her godmother, any lord's
sister, an elderly lady who had a house near Exeter, where she
maintained several young ladies of reduced circumstances but good
family, giving them a suitable education, and a small dowry whenever
they settled in life.

Here she made the acquaintance of the Dean of Exeter, a man, of course,
a good deal older than herself, but of fine presence and agreeable
manners. He had always been a good deal of a stickler for the celibacy
of the clergy; but it seems Theo found means to change his mind, for
she had not been at home a week before he followed her, and asked her
of her father in marriage.

It was one of those happy matches to which there seems no objection
on any side. The dean was rich and greatly respected. He had beside
his deanery a cure in the same parish where my lady Jemima, my lord's
sister, resided, and a beautiful rectory, where in Theo might concoct
sick messes and make baby linen to her heart's content. She had a small
property of her own, and my lord gave her a portion as to his own
daughter.

Mrs. Martha's wedding (which I should have mentioned in its proper
place) was celebrated very quietly, as we were all in recent mourning
for my mother; but my lord was determined that Theo should have a grand
wedding. So she did, indeed, with all proper ceremony from the first
going to church to the bedding of the bride. Matters of that sort have
greatly changed since that time, and I cannot but think for the better,
though I do hold that weddings should be celebrated publicly and
joyfully, not huddled up as if they were something to be ashamed of.
If matters go on as they have begun, I expect my granddaughters will
jump into a carriage at the church door, and drive off to get as far as
possible from all their friends.

However; Theo's wedding was public enough. We had the house full of
guests, and among them two whom I had no wish to see, and beheld
with dread as birds of ill omen, and so indeed they were. These were
no other than my cousin Betty and her husband. They had come to the
neighborhood to visit a cousin of Mr. Lovel's, and my lady meeting
them and learning who they were, thought she could do no less than
invite them to the wedding. My lord did not look too well pleased when
he heard of it, for he had taken a great dislike to Betty upon their
first meeting, but he could not treat her otherwise than courteously
in his own house. As to Mr. Lovel, he never seemed to me to have any
character, but to be a mere lay figure for the display of whatever mode
in clothes or manners happened to be uppermost.

Betty had not been one evening in the house before she began exercising
her powers. My lord was praising lip the institution of marriage, of
which he was a great promoter, and my lady, smiling, called him a
match-maker.

"Well, I am a match-maker, I don't deny it," said he. "Would you be
ashamed of it if you were me, cousin Lovel?"

Betty had been sitting rather silent, and I suppose he meant to include
her in the conversation. She answered at once—

"No, indeed, my lord. It is a good vocation. I am sure I have always
thanked Vevette for betraying me to my brother, and so bringing my
marriage to pass sooner than I could have done."

She spoke in those clear silver tones of hers, which always commanded
attention, and several people turned to look at us. As may be guessed,
I was covered with confusion, but I made shift to answer.

"You certainly owe me no thanks, Betty, for what I never did. I knew
nothing of your affairs, and therefore could not betray them, had I
been so inclined."

"Oh, I beg your pardon!" said she, with her mocking, superior smile.
And then presently to me in a kind of stage aside which every one about
us could hear—

"What is the use of keeping up that stale pretence? I suppose you did
what you thought right, and I don't blame you; but why deny what you
and I know to be true?"

To this I made no answer whatever, and my lady presently called upon me
to sing. I by and by saw Betty in close conference with Mrs. Bernard,
and I had no doubt from the looks Martha cast at me that I was the
subject of their conference.

The next day brought home my lord's son, whom I had not yet seen. He
had been travelling abroad for some years, but meeting the news of his
sister-in-law's approaching marriage in London, he had hurried home to
be present on the occasion. He was a fine, grave, soldierly-looking
young man, and very much like Andrew in the face, though taller and
with much more of courtly grace in his manner. He was warmly welcomed
by all, and especially by Mrs. Bernard. I never saw her soften so much
toward any one, and, indeed, I believe he was the only person she
ever really loved. He was very polite and kind to me, and I naturally
liked him because he was so much like Andrew. He was musical, like all
his family, and we sang together a good deal. One morning, as we were
practising a song together, Betty peeped into the room. I believe she
thought I did not see her, for she slipped out and presently returned
with my lady, whom I have no doubt she brought on purpose. They stood
listening a few minutes, and then Betty said half under her breath, and
with a sigh—

"Ah, my poor brother, I see his cake is dough; but no doubt it is all
for the best."

We stopped singing at this, and my lady asked me with some sharpness
whether I had been at the school that morning. I told her no, and she
at once thought of errands for me, both there and at the village, which
would keep me busy all the morning.

"I will walk with you, cousin," said my young lord. "I want to go down
to the Cove and see Will Atkins."

Certainly, my lady had not mended matters for herself or me. I got rid
of my cousin as soon as I could, telling him that I should be a long
time at the school-house, and after that had some poor people to visit.
He was rather unwilling to leave me, but I insisted, and he had to
yield.

Betty staid two days longer, and then went back to Allinstree, leaving
mischief enough behind her. I do believe my lady meant to be just to
me, but it was hard to resist the force of Betty's constant and artful
insinuations, and she really came to think that I was angling for her
step-son. It was not long, of course, before my lord took up the same
idea, and what was worst of all, my young lord soon showed that he had
no kind of objection to being angled for, and in fact was very ready
and even anxious to be caught.

From this time my life at the castle was not at all comfortable. I
missed the companionship of Theo, of whom I had grown very fond, though
she never filled Rosamond's place to me. I missed my mother more and
more. Besides, my conscience was not easy. My lord and lady were good
people, as I have said; but the times were times of great laxity. It
was the fashion to profess great abhorrence of the Puritans and their
ways, and immense devotion to the Church of England, and a good many
people showed their devotion by deviating as far as possible from the
ways of the precisians, as they were called.

We professed to observe Sunday—that is, we all went to church in the
morning, and my lady was very careful to see that all the servants
were present at prayers. But my lord yawned over a play or romance all
the evening when he had no one to take a hand at cards or tables with,
and when we had company staying in the house the Sunday evening was
as any other. My young lord had taken up the kind of infidel notions
by which, as I said, some young men tried to appear intellectual at a
cheap rate, and he had brought down some books of Mr. Hobbes with him
which he would fain have had me read; but that I refused. I had been
brought up to a strict observance of Sunday as a day of worship and of
sacred rest, and at first I was shocked at what I saw. While my mother
lived we usually spent our Sunday evenings together in her own room,
but after her death, and especially after Dinah went away, I was easily
drawn into whatever was going on below stairs, even to playing at
tables with my lord, when he had no one else to amuse him.

Then my old pleasure in dreams of wealth and consequence revived. I was
something of an heiress, though my income was wholly dependent upon my
lord's pleasure or discretion till I should be of age, and so I had
plenty of attention. I began again to let the world come into my mind,
and, of course, it soon gained a foothold there and ruled for the most
part supreme.

Now and then, especially when anything strongly reminded me of my
mother, my better self—that self which loved Andrew—came uppermost, but
at such times, I suffered so much from the reproaches of conscience,
that I strove by every means to stifle its voice. I said to myself
that my father and mother had been brought by the circumstances in
which they were placed to take a gloomy view of religion and its
requirements. That the strictness which they had inculcated was not
needful at present, and that it tended (a favorite argument this with
the devil) to make religion unamiable. That a man or woman might be a
Christian and yet allow themselves many diversions which the stricter
sort denied.

In fine, my thought was, not how much I could do for my Lord, but how
much of the world I could safely keep for myself. I was like a man who
in time of war, instead of fleeing to the safe hills in the interior
of the country, chooses to live as near the border as he can for the
advantage of keeping up a trade with the enemy. Instead of simply
shutting my ears to my cousin's infidel reasonings and declining the
subject, I allowed myself to listen to him, and to be influenced by him
to think that so long as a man lived a good life, forms and doctrines
mattered very little, and I did not ask myself on what this good life
was to be founded.

In short, I grew more and more conformed to the world, which in the
bottom of my heart I had always loved, and in proportion as I did so,
the remembrance of my father and mother, and of their teachings faded
from my mind, I still loved Andrew enough to reject with considerable
vivacity a proposal made me by young Mr. Champernoun, a gentleman of
the neighborhood, with a good fortune, and I must say a personable and
pleasing man, though grave beyond his years.

My lord and lady were very much vexed at my refusal, and used every
argument to make me change my resolution, saying that Mr. Champernoun
was a much better match than Andrew could ever be—which was true so far
as fortune went—and that I should perhaps never have so good a chance
to settle in life again.

"Well, well!" said my lord at last. "Wilful must have her way. An I had
not promised your honored mother never to force your inclinations in
any such matter, I should not use so much ceremony with you, mistress!
You should be made to do what was best for you, whether you liked it or
not."

He could not let the matter rest, but must needs take it up again when
his son was present.

"Vevette is right," said my young lord. "Were I in her place I would
not marry black Basil Champernoun either—a sour Puritan and precisian
whose father was in the favor of Old Noll as long as he lived. I
wonder, my lord, that you could think of such a thing."

"Aye, aye, you would fain find her a husband, I dare say; but mind, I
will have none of that. If Vevette is flying at any such game, she may
as well come down at once."

"I am not flying at any game that I know of," said I, feeling my cheeks
flame, as what lady's would not.

"Your face tells another tale," returned my lord. "Such blushes do not
come for nothing."

"One may blush for others as well as for one's self," said I, rising
from the tables where I had been playing with my lord, and in my
confusion oversetting the board. And I betook myself to my own room,
nor did I leave it all the next day, saying that I was ill at ease,
which was the truth, and wished to be quiet. Lewis must needs make
matters worse by coming to my door to inquire for me, and though I did
not see him, but sent him a message by Lucy, my new little maid, his
doing so did not help me with his father and mother.

When I came down-stairs again, I found my lord had gotten over his pet
and was as gracious as before, but my lady was very cool to me. She
loved Lewis as her own son, and was ambitious for him. The insinuations
of Betty had not been without their effect, and Mrs. Bernard, who was
settled in the neighborhood, threw all her influence on the same side.

In short, I was very unhappy, and as I had about that time an
opportunity of writing to my Aunt Jemima in London, I told her my
troubles, and added that I knew not what to do.

The result was an immediate invitation from her and my uncle to come
to them in London, and make their house my home. My uncle also wrote a
letter to my lord, which I did not see, but which I suppose satisfied
him, for he made no objection to my going, and my lady decidedly
forwarded it. Lewis had a great deal to say against it, but it may be
guessed that his arguments had no great weight.

It was settled that I was to travel with Theo and her husband, who were
going up in a week or two, and my lady was directly in a great bustle
to get me ready; now that there was a chance of getting me off her
hands, she was all kindness once more.

The evening before I was to go to join Theo at Exeter, I sought out
my lady in her dressing-room and asked to speak with her in private.
I thanked her for her kindness to me, and assured her that I had had
no desire to displease her in any way, and least of all by marrying
Lewis. Then as she gave me a kind though somewhat embarrassed answer,
I ventured to ask her what Betty had said about me. She would not tell
me at first, but presently changed her purpose, and when I heard the
cunning tale which Betty had imposed upon her, I no longer wondered
so much at her change toward me. It was not only in the matter of the
meeting with Mr. Lovel, that she had misrepresented me, but she had
told my lady that I had avowed to her a settled purpose to make myself
the wife of some great man, and to that very end had persuaded my
mother to break off the match with Andrew, at the very time that the
change in my fortunes made it likely that I should go to Stanton Court.

I explained the whole matter to my lady from beginning to end, and she
was pleased to say that I had wholly exculpated myself, and to take
shame to herself for being so ready to believe evil. She kissed me
and said she was sorry I was going away, and bade me always think of
Stanton Court as my home. She had been very generous to me before, and
she now gave me a gold watch and a beautiful set of pearl ornaments
which she had bought in Exeter. I believe she talked my lord over that
night, for the next day he told me he was sorry I was going away, and
if I would even now give up the plan, I should have a home at the court
as long as I liked, and he would not tease me to marry any one.

But the die was cast. The step was taken which was the beginning of a
long journey—far longer indeed, than any of us thought, and I had no
mind to turn back.

[Illustration]



[Illustration]

CHAPTER XVI.

LONDON.

THE next day I went to Exeter, from which place we were to set out
for London in a few days. I found Theo living in a noble house, with
everything pleasant about her, and enjoying herself to the full. She
had no fancy for the journey to London, and would, I believe, much
have preferred going to the country rectory, whither Mr. Dean usually
retired in summer. We rode out to see the place, and truly I did not
wonder at her love for it—all about it was so beautiful. There were no
gentlemen's houses very near, but my Lady Jemima, my lord's sister,
lived, as I have said, in an old mansion which had once been a convent
of gray nuns. The house stood on a rising ground, and was beautifully
embosomed in very ancient timber and a part of this same wood reached
even to the walls of the rectory itself.

We visited the little village school, taught by a charming old dame,
and where Theo distributed buns, gingerbread, and comfits with a
lavish hand. Then we went into the house, where all was in order, and
where the old housekeeper and her blooming neat maids welcomed us with
evident pleasure at seeing their mistress.

We also called upon my Lady Jemima, who was as great a contrast to my
own Aunt Jem as could well be conceived. She was sitting at work among
her family of maidens, who were all busy with their fingers, while one
read aloud. There were six of them, all dressed alike in gray gowns and
white caps with blue ribbons, and I must say they looked very bright
and happy. Lady Jemima was a plain woman, with none of the family
beauty of color, but she had a most sweet expression, at once benign
and commanding. She sent away her young ladies to walk, and then sat
down to talk with us.

"You have married off the last of your old family, have you not?" asked
Theo.

"Yes, only a month ago, and the child hath done well, I think. Another
has gone to be a governess in the family of a distant cousin of ours, a
rich sugar refiner's wife in Bristol, and in one way or another, they
are all scattered and doing well for themselves. But my house is nearly
full again."

"Not quite full, I hope, for I have a petition to make for a poor maid,
the eldest child of Mr. Brown, the vicar of Torton," said Theo. And she
proceeded to unfold the matter, saying that the Curate was very poor,
with a large family, and this daughter being lame, was not fit for
service.

"Are they so very poor?" asked Lady Jemima.

"They are poorer than they need be, if the wife were a better manager,"
replied the dean's lady. "But she hath been a waiting-gentlewoman to
my Lady Saville, and still sets herself up on her gentility, forsooth,
cannot possibly work with her hands, and talks of how she hath come
down in the world. The aunt, who is a good plain farmer's wife, with a
small army of children, tells me that this maid's lameness hath come,
she verily believes, from working beyond her strength to make up her
mother's deficiencies. She is her father's greatest comfort, poor man,
but he will willingly spare her for the chance of having her recover
her health."

"Will you send him to see me?" asked Lady Jemima. "I would talk the
matter over with him myself, for no disparagement to you, Theo," she
added with a smile, "you are one of those softhearted people who think
everybody ought to have everything, and as my means are limited, I
must make a discrimination, and not use them to encourage idleness or
improvidence."

Theo smiled in her turn, and admitted that she was easily imposed upon.
"But I am learning something, I assure you," said she. "I have found
out that all the clean people are not saints and all the dirty ones
reprobates, which was the notion I at first set out with."

After a little more talk we had dinner with Lady Jemima and the young
ladies, and set out on our way home, calling at the house of the curate
I have mentioned.

Such a house—showing in every corner the results of sluttishness and
improvidence.

The poor man, into whose study we were shown, sat in a ragged cassock,
writing with one hand and holding a sleeping infant on the other arm,
while his lame daughter was resting upon a rude couch or settle—a hard
resting-place it looked—keeping two more little ones quiet by telling
them a story, though her feverish cheeks and bright heavy-lidded eyes
showed how much she needed rest.

Another girl about twelve was clearing a table of the remains of what
certainly looked like a very scanty meal. Theo at once took possession
of the children, and distributed some cakes among them, which they
devoured in a way that showed their dinner had still left them with an
appetite. She had also brought new gowns for the elder girls, at sight
of which the somewhat sullen face of the second girl brightened, and
she looked really pretty.

The father said just enough and not too much by way of thanks, and
promised that he would go to see Lady Jemima next day. Just as we
were about going, madame sailed into the room, having evidently been
busy attiring herself in the remains of her old waiting-gentlewoman's
finery. She was loud in her thanks and praise of the gowns, and equally
loud in her lamentations over the state of her own wardrobe, a hint of
which Theo took no notice.

"I little thought I should live to receive charity," said the foolish
woman; "but when one weds beneath one's station, there is no knowing
what one will come to."

"As to that, I dare say your husband was so much in love as to
think you capable of filling any station," returned Theo, wilfully
misunderstanding her; whereat she tossed her head, and looked ready to
bite, but made no reply.

"I dare say she will make up the gowns for herself," said Theo, when we
had taken leave. "It is a wonderful thing to see what sort of people
little children are sent to, is it not?"

I agreed with her. I may as well say that the woman flatly refused at
first to let Sally go to Lady Jemima, declaring that her lameness was
more than half a pretence to get rid of work. But the father had his
way for once, and poor Sally, if she did not recover, at least spent
her last days in peace.

In a day or two we went up to London, in the dean's coach, with
outriders, and spare saddle horses for one of us to ride now and then.
It was a toilsome journey—worse by far than it is now, and that is
saying a great deal. More than once the coach was fairly stuck, and we
had to borrow oxen from the neighboring farmers to drag it out of the
mire, and once we just missed an attack from highwaymen. They thought
our party too strong, it seems, and let us pass, but a gentleman with
whom we had spent the evening before at an inn, was stripped of all
his own and his wife's valuables and received a severe wound in the
arm. However, in spite of dangers and detentions, we arrived safely
in London at last, and I was left at my uncle's new house in Covent
Garden, whither he had removed at the death of my Aunt Jean's father,
who had left her quite a fortune.

My uncle and aunt were not at home, but I received every attention from
my aunt's waiting-gentlewoman, and was installed in a pleasant room and
treated to a cup of chocolate. I was glad to go to rest early, as I was
very tired with the journey, and Mrs. Mercer said her lady would not be
at home till quite late. It was long before I could fall asleep, there
was such a noise in the street, but weariness overcame me at last.

I slept soundly and awoke refreshed, though still somewhat stiff with
the jolting I had endured. I had meant to begin the day with reading
and devotion, but I was hurried and a good deal in awe of the new
waiting-damsel my aunt had provided for me. I was afraid I should
keep my aunt waiting breakfast, and so went down without any prayer
whatever. Thus I began my new life with a false step.

I found my uncle much changed, and not for the better. He received me
very kindly, as did my aunt, but he looked haggard, had grown older,
and had a hard, worn expression, as if he lived under the stress of
some habitual excitement. My aunt too looked older, and had lost a good
deal of her beautiful bloom. They both welcomed me kindly, and any aunt
began at once to talk of taking me out to the theatre and the park
so soon as I should be provided with new clothes. My uncle said very
little, and went out immediately after breakfast. I saw his wife take
him aside and ask him some questions to which, judging from her face,
she did not receive a favorable answer.

"But the child must have new clothes! I cannot take her out with me
till she is fit to be seen," I heard her say.

"Well, well. I suppose Lord Stanton has sent me some money by the dean.
I shall wait upon him as soon as it is late enough. Meantime I can
spare you this," putting some gold into her hands. "It is a part of my
winnings last night."

"Ah, Charles, if you would but quit gaming," said my aunt, in a low
tone, but not so low but that I heard her.

"How can I, child, when the king sets the example, unless I withdraw
from court altogether, and I suppose you would not, have me do that?"

"No, you cannot do that," replied my aunt, "but then—"

"Don't trouble thy head about the matter," interrupted my Uncle
Charles. "If I lose one day, why I gain the next. So it is all even.
You will be an old woman before your time, and have to take to
painting, like my Lady Castlemaine—or to devotion, which I should like
still less."

So saying, he kissed her and went away, and she came back to me with a
little line of vexation between her arched brows.

"Well, well! Men will be men. Come up-stairs, child, and we will look
over your wardrobe and see what you need."

I ventured to say that, my Lady Stanton had provided me with everything
she thought needful.

"Yes, I dare say, according to her notions. But she has not been in
London these seven years, and I dare say she has not changed the
fashion of her dress since that time."

My new maid had unpacked all my things by this time, and my aunt,
though she criticised unmercifully the fashion of my gowns and
petticoats, yet allowed that Lady Stanton had been very liberal.

"This may do well enough with a silk petticoat laid with silver," said
she, laying aside what was meant for my best gown. "But you must have
another and some lace whisks and a hat and riding coat, and Mercer must
curl your hair."

"It curls of itself," said I, "but I have always worn a cap."

"Nonsense, child; what do you want of a cap? Come, I shall allow yo no
free will in this matter of dressing. You must needs confess that I am
the best judge, and be ruled by me. You shall wear my t'other hat and
mantle, and we will drive to the Royal Exchange and buy you some gloves
and stockings and a fan and so on."

"But, Aunt Jem, I am in mourning," I ventured to say.

"Well, and so am I, child. Don't you see I am all in black?"

Certainly she was in black, but I should never have guessed she was in
mourning, she wore so much lace and fine cut work. However, I promised
to be guided by her judgment in all such matters, as indeed was no more
than fitting, seeing I had come to be under her care. We presently
went out in my uncle's coach, and were busy shopping all the morning.
I thought I never could use all the things my aunt bought for me, and
my head fairly whirled with the excitement of seeing so many new places
and people.

My aunt was in the very heart of the gayest society about the court,
and many were the salutes she received from this and that great
lady—even from my Lady Castlemaine herself and another very handsome
woman whom she said was Mrs. Stewart, a great favorite of the king's.
When we had finished our shopping, we went into the park, and here I
saw the king and queen, the latter of whom I had never beheld before. I
thought her very sad-looking, and remarked upon it to my aunt.

"Yes, poor thing, she is sad enough, and no wonder, since she is silly
enough to love her husband," said my aunt.

"Do you think it silly for a woman to love her husband, aunt?" I asked.

"Yes, when he does not love her. But in truth, the queen is too grave
and too devout to please a merry monarch like King Charles."

"Perhaps she finds comfort in devotion," I ventured to remark.

"Yes, I dare say. 'Tis the refuge of disappointed wives and faded
widows. Perhaps I may take to it some day—who knows?"

I thought within myself that my mother always found comfort in
devotion, though she was by no means faded, and that devotion when it
was taken up in that way as a last resort, was not like to afford any
great solace; but I did not venture to speak my thoughts. I had already
learned to be ashamed of being thought devout.

"And who is that young lady in attendance upon the queen?" I asked.

"That! Oh, that is Mrs. Godolphin," was my aunt's reply, with a curious
change of tone. "She is a true saint, if you please. I do not believe
the smile or frown of any or all the kings in Europe would make her
turn a hair's breadth to the right hand or the left, in any matter of
duty or religion. We used to be great friends when we were young chits
together at school," and she sighed.

"And are you not friends now?" I asked.

"We have never quarrelled, child, if that is what you mean, but she has
gone her way, and I mine. There, we won't talk of it. See there is the
coach of the French ambassador. Is it not fine? He has some fine lady
and gentleman visiting him from France. I dare say we shall meet them
to-morrow night. But we must be going home to dinner."

My uncle was not at dinner, being in attendance upon the Duke of York
in some capacity or other. I forget what. When the meal was over my
aunt said she meant to take a rest, and she dared to say I would like
to do the same. I took the hint and retired to my own room.

Here was a chance for the devotions I had neglected in the morning, but
it may be guessed that I was in no promising frame for them. However,
I read a chapter and hurried over a few forms, and then spent the rest
of the afternoon reading a French romance I had found on my table, and
in practising upon the harpsicon my uncle had sent home for me. He was
very fond of music, and wished me above all things to cultivate it and
to improve my voice.

In the evening, my aunt entertained a small company of her friends, and
she would have me sing for them. I received many compliments, both upon
my voice and my playing, with which my aunt was honestly pleased, for
she was never one to envy another's success. When I went up to my room,
I found Mercer waiting to undress me and curl my hair. She had also a
new gown and petticoat ready for me to try on, and I actually forgot
all about my prayers till I was in bed and the light out. So ended my
first day in London.

Next morning I received a message to come to my aunt's bedroom as soon
as I was dressed.

"Is my aunt ill?" I asked of Mercer, who was waiting to show me the way.

"Oh, no, Mrs. d'Antin. She wishes to introduce you to your teacher of
music."

I actually did not know where to look when I entered my aunt's room and
found her lying in bed half raised upon a heap of laced pillows, with
only a light mantle thrown over her night dress, while a very smart
gentleman stood talking by the bedside. It was the first time I had
seen such a reception, but I soon grew accustomed to it, as one does to
everything.

My aunt introduced me to Mr. Goodgroome, who tried my voice, and
pronounced it a good one and well managed, though lacking in finish and
execution. And as this was all the fault he could find, I suppose I
must have acquitted myself pretty well, since I have observed that it
is very hard for any one of his profession to allow merit in the pupils
of another.

"You must learn Italian as fast as you can, so as to learn the Italian
manner of singing," said my aunt, at which Mr. Goodgroome frowned but
did not speak.

"I know something of the language already," said I. "My mother and
father both spoke it."

"Why, you are quite an accomplished young lady," said my aunt
playfully. "Can you draw at all?"

"Yes, aunt, a little."

"You must have lessons of Browne by and by, but not at present, I
think. I don't wish you to spend too much time at lessons. What hours
can you give her, Mr. Goodgroome?"

Mr. Goodgroome pulled out his table-book, and after some consideration,
decided that he could give me from eight to nine on Tuesdays and
Fridays.

"Why, that is rather early," said my aunt.

"I cannot make it later," replied the professor, with an air of
importance. "I must go to my Lady Sandwich's young daughters at nine,
and to Whitehall at eleven. But I can take from five to six in the
afternoon if it will suit better."

"Nay, that is worse than the other," replied my aunt; so it was settled
that I should begin my lessons at eight on Tuesday morning.

I inwardly determined that I would spend as much as possible of the
intervening time in diligently practising my fingering scales and
trillos, so as not to discredit my mother's teaching.

I soon found, however, that I should have little time to practise. My
Aunt Jem was one of those people who find quiet the most intolerable
of all things. When she was not out herself, she would have company at
home, and when she had no one else to amuse her, I must devote myself
to that purpose. Not that she was either selfish or unkind. She had the
making of a noble woman in her, had poor Aunt Jem, and even the world
for which she lived had not quite spoiled her. But reflection was not
agreeable to her, and diversion was her very life.

Our usual course of life was this: When my uncle was at home we
breakfasted in my aunt's dressing-room; when he was not, in her
bedroom, which she seldom quitted till ten or eleven o'clock, and where
she would give audience to such tradespeople as it was convenient for
her to see. Dressing was a work of time, thought, and much care, for,
as my aunt herself observed, she was growing older, and as natural
beauty waned, one must supply its place by art. The position of a patch
was a subject of five minutes' consideration, and the rising of a
pimple a cause for grave alarm.

When the important business was at last concluded, we usually went out
shopping. In one of these excursions, we met my old acquaintance Mr.
Pepys, a meeting which resulted in his being invited with his wife to
dine in Covent Garden.

"He is a rising man and in a good deal of estimation at court," said
my aunt, when we parted, "and his wife is a genteel, harmless little
body. Besides, he was kind to your mother, and one must not forget old
friends."

I was much pleased, both at the attention shown to the good man for my
sake, and also because I hoped I might hear news of Andrew, to whom my
better self still clung. But Mr. Pepys could tell me little more than
I knew already—that the ship had gone to the West Indies, and would
probably also visit New England before her return, which would occur in
about six months.

My Uncle Charles was at home and we had a very pleasant party. I sung
for Mr. Pepys and with him, for he was a good deal of a musician,
and my aunt took his opinion as to her choice of a teacher which he
commended.

In the afternoon we usually went into the park, paid visits, or
attended some show or exposition of china or pictures, or we went to
some auction or other. In the evening we either went out or entertained
company at home, in which case we had cards, and not unfrequently the
play ran pretty high.

The dean and Theo came to one of these entertainments, which indeed was
made expressly for them; but I think they were not very well pleased
with what they saw, for Theo sent for me the next day and was earnest
for me to return home with her to Exeter.

I told her with many thanks that I could not think of it—that my aunt
needed me, and that I was happy with her.

"That is the worst of it," said Theo gravely. "You like the life, and
that makes it the more dangerous for you."

"But you used to like it yourself," said I.

"Not such company as we see here," she answered, and then after a
little she added in a low voice, "Vevette, what would your mother
advise if she were here? What would she say?"

I was vexed at being reminded of what was one of my chief drawbacks in
my present life, and answered pettishly, that my mother's former life
and circumstances had naturally made her rather strict and melancholy
in her notions, and that I could not think any one was a better
Christian for always wearing a solemn face and denying one's self every
pleasure. Theo looked very grave, but she said no more, nor did she
again ask me to return with her.

About a fortnight after I came to London, I went with my aunt to a
grand entertainment at the house of the French ambassador. I had an
entirely new dress for the occasion, and wore my pearl necklace which
my lady had given me. My aunt was very solicitous that I should look my
best, but when she saw me, she professed herself quite satisfied, and
presented me to my uncle with no little pride.

We found the street filled with carriages, and the usual crush and
confusion prevailing—horses backing and rearing, coachmen swearing and
wheels interlocking—but we reached the door at last, and made our way
through the ranks of splendidly dressed ladies and gentlemen to the
saloon where the ambassador received his guests. He was a very courtly
man, with a smile and a compliment for all, and one of the handsomest
and most crafty faces I ever saw.

"And this is my young countrywoman of whom I have heard," said he,
addressing himself to me. "I must by and by present her to a friend. I
am proud of my countrywoman, madame. Indeed, she would be a credit to
any nation on earth."

"There, Vevette, your fame is established as a beauty," whispered
my aunt, as the crowd pushed us on, "since monsieur the count hath
pronounced such an eulogium upon it. Is not this a splendid scene?"

It was indeed, and my eyes wandered from one group to another, till
they were suddenly arrested by a sight which for a moment almost
made my blood stand still. Was it my father himself, or was it his
ghost—that handsome gentleman in the blazing French uniform who stood
regarding me with such an eager gaze? Could it be that he had not been
killed after all? My eyes grew dim for a moment, and when I looked
again the gentleman had disappeared.

"What ails you, Vevette?" said my aunt, in alarm. "You are as white as
your dress! Gentlemen, make way for us, I beg, my niece is not well."

Way was made to a window, and I was placed on a seat while one
gentleman brought water and another wine, and ladies proffered essence
bottles, and vinaigrettes. I recovered myself with a great effort, for
I was quite ashamed of the commotion I had made. However, my aunt would
not have me move at once, but took a seat near me, and we were soon
surrounded by a circle of gallants.

Into this circle presently came my Uncle Charles leading the very
gentleman whose resemblance to my father had upset me. It was not so
close, now that I saw him near, though it was still very striking. I
saw that he was older than my father, and instantly guessed who he
was before my Uncle Charles presented him. It was my father's oldest
brother, the Marquis de Fayrolles.

"And this is my niece," said he, in a tone of great affection, as he
bent over me and took my hand. "My dear Genevieve, I am more delighted
than I can express at this meeting. I supposed from what I heard that
you and your poor mother had perished in your attempt to escape from
the sack of the Tour d'Antin. I came down the next day but one, too
late to save the life of my unfortunate brother, but not too late, I am
glad to tell you, to do justice to his murderers."

Then my uncle had come to our rescue after all. This was the conclusion
I jumped to. I made my return to his salutation, and inquired after
Madame La Marquise.

"She is not at all well, I regret to say," was the reply. "I begin to
fear the climate of England does not agree with her. I hope to make
you acquainted with her another day. This is not the place for family
affairs, so I trust you, madame," bowing profoundly to Aunt Jem, "will
allow our kinswoman to visit my wife to-morrow."

My aunt at once assented, and the marquis chatted on easily in French
about the court, the parks, and all those little nothings which make up
talk in such places. He led my aunt and myself to the supper table, and
placed himself between us, paying us every attention. It was impossible
to withstand his manner, which had all my father's heartiness with the
grace which can only be acquired by habitual converse with the best
society.

My aunt was the envy of all her fine acquaintance for being so
distinguished, and when she returned home, she pulled a fine diamond
ring from her finger and bestowed it upon me, saying I deserved a
reward for the way I had comported myself in this, my first real
appearance in the great world.

"You have had a real success, and there is not one girl in ten of your
age who would have borne it so well," said she. "But what upset you
so? Was it the heat, or are your stays uneasy? You must not let Mercer
dress you too tight. It will make your skin look muddy and your nose
red."

"It was not that," said I, laughing a little nervously, for I was very
tired. "I saw the marquis in the crowd, and thought it was my father."

"There, there, child, don't give way;" said my aunt, alarmed as I began
to sob. "You are quite overwrought. Put her to bed, Mercer, and give
her some sal-volatile and lavender."

Mercer obeyed, and would have stayed by me till I fell asleep, but this
I would not allow. I wanted to be alone.

I cried awhile, but the composing draught at last took effect, and I
fell asleep to dream about ambassadors, balls, and my new-found uncle,
who was strangely and uncomfortably mixed up with my father, and who
was now burying me alive in the vault under the old chapel, while
Andrew held the light, and now asking Betty about me, who was telling
him all sorts of monstrous fictions.

[Illustration]



[Illustration]

CHAPTER XVII.

MY NEW FRIENDS.

I AWOKE in the morning tired enough; but dressing and a cup of coffee
refreshed me, and by the time my uncle's carriage and servants came
for me, I was quite ready to attend him. The Vevette of a year ago
would perhaps have breathed a prayer for guidance under such difficult
circumstances, but I never even thought of it. I was carried to the
ambassador's residence, and led through more than one grand apartment
to the room where my new uncle and aunt were awaiting me.

My aunt, Madame de Fayrolles, was a woman of forty or thereabout,
elegantly dressed and rouged in a way that made me open my eyes at
first. Rouge was not then commonly worn in England—scarcely at all, in
truth, save by such kind of madams as Lady Castlemaine—but in France
it was a regular part of the toilette of a lady of quality, and was
worn without any disguise. She received me kindly, kissing me on both
cheeks, and then presenting me to a gentleman in a semi-clerical dress,
whom she called Father Martien.

I felt some of my old childish terror of a priest revive, as the
gentleman bowed to me, but of course I returned his salute politely.
After a few words, he quitted the room, saying that he hoped to meet me
again and know me better.

"That is a distinguished man," said madame, as he closed the door
behind him. "He is the ambassador's confessor, and very high in his
order. Men say he is as like to be general."

"General of what?" I asked.

My aunt stared.

"Of the Jesuits, of course—what else? But I forget, you know nothing
of these matters. My poor brother-in-law! Ah, what a pity he was so
obstinate! But we will not talk of that now," catching a warning glance
from her husband. "Tell me, petite, how old art thou?"

I told her.

"And they have not yet settled thee in life? Ah well, so much the
better. And now what shall we do to amuse you?"

I could not help thinking my aunt very charming, in spite of the
rouge which had so shocked me at first. She had all the brightness
and sparkle, all the grace of manner of a genuine French woman, and
when she desired to please she was certainly irresistible. She set to
work at once to reform my dress, and the manner of wearing my hair,
exchanging with her waiting-damsel many comments upon my good looks.
Then she would turn out all her jewels for my amusement, and bestowed
several elegant trifles upon me, besides a box of beautiful perfumed
gloves.

"I will divide these with Aunt Jemima," said I; "she has beautiful
hands."

"Nay, keep them for yourself, I have a little cadeau for the good
aunt—what did you call her?"

"Jemima," I replied.

"Ah, what a horror of a name! But no matter, so she is kind to thee."

And my aunt began, while displaying all her fans and other trinkets, to
question me about my own affairs. My uncle, who came in, soon joined in
the conversation, and by easy degrees, and almost without knowing it,
they won from me my whole family history, from beginning to end.

Then my uncle in his turn, began to explain matters, as he said. I
cannot, at this distance of time, recall what he said exactly, but he
made it clearly appear that his conversion to the Romish Church was a
matter of deep conviction, and an act of quite disinterested faith,
which had brought upon him most unmerited obloquy and persecution. He
told me he had been on his way to the Tour d'Antin to visit my father,
when he had been met by the news of the demolition of the chateau.

"I hurried down at once," said he. "I had hoped to induce my dear
brother, if not to conform, which indeed, knowing his disposition, I
hardly dared to expect, at least to withdraw quietly and in safety
either to Jersey or Geneva, from which places he could easily be
recalled had it been desirable. Judge, my dear Genevieve, of my
feelings when I found my brother dead, his house a mass of ruins, and
his wife and child fled no one knew whither. It was believed that you
had put to sea under the guidance of the young English gentleman, and
that you had all perished together. A fisherman, who had been driven
over to Jersey by the storm, reported seeing a boat bottom upward and
some floating articles of female apparel which confirmed me in the
idea, and I mourned you as dead till I met you last night. I was at
once struck with your resemblance to our family, and on inquiry found
that you were indeed my niece."

I need not repeat all that was said to me that day. Suffice it to
say that I returned home at night completely bewitched by these new
relatives. I found Aunt Jem a little out of humor at my staying away so
long, but she was easily pacified by my excuses, and delighted by the
boxes of gloves and of French comfits I had brought her from my Aunt
Zenobie. French gloves were then, as they are now, very much better
than any made in England.

This was the first of many succeeding visits, in the course of which
Monsieur and Madame de Fayrolles gained more and more of my confidence
and regard.

They were very attentive to Aunt Jem also, but she did not like them as
well as I did. I well remember a remark of hers with which her husband
was not at all pleased.

"They are fishing for you, Vevette. They mean to make a convert of you,
and then what will the sailor say?"

"Nonsense, Jem," said my Uncle Charles sharply. "What interest have
they in the matter? Why should you wish to set Vevette against her
father's family?"

"I do not wish it," returned Aunt Jem, looking at once hurt and
surprised, for Uncle Charles, though often moody, was seldom anything
but kind to his wife, of whom he was both fond and proud. "I am sure it
is but natural they should wish to bring the child to their own way of
thinking. I am not sure but I should like to be of that way myself,"
she added, sighing a little. "It is a comfortable kind of faith after
all. One puts one's self into the hands of a priest, and then one is
sure of salvation."

I might have answered that this salvation was a thing that a devout
Roman Catholic never could be sure of, since his salvation depends not
alone upon the all-perfect Saviour, but upon the offices of a man like
himself who may be altogether a sacrilegious person; but I had become
very shy of speaking upon religious subjects. I still, it is true,
kept up a form of devotion morning and evening, but with my conscience
constantly burdened by unrepented sins which I would not even confess
to be sins, my prayers could be only the emptiest of forms. My Bible
lay unread day after day, and though I did indeed go to church once
every Sunday, I did not greatly profit by that.

It was a time of great deadness in spiritual matters in the Church
of England, though there were a few faithful preachers who shone as
lights in a dark place. But our parish clergyman was not one of them.
Sometimes he gave us a disquisition on the heresies of the first ages
in the church, but his sermons in general were either upon the divine
right of kings and the wickedness of those who ventured in anything to
oppose them, or else dry lectures upon morals to the effect that vice
was bad and virtue was good. I heard about the Theban legionaries till
I wished they had been massacred long before they were, so that they
might have been lost in the mists of antiquity.

As to the moral lectures which formed a great part of the preaching
of the day, they were not like to have any great influence so long as
people saw the king, an open and shameless contemner of the laws of
God and man, publicly receiving the sacrament, while his attendants
meantime laughed and chatted among themselves as if they had been in a
playhouse, the Duke of York himself setting the example.

As I said, there were glorious exceptions—men who shunned not
fearlessly to declare the whole council of God, and to rebuke sin
wherever they found it, but these were not the rule, and they did not
come in my way. Sunday was a long day to us at my aunt's, though we did
our best to shorten it by reading romance and plays, playing at tables,
and seeing company at home.

My visit to Madame de Fayrolles was soon repeated, and it came to be an
understood thing that I should spend at least two days in the week with
her.

I made the acquaintance of Father Martien, as he was called, and found
him a very polished, agreeable gentleman. He was a Frenchman by birth,
but educated in Florence. We soon fell upon the subject of Italian
literature, and he ventured gently to criticise my pronunciation, and
offered his services to correct it by reading with me two or three
times a week. I had always been fond of the language, and accepted the
offer with enthusiasm. I hardly know how we began upon the subject of
religion, but we were in the midst of it before I was aware.

I had been well furnished, like every Huguenot child, with abundance
of answers to every argument that could be brought forward upon the
Romish side; but, alas, the armor was loose and dented from neglect,
and the sword rusty and out of use. My faith in Christianity itself
had been in some degree shaken by the sneers and arguments I had heard
from Lewis, and also from my Uncle Charles, who was a worshipper of Mr.
Hobbes. I had come to think that one form of faith was perhaps as good
as another—that so long as men led good lives, their opinions did not
very much matter, and so forth. When I tried to recall my old arguments
I remembered other things which roused my conscience, and made me
wretched, that I was glad to let them rest again.

I was persuaded to hear mass in the chapel of the French ambassador,
that I might enjoy the music. Aunt Jem herself went to the chapel of
the queen for the same reason, and I soon discovered that she was
leaning the same way as myself.

"Surely in vain the net is spread in the sight of any bird."

One might think so certainly, and yet how often do we see nets spread
in plain daylight, and the silly birds walking straight into them.

Every day I grew more and more indifferent to the faith in which I had
been educated, and for which my father had died. Every day I saw new
reason to regret the bigotry—so I learned to call it—which had brought
so many misfortunes upon our family. Every day I grew more attached to
my uncle and aunt, and came more under their influence.

My Aunt Jem even grew a little jealous, and murmured that it was rather
hard she should have so little of my company, when she had been the
means of my coming to town in the first place; but a little attention
from the ambassador's family, and a few introductions to great people,
and cards to great entertainments, soon reconciled her to the state of
things. As to my Uncle Charles, I am sorry to write it, but I have good
reason to believe that he was playing into the hands of Monsieur de
Fayrolles all the time. He was deep in debt, and embarrassments of all
sorts, caused by his high play and extravagant style of living, and I
believe that he deliberately turned me over to my French relations in
consideration of being relieved of some of the most pressing of these
liabilities.

One thing held me back from taking the last step to which I was now
being gently urged and persuaded—and that one thing was my love for
Andrew. I still wore his ring, and still watched vainly and with the
sickness of hope deferred for news of him. The news came at last.

I was breakfasting in my aunt's bedroom as usual, for Aunt Jem grew
more and more indolent in her habits and often did not rise till noon.
Her health was failing even then, and she had very bad nights, but
she would never confess that she was ill. She had, however, so far
yielded to pain and weakness as to remain at home for a day or two. I
was breakfasting with her, as I said, and trying to entertain her with
accounts of what I had seen and heard when out with Madame de Fayrolles
the day before, when my uncle entered the room.

He saluted my aunt with his usual kindness, and then asked me for a cup
of coffee.

"And what is the news at court?" said my aunt.

"Nothing very special, that I know of. One of our ships from the West
Indies has come in, and by the way, Vevette, I heard of an old friend
of yours—"

My heart beat fast, and my hand trembled so that I was fain to set down
my cup of chocolate.

"Your old friend and flame, our good cousin, has done a very wise
thing," he continued, playing the while with my aunt's little dog. "He
has married the daughter of a rich planter with I know not how many
thousand slaves and acres, and means to settle in those parts as soon
as he can arrange his affairs. What say you, chick? Shall I bespeak a
willow garland for you?"

"I have no occasion for it, thank you," I answered, with a calmness
which surprised myself. "That affair was broken off by my mother long
ago."

"Of course," said my aunt. "Vevette has too much sense to regret that
her cousin should look out for himself. I hope to see her make a much
better marriage than that. She has improved wonderfully of late, and
would grace any station."

"But are you quite sure this news is true?" I asked quietly. "It will
be a great grief to Andrew's mother and sisters if he should settle
abroad."

"I dare say they will reconcile themselves, seeing how much he gains by
it," replied my uncle carelessly. "Besides, he may not remain abroad
always. I dare say in time he will return to England, rebuild the old
tumble-down court at Tre Madoc, and found a great estate. Report says
the young lady is beautiful as well as rich, and that it was quite a
love match. They believe in such things out there it seems."

"You believed in them once," said my aunt.

"Yes, in old days when you were young, my love; but there are no such
things now, because there are no more such women."

My poor aunt brightened at this speech and the caress which accompanied
it. All of her that was not spoiled by the world clung to her husband.

Sorrow in itself has no power for good, but only for evil. It is only
while we look not at the things that are seen, but at those which are
unseen, that it works for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of
glory.

The things unseen had become to me more unreal than any dream, and
consequently this great blow only hardened and embittered instead of
softening my heart. I said to myself that there was no truth or trust
in anything—that Andrew was no better than the rest.

I cast myself loose from all the considerations which had hitherto
restrained me, and gave myself wholly over to the influence of Monsieur
and Madame de Fayrolles, and especially of Father Martien. Aunt
Zenobie, with that consummate tact which distinguished her, and which I
have sometimes even thought served her instead of a soul, never alluded
to the subject of Andrew's marriage, and never showed that she had even
heard of it, except by redoubling the amount of petting and caresses
she bestowed on me.

Father Martien, on the other hand, hinted delicately at similar sorrows
he had himself undergone in early life, and spoke of the consolations
the church had to offer to wounded hearts, of the tender sympathy of
the mother of God, and the comfort of having a woman like myself to
whom I might confide all my sorrows, and who could understand my heart.
I aright have said that he who made the woman's heart was at least as
likely to understand it as any one else, and that women were not, as a
general thing, more tender to women than the other sex.

But the truth was, I was eager to be—I will not say convinced, but
persuaded. My soul was a fountain of bitter waters—a spring of boiling
rebellion against Heaven, and anger against man. I only wished to
divide myself as far as possible from Andrew and to go where I never
need hear his name. I allowed myself to go constantly to mass with my
aunt, to listen to Father Martien's arguments with complacency, and
to give good hopes to my French friends that I meant to return to the
bosom of the true church.

Another event occurred about this time, which had the effect of
throwing me still more completely into the hands of Madame de
Fayrolles. My Aunt Jemima died. As I have before hinted, she had long
been ailing, though she had striven against her malady, and concealed
its ravages with all the force of her will. But no human will is of any
avail when death knocks at the door.

The day came when she was obliged to keep her bed and acknowledge
herself ill, and from that time her decay was very rapid. It was most
pitiable to see how she clung to that world which was slipping away
from her—to the miserable crumbling idols which she had worshipped,
but in which there was no help. She would be partly dressed every day,
would see those—they were not many—who called upon her—would hear
all the news of the court and the town. Her gentlewoman Mercer, who,
was something of a religious person in her way—wished her to have a
clergyman come to read prayers, but Aunt Jem refused. She was not as
bad as that, she said; there was plenty of time; she was not going to
die. She would be better when spring came—in truth, she was much better
already.

Alas, poor lady, her death-warrant was signed and the messenger was at
the door. Her end came very suddenly at last. There was barely time to
send for a clergyman, and when he came, her speech was gone, though
she had her senses and her eyes wandered from one face to another in
agonized appeal for the help which no mortal could give.

Mercer in her hurry had brought not our parish clergyman, but her own,
a serious and I believe truly religious young man, who tried to direct
my aunt's thoughts and hopes to the only sure foundation, but she
hardly attended, and we could not be sure even that she understood.

Surely there is no sight of martyrdom for the truth's sake so terrible,
so pitiable, as the death-bed of one who, having given his whole heart
and mind to the world, is called upon to leave it forever.

[Illustration]



[Illustration]

CHAPTER XVIII.

A GREAT STEP.

MY Aunt Jem's death was, of course, a great shock to me, and might well
have opened my eyes as to the course wherein I was walking, but I would
not have them opened.

In the state of mind I was at that time, it seemed to me only a new
injury. I was like one possessed. In the midst of all my worldliness
and backsliding, my heart had clung to Andrew, and I had believed in
his faithfulness and uprightness. Now he turned out no better than the
rest. There was no truth in anything. My father and mother had served
the Lord faithfully, and how had they been rewarded? If they had indeed
served him aright, would he not have stretched forth his hand to help
and deliver them?

Thus I reasoned, contemning the generation of his children, and
wilfully shutting my eyes to the fact that the Lord nowhere in the New
Testament promises exemption from sorrow, and the cross in this world
as a reward for faithful service. There is no person so open to the
attacks of Satan as a professed and enlightened Christian who is living
in known and wilful sin.

The first effect of my aunt's death was to throw me more completely
into the hands of Madame de Fayrolles. I was very unwell after the
funeral, and indeed kept my bed for several days. As soon as I was able
to be up, madame came to me full of affection and of caresses. She
informed me that she and her husband were going to travel to Bath and
to several other watering-places, and that she had arranged to take me
with her. My health and spirits would be all the better for the change,
and my uncle had given his consent.

"So you have nothing to do but to get ready, and we will set out in a
few days," she concluded. "Have you an attendant, or shall I provide
one?"

Now Mercer had waited upon me since my aunt's death, my own damsel
having gone to a more lucrative place. She had tended me with the most
devoted kindness, and I had become greatly attached to her; but when I
asked her whether she would accompany me on my journey, to my surprise
and chagrin she flatly refused.

"But why?" I asked.

"Well, Mrs. d'Antin, the truth is this," said Mercer. "I am fond of
travelling, it is true, and I like you. You have always been a good
young lady to me. But—I mean no disrespect—I do not like that French
lady, and I like her attendants still less. Besides—"

"Well, besides what?" I asked a little impatiently. "Besides is always
the real reason, I find."

"Besides, madame, I should not think it right," added Mercer, turning
very red, though she spoke with great resolution. "I have lived too
much for the follies of this world as it is. I know I have a liking for
them, and am therefore best out of their way. Some words your blessed
mother said to me when she was here, and I was waiting upon her, stuck
in my mind and first made me think of something beyond this life, and
my poor dear lady's death has been another warning to me about living
for this world. My sister has a ladies' boarding-school at Hackney, in
which I can invest my savings, and I can be a help to her in teaching
the ladies to work and in looking after their dress and manners. She
will be very glad to have me with her, and I hope I shall be able to do
some good in the world before I leave it."

"Oh, very well," I said petulantly, "if you prefer teaching cross and
satin stitch to stupid girls, and seeing that they comb their hair and
put on clean linen, to attending upon and travelling with me—"

"I do not prefer it, madam," answered Mercer. "I choose it, because I
know that I shall be putting myself out of the way of temptation, and
into the way of doing good. Besides, madame, I am a simple unlearned
woman who does not know how to answer for her faith, and to say the
truth, I would not like to trust myself among a family all made up of
Papists."

"You are very bigoted," said I, in a superior tone. "Don't you suppose
there are as good Christians among Papists as you call them, as there
are among Protestants? Don't you believe a Papist can be saved?"

"As to that," answered Mercer readily, "that there are those among
them that live up to their lights, such as they are, I don't deny,
but I don't say nor believe that they are as good Christians as they
would be if their lights were brighter. As to their being saved, that
is no business of mine. I know that the Scriptures are very hard upon
idolaters, especially those idolaters who might know better."

"But the Papists do not worship images," I said. "The veneration of
holy images is permitted because this veneration is not paid to the
image itself, but to that which it represents."

"But the second commandment is explicit about that," returned Mercer.
"That very veneration is forbidden, because we are not to bow down to
them. Besides if there is nothing in the image itself, why do they
venerate one image so much more than another?"

"Oh, you are a great casuist," said I. "I wonder you do not take orders
instead of going into a school. The long and the short of it is, you
think it will be a fine thing to set up for yourself and to have a
parcel of young ladies to govern."

"You are mistaken, madame," answered Mercer, with enough of dignity to
make me ashamed of my petulance. "If you were to remain here in London
or to go into the country, even down to that barbarous Cornwall, that
my poor dear lady dreaded so much, I would give up all thoughts of
going into the school, and stay with you as long as you wished, and
that for your dear mother's sake as well as your own. But into the
family of Madame de Fayrolles I will not go. And I do beg and entreat
you, Mrs. Vevette, to think twice before you do so. Think of what your
mother would say—think!"

But the conversation was here interrupted by a call from my aunt. She
did not seem at all displeased when I told her of Mercer's decision.

"It is just as well," said she. "Of course, if you wished for the good
woman, and she desired to come, I should say nothing against it; but it
would not have been comfortable for her or you. But I wonder she should
refuse so good an offer."

"It was a case of conscience, I believe," said I. "She was afraid of
being converted."

"Oh, I understand. Well, petite, it is just as well. I shall have no
difficulty. You shall take my second woman, who has been well trained
and is an accomplished seamstress and hair-dresser. So, Mrs. Mercer—"
as that damsel entered the room "you will not go with your young lady
because you are afraid of being converted. Does not that in itself show
you how weak your cause is, and how conscious you are of its weakness?"

Madame spoke smilingly, and Mercer answered also with a twinkle of the
eye.

"If I might venture to put a case, madame?"

"Go on," said my aunt.

"Suppose, madame, one of your own family, a woman neither very bright
nor very learned, should be offered a service in a Protestant family,
where she would be likely all the time to hear her own faith attacked
by an accomplished Protestant minister—what would your ladyship advise
her to do?"

"Fairly posed," returned my aunt, laughing good-naturedly. "Well, well,
I will not urge you. But at least accept this little remembrance from
me," she added, drawing out a very elegant little étui, with pencil
tablets and all complete. "It will be useful to you and is valuable in
itself."

Mercer accepted the present with many thanks, and retired.

"That is a good soul," said my aunt. "What a pity she is not a
Catholic? She might have a real vocation."

The next day I removed to the lodgings which my uncle and aunt had
been inhabiting for some time, and my uncle's establishment was broken
up. He gave me all my poor aunt's wardrobe, except her most valuable
jewels, and I in turn bestowed upon Mercer such of the things as were
likely to be useful to her, together with a number of books of devotion
which had belonged to Aunt Jem's mother.

Mercer was profuse in her thanks, and we parted the best of friends.
I visited the good woman many years afterward, and found her at the
head of the school which she had entered, and though an old lady, still
hale and strong, and ruling her little kingdom with a wise and vigorous
hand. I took from among her young ladies, one to be waiting-gentlewoman
to myself and my eldest daughter, and I have never had reason to regret
the choice.

I had written to my Lord Stanton asking permission to stay for a
while with Madame de Fayrolles, and received a speedy answer, as
some one from the neighborhood was coming direct to London. My lord
evidently wrote in a good deal of irritation, and his letter was to
the effect that he had not the least objection to my residing with
Madame de Fayrolles since from all he could hear, she was a woman of
reputation. He only hoped she had no sons to be bewitched—this sentence
was scratched out, but I could read it. He sent me some money for
my private purse and would remit more if I needed it. In short, it
was plain that my lord dreaded nothing so much just now as having me
returned on his hands.

Theo, on the contrary, who wrote at the same time, gave me a most warm
and pressing invitation to make my home with her, as long as I pleased,
and she begged me to think twice before placing myself wholly in the
hands of Madame de Fayrolles. I shall not repeat her arguments, though
they were all good and wise. Indeed, I hardly read them myself. I could
not endure the idea of returning to Devonshire on any terms.

I found a luxurious apartment prepared for me in the house Monsieur de
Fayrolles had taken for the season, and here I remained for some two or
three weeks, coaxed and flattered to the top of my bent. Every means
was used to attach me to my new friends, and separate me from old ones.

Neither my lord nor Theo said a word about Andrew, and I had not heard
a word from Tre Madoc in a long time. I had asked Mr. Pepys about
Andrew, and he admitted that he had heard the story of his approaching
marriage from excellent authority, and believed it to be true.

From this time I became like one desperate. I put away my French Bible,
so dear as having been my mother's, and the little brown English
prayer-book she had carried off in our hasty flight from the Tour
d'Antin. I could not make up my mind to destroy them, so I made them
into a package, sealed them up, and committed them to Mercer's care,
from whom I reclaimed them long afterward.

I read only the books of controversy and devotion supplied to me by
Father Martien. I began to use a rosary, and to fancy that I found
comfort and help in praying to the virgin. I was quite ready to have
made a profession of my new faith at this time, but to my surprise and
disappointment, Father Martien put me off. He said I had not had time
to know my own mind or to receive proper instruction.

The truth was, I believe, he did not think it would be very safe either
for my uncle or himself. There was in England a growing jealousy of
Roman Catholics and their influence, a jealousy well founded enough in
itself, though it culminated afterward in the follies and wickedness
of the so-called Popish plot. It would be dangerous to have it known
that a young lady of good family, a ward of my Lord Stanton's, had been
induced to abandon the English for the Romish Church.

This refusal, however, only increased my eagerness. I really persuaded
myself that I embraced all those dogmas which I had been educated to
regard with horror, as monstrous and profane. My aunt, while greatly
edified by my devotion, was a little alarmed at it. It was at that time
no part of her plan to have me become a religious, as she called it.
She took me out with her a great deal, and paid great attention to my
dress and manners. Both she and my uncle were very kind and indulgent,
but they contrived to keep me in a kind of honorable restraint—a
restraint so gentle that I never felt it at all.

I was not permitted to visit by myself any of the young ladies of my
own age whose acquaintance I had made at my Aunt Jemima's, and though
my friends were made welcome and treated with great courtesy, yet
somehow their visits gradually fell off, and I saw them no more.

In a few weeks we visited the Bath, as my aunt had proposed, and
remained for some time seeing a good deal of company. From thence we
went to Epsom, at which place the king was residing, though he kept
no court and had very few about him, save the very most dissolute of
his courtiers, for he had by this time thrown off all pretence to
decency of conduct. It was at Epsom that Monsieur de Fayrolles received
a summons to return at once to France. It seems he had some sort of
command over the household guards, from which command he had been
absent longer than his royal master approved.

My uncle received this notice in the morning at the hands of Father
Martien, who had come down with some letters from the French
ambassador. In the evening, my gentlewoman came to me with a message
desiring my immediate presence in my aunt's room. I found her seated
beside her husband, while Father Martien stood behind her chair. The
faces of all three wore a very solemn expression, and I trembled, I
hardly knew why. My aunt bade me be seated. Zelie placed a chair for me
and then at a sign from her mistress withdrew.

"Genevieve," said my uncle seriously, "the time has come for you to
make a decisive choice as to your future conduct. We are obliged to
return to France immediately. Will you return with us, embrace the true
Catholic faith, and be to us as a daughter, or will you remain in this
land of heretics, and return to my Lord Stanton, or to his daughter who
has invited you?"

"Nay, my friend, state the case fairly—that might not be the
alternative," said madame. "Vevette might undoubtedly be married before
we leave England, since Mr. Cunningham has made application for her
hand already. Besides, her cousin, Mr. Corbet, is as we hear just about
to return with his bride, and I dare say they would not be sorry to
give Vevette a home."

This last news—I hope I do my aunt no injustice when I say I believe
she made it up for the occasion—decided me. I was not a moment in
saying that if monsieur pleased, I would return to France with him.

"But if you return with us it must be as a Catholic," said my uncle. "I
do not profess to be bigoted, but I cannot, I dare not, take an open
heretic to the court of the most Christian king."

"Mademoiselle has already confessed to me her desire of being admitted
into the bosom of our holy mother church," said Father Martien. "Is it
not so, my daughter?"

"It is so," I answered quite calmly and resolvedly. "I am ready to make
a profession at any time."

The priest and my aunt were loud in their expressions of gratitude to
all the saints. My uncle merely said:

"That settles the matter then. We shall go to London to-morrow and
from thence set out at once for Paris. There is no time to consult my
Lord Stanton, nor is there any need of doing so since he has given his
consent to your residing with us."

The next day we went to London, where we remained less than a week,
settling up affairs, paying off servants and tradespeople, and taking
leave of our friends.

I was in a high state of excitement, and it did not strike me at
the time, but I well remember now that I was hardly left to myself
a moment, and that care was taken that I should never have the
opportunity of speaking alone with any of my Protestant friends.

My good Mercer came to see me, but she was not admitted, nor did I know
of her visit till long afterward. There was no need, however, of all
these precautions. I was possessed of only one idea—to separate myself
as far as possible from Andrew, and to get out of the country before he
came into it. I felt as if I could have gone to the ends of the earth
to avoid him.

Besides I was delighted with the prospect of seeing Paris and
Versailles, and that court my aunt described to me in such glowing
colors. I conceived that I should be a person of a good deal of
importance, and even began to have dreams of a grand alliance. As to
love, I said to myself it was all sentimental nonsense, just fit for
boys and girls. I had got over all that. In short, my heart was given
to the world. That was the god of my idolatry, and it paid me the wages
it usually bestows upon its votaries.

We were favored with a passage in a king's ship, and therefore fared
better than most people do in crossing the channel, but we had a rough
time. Every member of our party was sick but myself, and I had my hands
full with waiting upon my aunt, who fell into all sorts of terrors and
fits of the nerves, and was sure we were going to be drowned. However,
we reached Calais in safety, and after waiting a day or two to refresh
ourselves, we took the way to Paris.

Whether it was that I had been so long away from France that I
had forgotten how it looked, or that Normandy had been in a more
flourishing condition than the other provinces, or finally, that I
contrasted what I now saw with what I had seen in England, I cannot
tell; but certainly the country looked terribly forlorn to me. There
was little tillage, and what there was seemed by no means flourishing;
the people had a crushed, oppressed, half-fed look which was very sad
to see. Even when the vintage was going on there seemed very little
rejoicing.

Once, taking a by-road to avoid a hill, we came upon what must have
been a flourishing vineyard a day or two before, but the vines were
crushed and torn from their supports, and lay withering upon the
ground, the beautiful grapes were scattered and spoiled, while two or
three women with faces of blank despair were trying to rescue some of
the fruit from the general destruction.

"Oh, the poor people!" I exclaimed. "What has happened to them?"

"A boar hunt probably," said my uncle indifferently.

"But why should that have wrought such ruin?" I asked.

"Because, little simpleton, the boar would as soon go through a
vineyard as anywhere else, and when he does it is needful that the hunt
should follow him, which is not very good for the vineyards."

"And so for the sake of some great man's pleasure of an hour or two the
poor man's heritage is destroyed," said I indignantly. "What a shame!
What wickedness!"

"Tut, tut! Petite! Remember that we are not now in England where every
clown can bring his lord to justice, but in France where nobles have
privileges. But I wonder where the owner is. Where is your husband, my
good woman?" he called out, as we came opposite the workers.

"Alas, monsieur, I do not know," answered the poor woman, with
streaming eyes. "Monsieur the marquis was hunting yesterday and took a
short cut through our vineyard to arrive the sooner, and my husband was
so ill-advised as to utter some harsh words and maledictions which the
marquis overheard; so he bade the huntsmen take him away and teach him
better manners. Since then I have not seen him, and Heaven knows what
has become of him. Oh, monsieur, if you would but intercede for us; I
am sure my husband meant no harm."

"He should be more careful with his words," returned my uncle. "My good
woman, I am not acquainted with your marquis, and cannot therefore take
the liberty of speaking for your husband; but there is some money for
you. Drive on, postilion."

My heart was sick with the injustice and tyranny, the effects of which
I had just seen, but my aunt and uncle seemed to think little of it,
and indeed I saw enough more sights of the same kind before we reached
Paris. The simple truth was and is, that in France the common people
have no rights whatever, but are absolutely at the mercy of their lord.
Their crops, the honor of their families, their very lives, depend upon
his humor, and how great soever may be the wrong, there is no redress.

I had seen little of this sort of thing in Normandy. The only great
proprietor near the tour, besides my father and Monsieur Le Roy, who
were both Huguenots, was a gentleman of great kindness, and one who
made a conscience of dealing justly with his people. I was heart-sick
before we reached our destination, and wished twenty times I were back
in England.

We arrived in Paris at last, and I found myself dazzled by the splendid
buildings and the grand equipages which met my eyes on every hand. The
streets, it was true, were quite as dirty as London, but there was
no fog or coal smoke to obscure the air or blacken the house fronts.
My aunt was in the best of spirits at being once more in her dear
native city, but I could not help thinking my uncle rather grave and
preoccupied. As to Father Martien, he was always the same under every
circumstance, and I have no doubt would have preserved the same calm
countenance whether he were watching the agonies of a heretic on the
wheel, or being himself served with the same sauce by the Iroquois.

My uncle had a fine hotel in a fashionable situation, and as a courier
had been sent before us we found everything ready for our reception. I
was assigned a small room which looked into a court, and had no exit
but through my aunt's reception-room. It was prettily furnished enough,
but I took a dislike to it from the first, because it reminded me of my
little turret-room at the Tour d'Antin, which I would have preferred of
all things to forget.

I had looked forward to Paris as a scene of gaiety and splendor far
beyond anything I had ever seen, and so it was, but I very soon found
that the gaiety and splendor were not for me. It was not that my aunt
meant to be unkind; on the contrary, at that time she was amiability
itself, but in France a young lady of good family lives before her
marriage in a state of as much seclusion as if she were in a convent.
In fact, almost every French young lady is placed in a convent at a
very early age, from which she only emerges to be married to the man
not of her own, but of her parents' choice, whom she perhaps never saw
more than twice and never a moment alone, till she was married to him.

I could not complain of being treated as other girls were, but I must
confess I found the life a very dull one. My aunt lost no time in
securing for me the services of a music and a dancing master, and she
often took me out with her in the coach, but I had no companions of my
own age. I was not at all well. I had been accustomed to a great deal
of exercise all my life, and that in the fresh air, and the state of
excitement in which I had been kept for such a length of time began to
tell on me.

I slept very little and was troubled by frightful dreams, which
almost always took me back to the Tour d'Antin, and the dangers I had
undergone there, or, what was still worse, I read and worked and prayed
with my mother, and then waked to an intolerable sense of want and
desolation. I told Father Martien of these dreams. He looked grave,
pronounced them direct temptations of the devil, and said he feared I
had some sin or some concealment yet upon my conscience which gave the
evil spirit power over me. I assured him that such was not the case;
but he still looked grave, bade me search my conscience anew, advised
a retreat, and gave me to read the "Four Weeks' Meditations of Saint
Ignatius."

This retreat and course of study were to be my final preparation for
the public profession which I was to make. In the course of it, I
secluded myself entirely in my room, which was so far darkened that I
had only light enough to read. I fasted rigorously, saw no company, was
allowed no recreation, and no employment save my rosary and my book
of meditations. And such meditations—full of the grossest and most
material images of death and its consequences—the decay of the senses,
the desolation of the sick-room and the dying-bed, the corruption of
the body, the flames and brimstone, the wheels and spits of purgatory
and hell! In the midst of all this, the penitent is invited to pause
and resolve seriously upon his or her vocation, just at the time and in
the state when she is most incapable of judging reasonably of anything.
No wonder the book has been instrumental in leading so many into the
cloister.

I finished my month's retreat and was admitted into the fold of the
Holy Catholic Church, as she dares to call herself, in the chapel of
the king himself, who had taken a great interest in my story. I should
like to give my reader an account of this important passage of my life,
but in truth I remember very little about it. I have an indistinct
recollection of knocking at a closed door and requesting admission to
the church, of various chants and prayers, of censers and waxen tapers,
but it is all like a confused dream. In fact, I was already very
ill, though nobody suspected it. I recollect receiving a great many
congratulations, and being saluted by the king himself, who, having
been converted himself (save the mark), took a great interest in all
converts.

The next morning found me in the stupor of such a fever as I had
suffered in Jersey, and for two or three weeks I lay between life and
death, unconscious of everything. At last, however, the disease took a
turn, and I was pronounced out of danger.

For some time longer, I lay quietly in my bed, slowly gaining strength
and the ability to think connectedly. I was indeed like one waking
from a long dream, and I began to realize what I had done. All the
instructions I had received in my youth—the very psalms I had learned
from my foster-mother—returned upon me, and would not be put aside.
My eyes were opened, and I was compelled to see and to own that I had
deliberately sold myself to the world, and that unless I could find a
place of repentance—which did not yet appear to me—I must reckon upon
paying the price of the bargain, namely, my immortal soul.

Little did my aunt and my nurse guess, while I lay so quietly with
closed eyes, what was going on within. I would have given worlds to
weep, but I had no tears. Neither could I pray. My heart was dry as
dust, and the unmeaning repetitions which had served me instead of
prayers now inspired me with nothing but weariness and disgust. Oh, how
I hated that image of the Virgin which stood opposite my bed, dressed
in laces and satin, and wearing my own mother's pearl clasp! I had
myself given it away for this purpose in one of my fits of devotion.
If I had dared, I would have crushed the simpering waxen baby under my
feet.

The stronger I grew, the more wretched I found myself. I was obliged to
go to confession, but Father Martien's threats and cajoleries had no
more effect upon me than to make me hate him, as the one who had led me
into the snare from which I could see no escape, unless it were such
a martyrdom as my father's, or the slower hidden agonies of a convent
prison. For these I was by no means prepared, and I well knew they were
what awaited me if I allowed my change of feeling to become known.

The king, as I have hinted, had been converted by the jubilee which had
taken place some years before. He was still in the fervor of his first
love, and as his spiritual guides could not succeed in making him give
up Madame de Montespan and company, they compromised by urging him on
to more and greater acts of severity against the so-called heretics.
One might be an unbeliever even to denying the existence of a God at
all, but to be a Huguenot, or even a Jansenist, was an unpardonable
sin. Two or three great men, indeed, who were necessary to him by their
talents as soldiers or statesmen, were allotted a sort of protection,
but even these soon found their lives unbearable, and either conformed
like Turenne afterward, or fled from the kingdom.

For a young girl like myself, away from all near friends, and, above
all, one who had only lately conformed, there would be no hope. Even
a suspicion of relapse would lead at once to a convent with all its
possible horrors. No, there was no escape. I had left my Lord, and he
had left me. I had denied him, and he would deny me. I must go on as I
had begun, and that to the bitter end.

It was not one of the least of my troubles that I felt all my love for
Andrew revive again. I began to doubt the truth of the stories I had
heard, and to wonder whether they had not been invented for the very
sake of entrapping me. Doubt soon grew into conviction, and, reasonably
or unreasonably, I no more believed that Andrew was married than that I
was. No, he would return in a year—return to claim me and to find that
I was lost to him, to truth, and heaven forever.

It was in the church where I was kneeling for the first time since my
illness that this thought came to me, and I cast myself on the ground
and groaned almost aloud. My aunt observed the movement, as indeed
nothing escaped her eyes, and when she returned she remarked upon it,
saying that such a display of devotion, however commendable in private,
was not in good taste in such a public place, and that I would do well
to restrain myself.

About this time Father Martien was called away, and I made my
confessions to a fat old priest at our parish church, who, I am
persuaded, used to doze through half the time of confession and take
snuff the other half. He was very kind, however, and gave me easy
penances and plentiful absolutions. My religion had by this time become
the merest form, kept up to save appearances, but now and then would
recur the thought that perhaps Father Martien was right after all, and
if so why I was living in mortal sin, a sacrilegious person for whom
millions of ages in purgatory would be of no avail. Thus I was tossed
from one doubt to another, and found comfort nowhere.

The discomfort of my mind could not but react upon my body. I grew
pale, sallow, and was miserably unwell. My aunt lamented the loss of
my beauty, and predicted that I should never find a husband. A husband
indeed was what I now feared most of all. I determined that I would die
before I would accept one, and then came the thought that not death
would be the alternative but a convent. No, there was no hope anywhere.



[Illustration]

CHAPTER XIX.

ANOTHER CHANGE.

WE remained in the neighborhood of Paris all that winter, sometimes at
Fontainebleau, sometimes in the city itself, for, as I have said, my
uncle had some office or command which kept him about the court.

My aunt had her balls and assemblies, her grand banquets and little
suppers, and must have spent a great deal of money. I rarely saw
anything of this gaiety, though I went out with my aunt in the
carriage, and now and then, when she had a small assembly, I was
allowed to sit at her elbow and look on, though I was not expected to
speak unless spoken to, and then only in the shortest, most restrained
manner.

Of the court I saw nothing. My aunt had hoped, I believe, to procure
some place for herself, but in that she did not succeed. Still she
was often at the court, and was liked by the king for her wit and
sprightliness. When she was away, my only society was my maid Zelie,
whom I had never liked, and now thoroughly distrusted, believing her to
be a spy upon me, my aunt's lapdog and her parrot.

My only recreation was in reading the very few books which were thought
proper for a young lady, my music, and my embroidery, and I only went
out to go to church, whither I was attended by Zelie or an older woman
who had been my aunt's nurse, and who, having been a Huguenot in her
youth and then converted, was of course doubly zealous and devoted. Oh,
to what a slavery had I brought myself! With what impassioned longing
I looked back to the days when I used to climb the hill at Tre Madoc
to attend to my little school or run down to the beach to watch the
pilchard-fishing, and of those earlier times in Normandy when I played
with Lucille and David in the orchards, or helped to pile up the golden
and rosy apples for the eider-mill!

I would gladly have changed places with the poorest old woman in
Cornwall for the privilege of walking abroad unfettered, and weeping
my fill unwatched. I would have given all the costly furniture of our
hotel, had it been mine, for half a dozen loose leaves of my mother's
old prayer-book, for it was one of my great troubles that I could not
remember the words of Scripture. I suppose it might have been some odd
effect of my illness, but while my memory had become clear as to other
things, it was in that respect almost a blank. In the state of mind
I then was, I regarded this forgetfulness as a direct judgment from
Heaven, and an express proof and mark of my reprobation. I thirsted for
the water of life. I read again and again the few psalms and meagre
bits of scripture contained in my books of devotion. That fountain was
to be once more unsealed for me, but not till I had drank my fill of
the bitter waters and broken cisterns for which I had forsaken it.

Meantime affairs were not going well with my uncle. I was told nothing,
but I gathered from things that I overheard and from hints dropped in
my presence that he had lost the favor of his royal master in the first
place by outstaying his leave in England, and though he had hoped to
make his peace by the presentation of a new convert to the Catholic
faith, the offering had not been altogether sufficient. Court favor is
of all earthly things one of the most uncertain.

My uncle had been a friend of the unhappy Madame de Valliere, who,
at this time under the name of Sister Louise de la Misericorde,
was striving to expiate her errors by a life of more than ordinary
austerity among the Carmelite nuns of Paris. He had had the imprudence
to speak contemptuously of Madame de Montespan, and his remarks had
been carried to the lady's ears by one of those tale-bearers who
flourish at court. Of course madame became his enemy. She had great
influence with the king, though not so much as Madame de Maintenon came
to have afterward. My uncle's disgrace grew more and more apparent
every day, and at last he received peremptory orders to retire to
his château in Provence, where he held some sort of office under
government. He was allowed, however, to remain in Paris for two or
three weeks, to settle up his affairs there, which were, I imagine, in
no little confusion.

My aunt was in despair. To be banished from court was to be cast out
of heaven in her estimation. She hated the country, and went thither
even for a few weeks with unwillingness. She wept and went into fits
of the nerves, as she usually did under any disturbance of mind or
body. The poor lady was really very ill for a few days, and as I was
the only person who had the least control over her in her paroxysms,
I had my hands full. However, she had an elastic constitution of mind
and body, and she soon recovered, and began planning all sorts of
amusements, one of which, I remember, was to be the refurnishing of the
Château de Fayrolles from top to bottom. I was glad to see her diverted
by anything, and I listened to all her schemes, and being ready with
my pencil, was able to afford her pleasure by sketching designs for
furniture, hangings, and the like, which even my uncle declared to be
very clever.

One day, being left to myself while my aunt entertained a visitor, I
began drawing from memory a sketch of my old home, the Tour d'Antin. I
became so interested in my work as to take no note of the time, till
I was surprised by the entrance of my uncle and Father Martien. I had
not seen the latter gentleman for some weeks, nor was I at all glad to
behold him now. My religion had become to me more and more an empty
profession, and though I still went regularly to mass and confession,
my attendance was the merest form. At mass and vespers, though I kept
my book open, I thought of anything rather than the services, and as
to my confessions, if I had repeated the Confiteor correctly, and
then gone on in the orthodox devout whisper to say that I had become
a Moslem and the fifteenth wife of the Grand Bashaw, good old Father
Le Moyne would have been none the wiser, but would have given me
absolution in his usual gentle, nasal sing-song. I had learned to love
and respect the old man, for though indolent to a degree, he was kind
and fatherly, and did not disgrace himself with wine or worse things,
and it was with real dismay that I contemplated exchanging him for the
sharp-sighted, cold Father Martien.

My uncle looked at the sketch and commended it, saying that it showed
real talent. He then began asking me questions about it, sitting down
with the drawing in his hand. At last—

"There is one thing, Vevette, which I have hesitated to ask you about,
not wishing to revive painful memories; but the time has arrived when
such an inquiry becomes necessary. Where did your father conceal his
treasure?"

"His treasure!" I repeated. "I don't understand."

My uncle contracted his brows.

"Do not trifle with me," said he sternly. "I am well informed that my
unhappy brother invested a great deal of the money which he acquired in
one way and another in plate and jewels. What did he do with them? I
know that he left them concealed somewhere about the estate; but where?"

"I do not know," I answered, with perfect truth; "I know that he and
my cousin—" I could not bring myself to say Andrew—"hid away a part of
what silver there was, but I never heard what they did with it. He sold
a good deal, I know."

"And what disposition did he make of the money?"

"He turned a large part of it into diamonds. The rest he left with my
foster-father, Simon Sablot, who afterward brought it to my mother in
England."

"And the jewels, my daughter, what of them?" asked Father Martien.

"Oh, we carried them to England with us," I answered, inwardly
rejoicing to give an answer so little satisfactory. "My mother sold
them in London, and invested a part of the money in a little estate at
Tre Madoc—the Welles House. The rest is in the hands of my lord, unless
he has put it into land."

My uncle stamped his foot and bit his lip with vexation. It seems he
thought his brother had left his treasures concealed, and hoped by my
means to lay hands upon them. No doubt they would have made a very
welcome supply at that time.

"Are you telling the exact truth, daughter?" asked Father Martien
sternly.

"I am telling the exact truth, so far as I know it," I answered, with
some spirit. "There may be some of the silver still concealed at the
Tour d'Antin, but if so, I do not know where it is."

"Where should you think it would be most likely to be hidden?" was the
next question.

"That I cannot tell either," I answered; "but I suppose the vault under
the tower would be as probable a place as any."

"Is there not a vault under the old chapel?" asked Father Martien.

"Yes," I answered; "a burial vault."

"Have you ever been in it?"

"Yes, once; at the burial of one of our servants," I replied, availing
myself of the orthodox Jesuit doctrine of mental reservation.

"Do you think your father would be likely to place the treasure in that
vault?" was the next question.

"I do not know as to that," I answered. "I suppose he might. But I
rather imagine that what silver there was, was buried somewhere about
the orchard."

My uncle continued questioning me for some time, but as I could not
tell him what I did not know, he was not much the wiser for my replies.
He did not half believe that we had carried off the jewels, and
declared that he meant to write to Lord Stanton on the subject of "my
property," as I called it.

"It is mine," I replied indignantly; "my mother left it to me."

My uncle laughed contemptuously.

"Your mother had no more right to it than you have," said he. "Being
married to your father, as they presume to say, by a Protestant
minister, the marriage is no marriage by law. It was not worth a pin.
You are an illegitimate child, and as such have no rights whatever. My
brother's succession belongs to me, and I intend to have it."

"It is the truth, my daughter," said Father Martien, as I looked at
him. "The blasphemous parody of the holy sacrament of marriage with
which your wretched and guilty parents were united was not only invalid
but was of itself a grievous crime in the eye of the law as well as of
the Church."

If I had had the power of life and death in my hands, I should at that
moment have laid both of these men dead at my feet. In my rage, I
actually looked around for a weapon, and it was well for all parties
that there was none at hand. Then, as the conviction of my utter
helplessness and desolation came over me, I burst into an agony of
tears.

"Hush, my daughter!" said the priest. "These tears do not become you.
Let your natural affection for your parents be laid upon the altar of
that church which they spurned, and it may become a merit. Indulged, it
is in your case a sin against God and our holy religion."

My uncle, devout Catholic as he was, had not lost all feeling, nor was
he a man to be put down in his own house even by a priest. He silenced
the Father by a look, and then set himself to soothe me, saying that
though he had thought it needful to tell me the truth, he should not
visit upon me the misfortune of my birth, but should continue to regard
me as a daughter so long as I showed myself dutiful to him and to my
aunt. He bade me retire to my room and compose myself, saying that he
would make my excuses.

"I am going into the country for a few days," said he. "When I return
I shall hope to find that you have recovered your spirits and are
prepared to submit to any arrangement your friends may think it best to
make for your welfare."

My uncle gave me his hand as far as the door of my apartment, and
parted from me with a fatherly salute, recommending me to lie down and
rest awhile. He was very kind to me for the rest of the day, and seemed
by his manner to wish to make me forget the harshness he had used
toward me.

The next morning he called me into his own room and put into my hands
a letter he had written to my Lord Stanton. It was to the effect that,
having embraced the Catholic faith, and being resolved in future
to make my home with my father's brother, I desired to have all my
property put into the hands of Monsieur de Fayrolles, my natural
guardian.

"You will copy this letter," said my uncle, "and I will inclose it in
one of my own to my Lord Stanton. If he is an honest man, he will see
the justice and wisdom of such an arrangement. If he is not, I must
take other measures, for I am resolved not to be cheated of my right.
Sit down here and copy the letter."

I had nothing for it but to obey, my uncle all the time standing by and
observing me. When the copy was finished, he inclosed both letters in
an envelope, and was just about sealing them, when my aunt called upon
him. With an expression of impatience, he laid down the unsealed letter
and went into the next room. In a moment I had turned down the corner
of the sheet and written in small characters, "Don't, for Heaven's
sake."

It was the work of a moment, and when my uncle returned he found me
reading a book I had taken from the table. He reproved me for opening
a book without leave, but seeing that it was only a play of Monsieur
Racine's I had taken up, told me to keep it if I liked. He sealed the
letter without looking at it again, told me he was pleased with my
compliance, and gave me a gold piece to buy ribbons with, as he said. I
was not sorry to receive it, for I was already turning over in my head
plans of escape, and I knew that any plan I could form would need money
to carry it out.

My uncle was absent several days, and came back in anything but a good
humor. He had not succeeded in finding the treasure, if there was any
to find, neither had he succeeded in letting the land. The house,
having been reduced by the fire to a mere empty shell, had partly
fallen in and filled up the cellars, while of the vault under the
chapel, he said the whole floor seemed to have sunk into some abyss.

"So there really was a cavern underneath," I said. "There was a
tradition to that effect, and my father always believed that such a
cavern existed, and that it had some connection with the sea."

"It might have a connection with the infernal regions, judging from the
sounds which proceed from it," said my uncle. "I was near falling into
it headlong. It is the more vexatious because there are niches around
the wall which have evidently been built up—one even quite lately."

"And they are quite inaccessible?" said my aunt.

"Oh, entirely. The whole building is so ruinous that one enters it only
at the risk of one's life."

"The niches are only burial-places," I ventured to say, thinking at
the same time that poor Grace's grave would now at least be safe from
insult.

"Yes, but they may have been used for deposits of another sort.
However, there is no use in thinking more about the matter. You
are looking better, Vevette. I am glad to see you try to put on a
more cheerful face. Your countenance lately has been a perpetual
kill-joy—fit only for a convent of Carmelites."

Indeed, my health had improved. The very thought of escape,
impracticable as it seemed at present, had put new life into me. I
began to take a little care of myself, and to be anxious to acquire
strength.

"I do not think, my friend, that the convent of the Carmelites will be
Vevette's vocation," said my aunt, smiling. "I have an affair of great
importance to lay before you when we are at leisure."

A cold chill struck to my heart as I heard these words and guessed
what they might mean. The event proved that my forebodings were well
founded. There was a certain Monsieur de Luynes, an elderly gentleman
of good family, and very wealthy, who often visited my aunt, being
indeed some sort of connection. This gentleman had lost his wife
many years before, and having married off all his daughters, he
had conceived the idea of providing a companion and nurse for his
declining years. He was hideously ugly—tall, shambling, with bushy
gray eyebrows, and a great scar on his cheek which had affected the
shape of one of his eyes; but his manners were amiable and kind, and
he had the reputation of leading a remarkably good life. He had always
taken a good deal of notice of me, and had once or twice drawn me
into conversation as I sat at my aunt's side, and I had thought him
very agreeable. It was this Monsieur de Luynes who now made a formal
proposal for my hand. I was not at all consulted in the matter. I was
simply called into my aunt's boudoir, told of the proposal which had
been made, and ordered to consider myself the future wife of Monsieur
de Luynes.

"There is no reason for any delay," said my aunt. "Monsieur, who is
himself very wealthy, does not ask for any dot with you. The trousseau
can be prepared in a few days, and I will engage it shall be a fine
one. You will be a happy woman, petite."

"Yes indeed; you may consider yourself most fortunate," added my uncle.
"Considering the misfortune of your birth and your state of poverty and
dependence, it is a match far beyond anything we have a right to expect
for you. It will give me great pleasure to see you established at the
head of Monsieur de Luynes' fine house before I leave Paris."

My resolution was taken in a moment. If Monsieur de Luynes' offer
had come to me at the beginning of my residence in France, I should
instantly have accepted it, and rejoiced in the opportunity of doing
so. But my mind had changed. I know not how, but I was just as certain
that Andrew had remained faithful to me as if he himself had told me,
and being so assured, I would have suffered myself to be thrown into
the fire rather than marry any one else. I waited till my uncle had
done speaking, and then, with a calmness which amazed myself, I told
him of my determination.

"Tut!" said he. "Let me hear no such girlish folly. You will do what I
consider best for you, and take care you do it with a good grace or it
will be the worse for you."

"Nay, do not be severe with Vevette," said my aunt. "All girls think it
necessary to put on such airs and make such declarations. Leave her to
me."

Left to my aunt I was, and I set myself to soften her heart toward me.
I begged only to be allowed to remain single, promising to be guided
by her in everything else—to perform any menial service, to work my
fingers to the bone. All was in vain. My aunt laughed at my entreaties,
considering them only as the wilfulness of a child; told me the time
would come when I would thank her for not yielding to my folly. Finally
losing patience, as I continued weeping, she let me feel the iron hand
masked under the velvet glove. She told me in severe tones that my
wilfulness was unbearable, and that unless I gave way and did what was
thought best for me, I should be sent to that same Carmelite convent to
be brought to my senses.

"We have wished to be kind to you," she added; "but there are means
of subduing refractory girls which the good sisters well know how to
practise, and of which you shall make trial if you are disobedient. Now
go to your room, dry your eyes, and let me see you looking your best
when Monsieur de Luynes comes this evening."

I had nothing for it but to comply. My resolution was fixed as ever.
They might send me to the Carmelites, starve me, bury me alive if
they would, but I would never marry—never! However, I thought best to
temporize. The evening found me dressed, my aunt herself looking over
my toilette and commending my docility.

"I thought you would see the propriety of giving way," said she; "and
I am glad for your sake you have done so. You would not have liked to
be shut up alone in the charnel-house of the convent, without light
or food for twenty-four hours together, as happened to a cousin of my
own who set herself up against her father's authority. No, it is much
better to be in my salon than in the company of mouldy skeletons."

I held my tongue; but I could have said that I should have preferred
the society of the mouldiest Carmelite ever buried in sackcloth to
that of Monsieur de Luynes. The kind old man was very attentive to me,
made many gallant speeches, and presented me with a magnificent box of
bonbons and preserved fruits, containing also a beautiful pearl clasp.
I almost wished I could have loved him, and indeed if my heart had not
been full of another, I believe I should have married him, if only to
escape from my present state of servitude. But there it was: I loved
Andrew. I should always love him, and I could never marry any one else,
whether I ever saw him again or not.

Under ordinary circumstances, I should never have been left alone with
my intended bridegroom till after the ceremony; but my aunt had a great
opinion of the discretion and goodness of Monsieur de Luynes, which
indeed he well deserved. She also trusted a good deal, I fancy, to his
powers of persuasion, for she allowed him more than once to remain
tête-à-tête with me for an hour or two at a time in the little salon,
while she entertained her visitors or gave audience to the tradespeople
who were busied with my wedding outfit. On one of these occasions I
took a desperate resolution and opened to Monsieur de Luynes my whole
heart. Monsieur tried hard to shake me, promising me every sort of
good, and even going so far as to hint that I should, in the course of
nature, outlive him; and then, being a widow, I could go where I liked
and do as I pleased.

Finding, however, that even this agreeable prospect failed to move me,
and that I was settled in my resolution, after two or three interviews,
he bade me farewell with much kindness, and going to my uncle formally
retracted his suit, saying that he would never wed an unwilling bride.

My aunt's anger was loud and voluble; my uncle's more silent and much
more terrible. He said little except to bid me retire to my room. Here
I remained till evening, without notice of any kind.

That night my lodging was changed to a bare attic at the top of the
house, lighted only by a window in the roof, and furnished with a
pallet bed, a straw chair, and a crucifix, with its vessel of holy
water underneath. Into this cell, I was locked by my uncle's own
hands, and here I remained prisoner for a fortnight, seeing nobody but
my aunt's women, who once a day brought me a meagre supply of coarse
food. I had but one companion—an ugly gray cat, which lived in the
neighboring garret, and made her way to my cell through a hole in the
wainscot, attracted, I suppose, by the smell of my soup. She shared my
meals by day and my bed at night, and, I doubt not, sincerely regretted
my departure. I have always loved and patronized ugly gray cats for her
sake.

I was happier in this garret than I had been before in a long time.
I had lived absolutely without prayer ever since my illness, for my
repetitions of the rosary might as well have been repetitions of
"Cruel Barbara Allen," for all the devotion there had been in them.
But somehow my firm decision not to marry any one but my first love
had brought help and comfort to me. It had been a step in the right
direction.

When first locked into my prison cell, I had thrown myself on my knees
and besought help from heaven to hold firm my resolution. That prayer
had opened the way for others. I began to review my life and sincerely
to repent the sins which had brought me into such straits. I saw and
recognized the fact that the double-mindedness which had always been my
bane, had in this instance lain at the root of my apostasy. I confessed
the justice of my Heavenly Father, and was enabled wholly to surrender
myself into his hands for time and eternity; and I received comfort,
and even joy, such as I had never found before.

At the end of a fortnight, my uncle visited me again and inquired
whether I were now ready to submit my will to his. Modestly, I hope,
but certainly with firmness, I declared my determination unchanged, and
was ordered instantly to prepare for a journey.

[Illustration]



[Illustration]

CHAPTER XX.

"YOU SHALL HAVE NO CHOICE."

I EXPECTED nothing less than to be taken at once to the Carmelite
convent with which I had been threatened. I was therefore agreeably
surprised when, on being led to the courtyard I found all my uncle's
servants assembled, and his own travelling carriage waiting, with my
aunt already seated in it. There were three vacant places, one of which
I was desired to take, while my uncle placed himself in the other,
and my aunt's gentlewoman took the fourth. There was a great deal of
running back and forth for small packages which had been forgotten, a
great deal of ordering and counter-ordering, of pulling at straps and
examining of buckles; but at last all was ready, and we set out. My
aunt had not spoken to me at all, but as we passed a fine house which
was being newly repaired and decorated she broke out with—

"And to think, ungrateful girl, that all that might have been yours,
and you must throw it all away for a whim!"

I made no answer, for there was nothing to be said.

"There is no use in talking further on that matter, madame," said
my uncle. "Vevette has made her decision, and she must abide the
consequences. Henceforth she will have no choice as to what she will
do. All will be decided for her, and it is possible she may come to
regret Monsieur de Luynes."

"That may well be, my uncle, since Monsieur de Luynes was a true
friend, who did not expect to gain any hidden treasures by his
kindness," I answered. "But I shall never regret having acted honorably
by him, whatever happens."

My uncle bit his lip, as well he might, and I saw the waiting-woman
look out of the window to hide a smile. She knew all about my uncle's
Journey to Normandy, and, like others of her class, she enjoyed a hit
at her betters.

"Be silent!" said my uncle sternly. "Nobody wishes to hear the sound of
your voice. Speak only when you are spoken to."

I obeyed, and, indeed, I had no inclination to talk. The morning was
beautiful, and the spring was just coming on, and, forlorn as it
looked, I was delighted to see the open country once more, and to
breathe an air not poisoned with the thousand and one smells—not to use
a stronger word—of Paris. The king could indeed crush and impoverish
his poor people to maintain his armies and his mistresses, but he could
not hinder the wild flowers from blooming nor the birds from singing.
My spirits rose insensibly, and I more than once caught myself on the
point of breaking out into a song.

My uncle sat back in the corner and said nothing. My aunt kept up a
perpetual prattle with Susanne, now bewailing her banishment from Paris
and the court, now remarking upon this or that fine lady, and listening
to the tittle-tattle in which Susanne was a proficient.

At last my uncle said he would ride on horseback a while, so his
groom was called up with the spare horse, and we women were left to
ourselves. Then my aunt fell upon me, and such a rating as she gave
me! I have heard English women scold, but I never heard any fishwoman
equal my elegant, double-refined aunt, Madame de Fayrolles. She worked
herself up into such a passion that she told a good deal more than she
meant, and thus I learned that my Lord Stanton had returned a very
short and sharp answer to Monsieur de Fayrolles' letter, absolutely
refusing to let him have any of the property intrusted to him, and
requiring that I should at once return to England.

So my friends had not quite forgotten or forsaken me. That was some
comfort, but I dared not say so. My aunt went on, growing more and more
excited, till she ended with—

"And when I thought at least I should have you to help me at Fayrolles,
to draw patterns for my embroidery, and sing and read aloud to me, I
cannot even enjoy that."

"But indeed, aunt, I will do anything for you—singing or reading, or
whatever you please," I said soothingly, for I was afraid of one of
her fits of nerves. "There is nothing in my power that I will not do
for you if you will let me, at Fayrolles or anywhere else. You know
we agreed to work chairs upon satin for the salon, and I have several
patterns drawn already."

"Yes, but you won't be at Fayrolles!" said my aunt between her sobs.
And then, catching a warning glance from Susanne, she said no more.

Then I was not to go to Fayrolles! What did they mean to do with me?
To send me back to England? That was not likely, after what my uncle
had said about my having no choice. Probably I should be placed in some
country convent, where I should be out of reach of all help, whatever
happened, and where no one would ever hear from me again. This was
what I dreaded of all things. I had almost given up any belief in the
faith I had lately professed, and the question occurred to me whether
I ought not openly to confess the change which had come over me. I
knew only too well what such a confession involved—either a life-long
imprisonment or a horrible death—perhaps being left to perish by inches
in some underground cell, amid rats and vermin. Such things happened
all the time.

Worse even than that, I knew that many of the convents were sinks
of iniquity—places of resort for idle young gentlemen and wickeder
women, like that of Port Royal, which afterward passed through so many
vicissitudes. I am very far from saying that they were all of this
character, but a great many of them were so, even taking the accounts
of Roman Catholics themselves.* A residence in such a community was no
pleasant prospect.

   * See Racine's "Memoirs of Port Royal." Letters of St. Francis
de Sales, and almost any free-spoken memoirs of the time.

And was I, after all, ready to die for my faith? Had I indeed any
assured faith to die for? Might not Father Martien be right after all?
My mind was tossed upon a sea of doubt and conjecture, and for a time
found no rest; but at last I was enabled to pray, and to cast myself,
more completely than I had ever done before, upon the arms of mercy.
I asked for light and help above all things, and light and help were
given me, not all at once, but by degrees. I became sensible of a sweet
calm and clearness of mind, in which I saw all things more plainly. I
felt sure that my many sins had been forgiven and washed away, and that
when the time came for action, I should have strength given me to act
for the best.

I had plenty of time for my own thoughts, for my uncle soon reentered
the carriage, and after that my aunt did not venture to speak to
me again, though she talked at me whenever there was a chance. She
was a woman who bore discomfort of any kind very ill, and the more
weary she grew with her journey, the more unbearable grew her peevish
fretfulness. At last my uncle was moved to speak sharply to her,
whereupon she fell into one of her nervous fits, and I had to exert all
my skill to keep her from throwing herself out of the carriage. With
much expenditure of coaxing and soothing I got her quieted at last, and
persuaded her to take some refreshment, after which she fell asleep.

I fancy my attentions softened her heart toward me, for she was
much more kind to me during the rest of the day, and I thought even
interceded for me with her husband; but if so it was without avail, and
even increased my troubles.

For the whole of the next day I travelled with my former maid, Zelie,
and the old woman I had spoken of. They understood my disgrace well
enough, and did all in their power to make me feel it, treating me with
the utmost insolence and neglect, so that at the inns where we stopped,
I had the most wretched lodgings imaginable, and really went hungry
while my jailers, for such they were, feasted upon dainties at my
uncle's expense. In this, however, they overshot the mark and brought
themselves into trouble. My uncle, remarking in the morning upon my
extreme paleness, asked whether I was ill.

"No, monsieur," I answered, "I am not ill, but I am hungry. I have
had not a morsel since yesterday noon but some crusts of mouldy black
bread, which I could not have eaten if I had been starving."

Monsieur turned angrily upon Zelie, who stammered and denied and
charged me with falsehood; but my uncle knew me well enough to believe
what I said, and my face spoke for itself. I was once more removed to
my aunt's carriage, and fared as she did, and the rest of the way was
more comfortable. Susanne had always been friendly to me.

During my imprisonment, she had more than once smuggled comforts into
my cell, and when we were alone together she spoke to me with kindness
and pity. My aunt's heart evidently softened to me more and more, but
my uncle was implacable. To cross him once was to make him an enemy
forever; I had disappointed him in every way, and he meant to make me
feel the full force of his displeasure.

I had gathered from the servants that our first destination was
Marseilles. As we drew near that city, we passed company after company
of unhappy wretches destined for the galleys, laboring along, chained
together, and driven like cattle to the slaughter. Many of them were
condemned for no crime but that of having attended a preaching, or
prayed in their own families—that of being Protestants, in short—and
these were linked oftentimes to the most atrocious criminals, whose
society must have been harder to bear than their chains. But more than
once or twice man's cruelty was turned to the praise of God, and the
criminal was converted by the patience and the instructions of his
fellow.

As we passed one of these sad cavalcades my uncle stopped the coach
to ask some questions, and I was brought face to face with one I knew
right well. It was an aged preacher who had long known my father, and
had often been at our home in Normandy. I had no mind to have him
recognize me, and I turned away my face to hide my overflowing tears.
Monsieur did not at first recognize the old preacher, but the other
knew him in a moment, and called him by name.

"What, Monsieur Morin, is this you!" said my uncle. "I thought you were
dead!"

"I soon shall be," answered the old man calmly. "Happily for me, I am
more than seventy years old, and my prison-doors must soon be opened.
Then I shall receive my reward; but you—ah, Henri, my former pupil,
whom I so loved, how will it be with you? Oh, repent, while there is
yet time! There is mercy even for the denier and the apostate!"

For all answer, my uncle, transported with rage, lifted his cane and
struck the old man a severe blow. The very criminals cried shame upon
him, and the young officer in charge hastened to the spot, and with
expressions of pity offered his own handkerchief to the poor old man,
whose brow was cut and bleeding.

"Well," said my uncle, turning to me, and seeing, I suppose, what I
thought, "how do you like the way your former friends are treated? How
would you like to share their lot?"

"I would rather be that old man than you, monsieur!" I returned, on
fire with indignation. "I would rather be the helpless prisoner than
the coward that abuses him!"

"Coward!" repeated my uncle, white with rage.

"Dastard, if you like it better!" I returned, reckless of consequences.
"To strike a helpless man is cowardly; to strike an old and feeble man
is dastardly!"

Monsieur de Fayrolles, like others of his stamp, was easily put down
when any one stood up to him. I have seen him fairly outfaced by his
own valet. He muttered something between his teeth. MY aunt, who, to do
her justice, was greatly shocked, put a little money into the old man's
hand, and the carriage moved on.

We arrived at Marseilles about noon, and my heart bounded with joy as
I saw in the harbor a ship with English colors. Could it be that I was
to be sent back to England after all? I was soon undeceived. We drove
through the town to a convent which stood by itself, surrounded as
usual with a high wall. Here the carriage stopped. My uncle and aunt
alighted, and were admitted by the portress, and I remained in the
carriage with Susanne. A number of men who looked like carpenters were
returning from their work, and passed us, glancing at the carriage as
they did so.

"Here is another of the king's passenger birds!" I heard one of them
say.

I was trying to think what he could mean, when a sort of overseer who
was following the men looked at me, stopped, and called me by name. It
was my foster-brother, David Sablot.

"Mademoiselle! Mademoiselle!" said Susanne.

"Ah, Susanne, it is my foster-brother, perhaps the last friend I shall
over see," I pleaded. "Let me speak to him for but one moment."

"Speak quickly, then," said Susanne, and with that she turned her back
to me and began looking out of the window.

"I thought you were safe in England, Vevette," said David, in English.
"What brings you here?"

"My own folly and wickedness," I answered. "But I cannot tell you the
story now. David, if you ever loved me, go, or send to Lord Stanton, at
Stanton Court, near Biddeford, in Devonshire. Tell him you saw me here
a prisoner. Watch what they do with me, and carry him word. Tell Andrew
Corbet that I have always loved him, and always shall. But how are you
here in safety?"

"I am of too much use for my master to spare me, and so he gives me
protection," was the reply; "but it will not be for long. But what of
my father and mother—of madame? Do you know anything?"

"Maman is in heaven. Your parents are at Tre Madoc, in Cornwall, living
in comfort. My lord will tell you. David, have you a little Gospel?"

He took from an inner pocket a little thin, worn book, made for
concealment—the Gospel of St. Luke.

"Give it me—I have none," said I, and he put it into my hand.

"Lucille," said I.

"I know nothing of her," was the sorrowful answer. "Since she left
Sartilly I have heard once that she escaped, and again that she was
dead. Depend upon me, Vevette!"

Then, as Susanne made a warning sign, he pressed my hand and passed on.

The convent gate was once more opened, and I was summoned to descend.
I was led by a nun through a long passage, then along a cloister which
bounded one side of the convent burial-place, and at last into the
parlor, where sat my uncle and aunt. Behind the grating stood a lady in
conventual dress, whom I judged to be the Superior. She looked like a
fussy, important sort of personage, but she had a kind, motherly face.
Behind her stood two other nuns, in the dress of the Ursulines.

"This is the young lady," said my uncle, presenting me to the Superior.
"I trust she may be a credit to those friends who have exerted
themselves to provide for her. As you have the king's letter and
the other papers, reverend mother, it will not be needful for us to
trespass longer on your valuable time."

So saying, and without a word of leave-taking, he took my aunt's hand
and led her away.


"So you are the last!" said the Superior, addressing me not unkindly.
"You do not look so very strong for a colonist, I must say; but since
you have the king's own letter there is nothing to be said. What think
you, my sister?" turning to the elderly woman who stood behind her.

"I think his Majesty is beside himself," answered the latter, with a
bluntness which somehow surprised me while it made me like her. "She
looks much fitter to help Sister Therese in the schoolroom, or Sister
Veronique with her embroidery, than to rough it in a new country. Have
you been ill, child?"

"No, madame," I answered, "but I am weary with my journey."

"You should say reverend mother," corrected the nun not ungently. "We
do not keep worldly titles and family names here, like the ladies of
the Sacred Heart. We are all mothers and sisters. Would it not be
well, my mother, for this child to rest for a while before joining her
companions for the voyage?"

"Yes, of course; you always know best, dear sister," answered the other
lady. "Let her rest, and have a good supper."

"Stay where you are, child. There, sit down, and I will come to you
presently," said the mother assistant, as I found she was.

I was very glad indeed to take a chair, and I remained alone for some
minutes thinking over what I had heard, and puzzling myself to no
purpose over the hints as to colonists and a new country which the
Superior had thrown out. Before I had arrived at any conclusion, the
mother assistant appeared at another door from the one I had entered,
and bade me follow her. She conducted me along a gallery and to a cell,
small indeed but clean, and by no means uncomfortable.

"You can remain here for this night, and I will send you some supper,"
said she. "To-morrow you will be introduced to your companions, and to
the sisters who will have charge of you all. The vessel will not sail
for several days, so you will have time to get well rested."

And she departed, leaving me more puzzled than ever. I found a small
mail in my cell, and was glad to discover therein some changes of
raiment, all very plain, and even coarse. There were also some books
of devotion, a rosary, and a purse containing a small sum of money,
besides a considerable package of biscuits, dried fruit, and comfits,
which had evidently been thrust in after the mail was packed, probably
by Susanne.

I changed my travelling-dress, bathed my face, and brushed the dust out
of my hair. I would have given almost anything to open my Testament,
but this I dared not do. I had hardly made myself ready when a nun
entered with my supper, which was good, and arranged with neatness.
There was even a cup of chocolate. The dishes were set out on my little
table, and the nun, bidding me take my chocolate while it was fresh,
departed and closed the door. Then indeed I did venture to draw forth
my precious Gospel and read a few words—only a few—but they were like
manna in the desert.

"And while he was yet a great way off, his father saw him."

That was all. It brought the whole to my mind. I was the prodigal who
had left my father's house and wasted my substance, and now I was
brought to the husks indeed. What could I do but to act like the poor
spendthrift—arise and go to my father?

I heard a step in the gallery, and thrust my book into my bosom. The
step passed, but I dared not take it out again just then; and, sitting
down, I ate my supper with a good appetite.

"They mean to try what kindness can do in the first place," I mused.
"I dare say the good sister thought these sugared apricots would be so
many irresistible arguments. But what could she mean by what she said
about colonists and a new country?"

All at once the explanation flashed across me with the force of
certainty. I was to be sent out to Canada.

To make my meaning plain I must relate a little bit of history.

It is well-known that King Louis the Fourteenth took a deep interest in
his colony of New France, in America. He concerned himself personally
in all its affairs, public and private, and made all sorts of laws
and regulations for its benefit. He was very desirous that the
colonists should lead settled lives, instead of taking to the woods and
living with and like the savages, as a great many of them would have
preferred, to do and in fact did, in spite of him. He would have them
marry and raise large families, and promised premiums in the shape of
land, provisions, and so forth, to those who did so.

But where were the wives to come from? This also his Majesty provided,
with the help of his ministers and of the Jesuits, who were deeply
engaged in the scheme. He sent out whole ship-loads of young women
under the care of certain devoted ladies and nuns, which women, on
their arrival, were sorted out in different rooms, according to their
quality—the peasant girls in one, the young ladies in another—and the
bachelors were not only invited but required to choose wives from among
their number, according to their degree. The young women themselves had
no choice in the matter, except that the peasant girls were sometimes
allowed to go out as servants in the families of such married people as
were able to keep them, but the arrangement was not greatly approved.

This commerce was not now carried on quite so briskly as had been the
case several years before, but a ship-load was still dispatched now and
then. The girls mostly came from public institutions or from families
of peasants overburdened with children, and I suppose in general found
their condition improved by the change. The young ladies or demoiselles
were usually the inconvenient relations of good families whom it was
desirable to get rid of. I learned afterward from the Mother Superior,
who did not object to a bit of gossip, that Monsieur de Fayrolles had
represented me to the king as an illegitimate daughter of his brother,
for whom he wished to provide; and I suppose he had made me a kind of
peace-offering to his Majesty, knowing how much his heart was engaged
in this scheme. The offering was accepted, but I do not know whether or
not it answered the purpose, for which it was meant.

Strange to say, the thought of being thus sent out to Canada was rather
a relief to my mind, after I had discovered that I was not to return
to England. It was at least a respite. It gave room for something to
happen. I knew that there were also English colonies in North America,
and in my ignorance, thinking of that country as no larger than France
or England, I conceived it might be possible to effect an escape to
them. I had little notion of the vast forests and deserts, the wild
beasts and wilder men which lay between New France and New England.

At all events I was now in kind hands—that was something. I had
contrived to send word to my English friends, for that David would do
my errand I had not a doubt. I resolved to make the best of present
circumstances, to use what time I could call my own in meditation on
all I had learned, and if at last I made up my mind definitely that the
way of my parents was the true way, to confess my faith without fear of
consequences. For it must be remembered that I was still in some sense
unsettled in my belief. The arguments of Father Martien would recur
to my mind, and I did not always see how to answer them. Still I was
struggling toward the shining light at the head of the way, as Mr. John
Bunyan hath it in his quaint parable, and the light grew more clear and
the ground firmer under my feet at every effort.

When the sister came after my supper dishes she was evidently pleased
to see that I had appreciated her dainties.

"You look better, child," she said kindly.

"I am better, thank you, sister," I answered. "I feel much refreshed."

"Why, that is well," said she. "The reverend mother says you need not
attend the evening service, as you seem so much fatigued with your
journey. She advises you to go early to rest, and to-morrow she will
see and talk with you, and you shall be introduced to the holy mother
who has charge of the expedition."

"When does the ship sail?" I ventured to ask, seeing I had guessed
rightly.

"Some time next week, I believe, but I am not certain. I hope so, I am
sure; for these girls turn the house upside down, and I must say that I
don't think a marriage brokerage quite the business for nuns. But what
am I saying?" and she crossed herself. "No doubt our superiors know
best. My unlucky tongue is always getting me into trouble."

"Never mind," said I, seeing that she looked rather appealingly at me.
"I am no tale-bearer, you may be sure. I dare say the young people are
a great trouble, but I will try not to make more than I can help," I
added, smiling.

"Oh, you-you are a young lady—that is plain to be seen. Where are you
from?"

"From Normandy," I answered. "My foster-mother lived not very far from
Granville."

"I have been there," said the nun; "I was in the hospital at Sartilly."

How I longed to ask about Lucille, but I dared not do so for fear of
inconvenient questions.

"And have you ever travelled?" asked the nun, who was called, as she
told me, Sister St. Stanislaus.

I replied that I had been in England, and had therefore crossed the
Channel twice.

"And were you ill?"

"No, not at all," I answered.

"Mother Mary will be glad to hear that, for she Is always ill the whole
voyage through. She has made it two or three times. There, I must not
stay any longer. I will come in the morning to lead you to the chapel,
and afterward to the Superior's apartment, where you will see Mother
Mary of the Incarnation. * Then good-night, child. Rest well."

   * Mother Mary of the Incarnation is a real historical personage,
though I have taken a liberty with her in bringing her back to France
at this time.—L. E. G.

I thanked the good sister, for whom I had already conceived a great
regard, and she withdrew. I was glad enough to obey her recommendation
and go to rest, for between fatigue and excitement I was fairly
worn-out. The bed, though narrow and hard, was very clean, and smelled
of lavender. I read in my Gospel as long as the fading light would
allow, and then, carefully concealing it, I said my prayers and
lay down, feeling greatly comforted and reassured, though I should
have been puzzled to account for my state of mind. Certainly, my
circumstances were not promising.

[Illustration]



[Illustration]

CHAPTER XXI.

THE CONVENT.

I SLEPT till waked by the rays of the sun coming through the
uncurtained window. It was yet early, but I heard people astir, so I
got up. I dressed myself neatly in one of my new gowns, and put up my
hair under a white kerchief. I could not but smile as I regarded myself
in the little mirror contained in my étui, and thought of the contrast
between my present plain woollen dress and that my aunt had been so
solicitous about when I was presented to Monsieur de Luynes. I was
still holding the mirror in my hand when Sister St. Stanislaus entered.

"Good-morning, my child."

Then, catching sight of what I held, "A mirror? Why, I have not seen
one in years. Put it away! Put it away! We have no such vanities here.
Or, stay!" she added wistfully. "It could not do any harm to take one
look."

I handed her the little glass. She regarded herself long and earnestly.
Then, handing it back to me:

"There, put it away. I should never have known my own face. I am
properly punished for my vanity. And yet I was pretty once—as pretty as
you are."

"You are pretty now," said I, with truth; for her face, though
irregular, and one which must have owed much to complexion, was still
pleasing from its kindliness. "I loved you the moment I saw you."

"Ah, my child, you are a flatterer! Young people do usually like me,
but they say it is only because I spoil them so. Well, if you are
ready, we will go to the chapel."

I followed the sister along the same gallery across the open court,
and then into the convent church, where my companions for the voyage
were already assembled. Here she placed me by the side of a pale,
frightened-looking girl, younger than myself, and retired to take her
place in the choir with the other sisters.

I had only time to glance at my future companions before the service
began. They were evidently mostly of the peasant class, and did not as
a rule look at all oppressed by their destiny, although two or three
had red eyes, and one at least was the picture of despair. I was sure I
had seen her before, though I could not tell where.

After the service we breakfasted together, while one of the nuns read
aloud the life of some juvenile saint or other, of whom I remember no
more than that she sat all day in the hen-house and wept for her sins,
and gave large gifts to the poor out of the property of her worldly
father and brother, who opposed her vocation. *

   * I cannot now place this paragon of goodness, though she is no
creation of mine. My impression is that I found her in the lives of the
Franciscans.—L. E. G.

After breakfast my companions went to the gardens for an hour's
recreation, but I was called into the private apartment of the Mother
Superior. I found the good mother seated in her chair of state,
attended by a nun and another lady in a semi-conventual dress, whom I
found was the famous Mary of the Incarnation.

This lady was born of a family named Guyard. Married at eighteen, not
very happily it seems, her husband died after two years, leaving her
with a young son. But she was far too pious to concern herself with
the care of her infant, so she turned it over to her sister and busied
herself with all sorts of penances, meditations, and ecstasies in
washing dishes, scrubbing floors, and, in short, performing all sorts
of work to which she had no call, while the work which Providence
had put into her hands—that of caring for her baby—was delegated to
another. For a good while, the love she still cherished for this
child kept her from the cloister, but at last she made a profession
and adhered to it, though the boy, half crazed by his loss, made his
way into the refectory of the convent, and with tears and screams of
anguish besought the nuns to give him back his mother. The poor young
fellow went to the bad altogether afterward, and no wonder. One would
not expect him to have much regard for religion.

Having, however, conquered the last small remnant of natural affection
which remained in her heart, she was rewarded by a wonderful vision, in
which she was advertised that the Virgin called her specially to Canada.

Thither she repaired, in company with several other Ursuline nuns, and
the famous Madame de Pellice, who made a mock marriage in order to
carry out her devout schemes. She remained in Canada many years, and
having come to France on some important business, was returning, having
in charge twenty young women and two nuns.

I can see her this moment as she stood behind the Superior's chair. She
was a handsome woman still, with bright eyes and a commanding presence,
and, I must say, very little appearance of humility about her. I think
I never saw a face and manner more expressive of spiritual pride
and conscious sanctity, and this appearance did not belie her. She
possessed great ability for all sorts of affairs, a keen penetration
in regard to character, and withal a good deal of real kindness and
charity.

I was introduced to this lady, who received me graciously and made some
inquiries as to my health. Then she asked whether I had any vocation
for a religious life.

"No, madame, I believe not," I answered.

"Reverend mother," corrected the Superior again. "Cannot you remember,
child, that there are no madames here?"

"I will try, reverend mother," I answered, whereat she smiled and said
I was an apt scholar.

"I hope she may prove so," was the remark of Mother Mary. "Only for the
king's express command, I should think twice before taking her. What do
you know how to do, child? Anything besides dressing and dancing and
painting fans?"

"Yes, madame—reverend mother, I should say," I answered; "I can sew,
spin and knit, make lace and embroider, and I know something of
ordering household."

"Why, you will be quite a treasure for some one," said Mother Mary.
"Can you sing?"

"Yes, mother."

"You might be very useful in our house if you only had a vocation,"
said Mother Mary. "Perhaps you may find one yet. However, there is time
enough to think about that. Meantime you shall instruct some of your
companions in the art of knitting hose, which art may be very useful to
them. Or is that too humble an employment for a young lady like you?"

"No, my mother; I shall gladly do that or anything else whereby I may
be useful to my companions," I answered. "I would rather be busy than
not."

"That is well," said Mother Mary, relaxing a little, and evidently
regarding me with more favor. "I wish all were like you, but I would
in general rather have charge of twenty peasant girls than of one
demoiselle. I dare say you will do nicely, child. I think I know the
match that will just suit you."

"There will be two words to that bargain," I thought, but I said
nothing.

Mother Mary then commended the simplicity of my dress, and a bell
ringing she took me by the hand and led me to the schoolroom, where the
young people were now all assembled. She placed me by the side of the
same pale girl, whom she presented to me as Mademoiselle de Troyon, and
saying that she would send me some knitting-needles and thread she left
us together.

The other girls were busy, under the superintendence of the nuns, in
making garments for themselves, and sad work they made of it, being
more used to out-door than to indoor work. I believe, however, that a
great deal of their bungling was sheer mischief, and I wondered at the
patience of the nuns.

The requisite tools being produced, I set seriously to work to teach
the stitch to my companion, and she took so much pains in learning that
at the end of the lesson she could do a row very neatly. We Were placed
near a window, apart from the others, and Mother Mary told us we might
converse in low tones. Of course, like other young persons, we soon
became acquainted. I found that her name was Desirée, that she was an
orphan, and had always lived in a convent till very lately. She had a
strong vocation, and wished to be allowed to take the veil instead of
marrying, and she regarded with horror the prospect of being united to
a stranger and living in a wild place, surrounded by forests full of
wolves.

"But why do you not take the veil, since you wish it so much?" I asked.

"Because the king wishes two or three officers to marry and settle, and
you and I are the only demoiselles who could be found to go out," was
the answer. "But it does not matter," she added, with a kind of quiet
resolution; "I know that I shall never live to see Canada."

"Dear Desirée, you should not be downcast," I said. "Things may turn
out better than you think. Do not give up life for a bad business?"

She smiled sadly and shook her head, but said no more on the subject.
We had a good dinner served to us by and by, and then two hours more of
recreation in the garden, overlooked by the nuns who had us in charge.
I was walking up and down an alley by myself when I met Sister St.
Stanislaus, who joined me, and we walked together.

"So you have been in England," said she. "Can you speak English?"

I told her I could.

"I knew a girl who could speak English once," said she. "It was when I
was at Sartilly, as I told you. Poor Lucille! She came to a sad end."

"What happened to her?" I asked, with a beating heart.

"Oh, I don't know whether I should tell the story, though to be sure
it may be a warning," said the sister, divided between, her discretion
and the dear delight of telling a tale. "You see she was one of those
unfortunate Reformed, to begin with, and she could not conquer her
natural affection for her relations; She had a lover also, it seems,
and she slipped out of the gate one day to speak to him, and was
seen to give him a packet. Well, of course, being a postulant under
instruction, that brought upon her great disgrace and many penances. If
I had been to decide, I should have said they took just the way to make
her regret her lover all the more.

"However, she was forgiven at last and taken into favor again, but it
was not long before she got into some new trouble by a hasty answer.
I must say she had a trying temper, always looking out for affronts.
After that she grew very odd and silent. I was mistress of the novices
at that time, and I tried hard to win her confidence, but in vain.
At last, oh, poor thing! She was missing, and we found a part of her
clothing hanging on a bush some way down the river, which was very high
at the time. Either she drowned herself or fell in and was unable to
get out. I hope the latter, for I was fond of her, though she made me a
good deal of trouble. I have never ceased to pray for her soul," said
the good sister, wiping her eyes, which had overflowed plentifully. "If
she is beyond the reach of prayers, they may benefit some other poor
soul in purgatory. There, now, I have made you cry too. What a tender
heart you have! Let it be a warning to you, my child."

I wondered what the story was meant to warn me from, but I said
nothing, and we began to talk of other things till the sister left
me, and then I had my cry out. Poor Lucille! So this was the end. And
she had actually fallen into disgrace for trying to warn my parents
of their danger! It was very sad, and yet somehow I felt comforted
about her, I could not tell why. I was just recovering my composure
when I met Mother Superior and Mother Mary of the Incarnation walking
together. The latter seemed to be laying down the law in rather an
authoritative style, I thought, to which the Superior listened with
some apparent impatience, and at last broke out with:

"No doubt, sister, you may be right. I dare say you know how to rule
your own house to perfection. I am sure if I were visiting you, I
should never think for a moment of advising you upon the management of
your family."

Mother Mary was not so dead to worldly affection but that she reddened
visibly at this significant speech. She made no reply to the Superior,
but turned sharply upon me.

"What are you doing here by yourself, child? Crying, I see. That is
very wrong. Understand, once for all, that you are not to separate
yourself in this way from your companions. You are not so very much
better than they. Let me see no more of it!"

"I have not been alone till this very moment, reverend mother," I
answered, in a tone which I meant to be very humble. "I have been
walking with Sister St. Stanislaus, who was telling me an affecting
story. But—I fear I am very ignorant, reverend mother—I thought
from the history the sister read us this morning that solitude and
tears were among the most blessed things to the soul. I was so much
interested in hearing how that holy young lady sat in the hen-house and
cried all day by herself."

The mother looked fairly posed, as if she did not know what to answer.

I went on, prompted by that spirit of mischief which never quite
deserted me in the greatest straits. "And that other place was so
interesting, too, about her taking her father's goods unknown to him
to give to the poor. Such a blessed example! I shall hope to follow it
when I have a household of my own."

I saw by the smile which the Mother Superior turned away to hide that
she saw through me, and I fancied also that she was not displeased.
Mother Mary was spared the necessity of a reply which might have
puzzled her, by the ringing of the dinner-bell. I enjoyed my triumph
for a few minutes, as I meekly followed the elder ladies toward the
house, and then I reflected that I had done a foolish thing in setting
against me this lady, who had me so entirely in her power.

However, she had her revenge, and really I don't think she liked me the
worse for our little encounter. I am sure the Superior did not. When we
were seated at the table, and the nun had begun to read according to
custom, Mother Mary stopped her.

"You seem to be rather hoarse, sister," said she, though I had not
noticed it. "Mademoiselle d'Antin is a good reader, and she has a
special devotion for the lives of the saints. Mademoiselle, you will
take the sister's place and read to us."

Of course there was nothing for it but to obey, and I took care to show
no unwillingness for my task. I read my very best, and as the story
to-day happened to be a really interesting one, I had the satisfaction
of seeing more than one of my auditors forget her dinner for a moment
or two to listen.

"That is well," said Mother Mary, when I had finished. "We shall have
the pleasure of hearing you again some time. Now eat your dinner."

The milk porridge was rather cold, but I was not troubled at that, and
the sister whose place I had taken presently brought me a nice little
omelette, which she had procured I know not how. Mother Mary never
showed any ill-will to me afterward. She had a sort of magnanimity
about her which made her rule endurable. I was often called on to read,
but I believe it was only because she liked to hear me better than poor
Sister Joanne, who droned on like a drumbledrone under a hat, as we say
in these parts. Sister Joanne was not sorry to get rid of her task, and
my meals fared none the worse for that.

We went on in this same routine for several days. Mother Mary kept a
tight rein over her own flock, but I thought from what I observed that
the nuns had comfortable times under their good-natured Superior. They
went through all their services and observed their hours for silence
and the rest, but it was all done in an easy, perfunctory manner, so
to speak. Their garden and orchard were beautiful, and they made great
quantities of dried and sugared fruits, and distilled essences and
cordials by the gallon from the sweet flowers and aromatic herbs which
grow so plentifully in that part of France. I never saw in England such
lavender and rosemary as grows wild there.

I quite won the heart of Sister St. Anne by giving her the true English
recipe for distilling lavender and making the Queen of Hungary's water.
I grew attached to the good nuns, who were all very kind to me. My
knitting lessons were extended to some of their number, and even to
the Superior herself, who asked Mother Mary to allow me to teach her,
saying that it was a kind of work that would just suit her. Mother Mary
gave the desired permission, adding that her sister was happy in having
time for such employments. As for herself, she never had a moment to
sit down to her needle from morning till night.

"Yes; but you see, dear sister, we are so differently situated,"
answered Mother Superior meekly. "Our house works so quietly and
easily. You see we have no sisters but such as are of good family. We
are not obliged to take up with any riff-raff the king may choose to
send us, as you are over there."

I can't say I found the Superior a very apt scholar. I never succeeded
in teaching her how to turn off a heel, and at last in despair, I
suggested that she should knit a rug for the cat, which was a great
personage and much petted, though she had no vocation whatever. The rug
went off better, but I rather doubt whether puss has had the benefit of
it to this day.

On the whole I was not unhappy during the two weeks I remained at the
Ursuline convent at Marseilles. I did my best to please Mother Mary,
and succeeded pretty well. I think she appreciated my efforts, for
really most of the other girls were trials—idle, mischievous, and
bending all their efforts not to learn the arts the nuns tried to teach
them. I except Desirée, who was always docile, and the poor girl whom I
had thought I knew. I got into conversation with her one day over our
work, and at last she told me she had seen me before.

"Do you not remember stopping in your travelling carriage to speak to
my aunt, the day after our vineyard was destroyed? The lady with you
gave my aunt some money."

"Yes, I remember well," I answered. "What became of your father?"

"He was not my father, but my mother's stepbrother," was the answer.
"He had adopted me, and I was betrothed to his son. My lord the marquis
shot him dead with his own hand. My betrothed was arrested on some
pretext of poaching, and sent to the galleys, and I, because I would
not give him up and go into service in the Marquis' family, was sent
here. It does not matter. Baptiste is dead, and I would as soon be here
as anywhere—rather a thousand times than in the house of that wretch! I
cannot be worse off. Maybe they will let me live out as a servant."

This is a fair specimen of what may be done by a tyrannical landowner
in France. By all I hear, things must have grown worse instead of
better. It is a wonder if they do not have an explosion some day which
will blow them all sky-high.

[Illustration]



[Illustration]

CHAPTER XXII.

THE VOYAGE.

THE day at last came for our embarkation. Our luggage was taken
away in the first place, but we were allowed to keep each a basket
containing a change of linen and certain other necessaries. Mother St.
Stanislaus distributed among us with a lavish hand biscuits, dried
fruit, gingerbread, and peppermint comfits, and the good Sister St.
Anne smuggled into my own basket a bottle of lavender and a flask of
a certain fragrant and spicy cordial which she had a great reputation
for making, and which was esteemed a sovereign remedy for indigestion.
There was a good deal of indigestion among the nuns of St. Ursula.

Poor dear souls! They were all very good to me, and but for the change
in my religious views and the hope I still cherished of meeting Andrew
once more, I think I could have made myself very content among them.
The mothers kissed me and made me various little presents, some of
which I have still, especially a medal containing some hairs of St.
Ursula, given me by the Superior. They are coarse hairs, and are just
the color of the tail of my chestnut mare. I think she sincerely
regretted my departure, but I don't think she was at all sorry to get
rid of Mother Mary, who was a religious all through, taking a real
delight in all sorts of mortifications, and very ready to impose them
on others; besides that, she could not for the life of her help wishing
to take the management of matters into her own hands, wherever she was.
I know she ached to reform the Ursuline Convent from top to bottom, and
it was well for the comfort of those concerned that she had not the
power to do so.

We were taken in close carriages from the convent through the city to
the place of embarkation. The ship could not be brought alongside the
wharf, and we had to embark a few at a time in the little boats. Mother
Mary, who had managed several such affairs, sent her two assistant nuns
first to receive the passengers as they came, and herself remained on
the wharf till the whole company were dispatched. Desirée and I were
among the last.

I was burning with impatience, for I saw David in the crowd and close
to me, and I longed to slip into his hand a note I had written telling
him of the fate of poor Lucille, and begging him to lose no time in
escaping to England. At last the chance mine. Poor Louisonne, who was
always doing the wrong thing at the wrong time, did the right one for
me and slipped into the water. The bustle and alarm—for the poor thing
was nearly drowned—drew Mother Mary away for a moment and gave me
the desired opportunity. David drew near, and as he brushed by me, I
put the note into his hand. Nobody saw me but a good-natured-looking
Franciscan, who only smiled and shook his head at me.

At last we were all on board and introduced to the cabin, which was to
be our lodging for at least six weeks. Oh, what a hole it was!—dirty,
ill-lighted, not half furnished.

Mother Mary was very angry, as I could see by her face; and indeed I
heard her remonstrating with the captain very energetically on the
subject; but he only shrugged his shoulders and said it was not his
fault. He had taken command of the ship only a few days before, and
that not by any good-will of his own. He added, however, that now he
was appointed to the command, he meant to exercise it, and intimated to
Mother Mary very plainly that she had better mind her own business.

She certainly had enough to mind. Half the girls were crying or in
hysterics; everything was in confusion. We were dreadfully in the way
on deck, but no one could bear the idea of going below. Mother Mary
at last restored some sort of quiet, and calling me to help her, with
the remark that I seemed to have some spirit and sense, we began to
try to put our cabin into better order. It was discouraging work, for
everything was wanting for comfort or decency; but we worked hard, and
by night we had things in better trim. The girls had had their cry out
and felt for the time in good spirits. We did not set sail till about
six in the evening, being kept by the state of the tide, but at last we
were off.

The land gradually faded from view; we lost sight of the lights in
the city, and before bedtime we were out in the open sea, and every
soul but myself was overcome with the first depressing feelings of
sea-sickness. I had a busy time enough for the next week. Every
passenger was sick, including Mother Mary herself, who was one of the
worst, though she strove against the weakness with all the force of
her strong will. But, in truth, a strong will does little for one when
one's heels are one moment higher than one's head, and the next knocked
violently on the floor, and every portable article is sliding about
trying its best to break everything else.

We had a stormy voyage from the first, though the winds were for the
most part favorable, and the passage promised to be short. But it was
wretchedly uncomfortable. The ship was ill-found and hardly seaworthy.
She was crammed with goods, which were thrust even into our cabin, thus
abridging the small room allotted to us. The water was bad, and the
sailors stole our wine; our provisions were not fit for well people,
not to say invalids, and short as our passage was, we had more than one
case of scurvy. Poor Desirée succumbed under her hardships and died
when we had been out about three weeks. I had become greatly attached
to her, but I could not weep for her death. It seemed a merciful
deliverance.

For myself, I was not as unhappy as I should have been if I had not
been so busy. The only really well person of the party, I had enough to
do in waiting on the sick. I had made friends with the cook, a great
good-natured blackamoor, by speaking to him in English, when I found
that he understood that language, and I cooked our miserable provisions
so as to make them as savory as possible, and now and then secured a
bit of something better than usual to tempt the appetite of poor Sister
Margaret, who seemed likely enough to die of exhaustion.

Going about as I did, I was often free to take out my little book and
study its contents. The more I did so, the more I recalled what I had
learned of the other Scriptures, the more I wondered how I could ever
have so far departed from the simplicity of the Gospel as to profess
the Roman Catholic religion. I never should have done so but for the
fact that my belief in all religion had been weakened by intercourse
with unbelievers, and my heart corrupted by love of pleasure and of the
world. I do not say by any means that this is true of all perverts, but
I know it was true of me.

But now arose a grave question, which indeed had troubled me before. I
felt that I must confess my faith before men; I could not go on serving
God according to the faith of my fathers and worshipping the saints at
the same time. I could not believe in and apply to the One Mediator,
amid at the same time invoke a hundred others. It may be easy for
any one who reads these lines, and who has never been in any danger,
to say what my conduct should have been. But for me, in the midst of
the conflict, it was not so easy. I well knew what would be my fate,
for the Jesuits ruled in Canada, and that with a rod of iron, and I
had seen enough of Mother Mary to guess well that she would have no
compassion for a heretic.

I thought and prayed and wept, and at last strength seemed to come to
me. I had nothing to do just now but to wait on my companions. When the
time came for help, I should have help. Sufficient unto the day was the
evil thereof.

Help did come, and, as so often happens, through trouble. We had been
out five weeks when we were overtaken by a tempest, compared to which
all we had suffered before was as a summer breeze. I do not know enough
of nautical matters to describe it. I know that for many days neither
sun nor stars appeared; that we were tossed up to the skies and then
hurled down to the abyss; that we lost sail and masts and were more
than once in imminent danger of sinking; and that when the storm
subsided at last we drifted in helpless wreck, having lost all our
boats, and having our ship so injured that the least increase in the
storm might send her to the bottom.

The captain, who had behaved like a hero, was busy in overseeing the
construction of rafts. He had ordered us all on deck, sick and well
together, in order to give us a last chance, though a slender one. We
sat huddled together, some praying, some crying, others too miserable
to do either—silent, in hopeless despair. Such was our condition when,
happening to look up, I was the very first to descry a sail, and almost
at the same moment the shout was raised by half a dozen at once. It was
a British ship, and a large one. She was rapidly coming up with us, and
our despair was changed into the certainty of succor.

It was a work of some danger to transfer so many helpless women from
one ship to the other, but it was accomplished at last, the captain and
Mother Mary being the last to leave the poor wreck. Nobody but myself
understood English, and I was called upon to interpret. The ship was
the Good Hope, trading from Bristol to New England, and now on her
way to the town of Boston, from which, according to the reckoning of
Captain Mayhew, we were but a short day's sail.

Mother Mary was quite in despair. She offered large rewards to the
captain to alter his course and sail for the St. Lawrence, but in
vain. The captain said his ship had been damaged, and was in no state
for such a voyage; that he was overdue at Boston, and that his wife
would be anxious about him. He would engage that Mother Mary and her
companions should meet with every civility and accommodation, but to
the St. Lawrence, he could not and would not go—"and that was all about
it."

There was no opportunity to argue the matter further, for poor Mother
Mary was taken very ill once more and had to be carried to the cabin
which the sailors had hastily arranged for us. The captain apologized
for its narrowness, saying that he had another small cabin which should
be ours so soon as its occupant, a gentleman passenger who had been
hurt in the storm, should give it up, adding, however, that he hoped to
set us all on dry ground before that time to-morrow.

From the moment that I set foot on the deck of the Good Hope my mind
was made up. I would tell the captain my story, throw myself on his
mercy, and entreat him to rescue me. If he refused to do so I would
contrive to effect my escape while we were in Boston. Surely in a town
full of Protestants there must be some one who would protect me.

I had very little rest that night, though Mother Mary herself, the
sickest of the party, scolded the others for their demands on me, and
at last bade me lie down and not mind them. At daylight most of my
charges were asleep, and I stole on deck to compose myself and breathe
a little fresh air. Lo! There before me lay the land, green and fair,
clothed with forest for the most part, but with here and there a
clearing. How heavenly it all looked, but I had no time for gazing.
There stood the captain, as I thought, with his back to me, looking
toward the land. There was no time like the present, and I went quickly
up to him.

"Captain Mayhew!" said I.

The stranger turned, and I saw Andrew Corbet. He looked at me with a
bewildered, half-recognizing gaze, and the thought darted into my mind
that he did not mean to know me. But it was no time for scruples or
maiden shyness. The need was too imminent.

"Andrew!" said I. "If ever you loved me or my mother, save me!"

"Vevette!" said Andrew, still wondering. "It is Vevette."

Then catching me in his arms, he left me no doubt of the state of his
heart. He never asked me whether I still loved him, and I don't think
it ever occurred to him to doubt it.

"Well!" said a voice close by. "I should say, Mr. Corbet, that you had
found some one you was kind of glad to see."

"Glad is no word," said Andrew, while I released myself, covered with
blushes. "But how came you here?"

In a very few words, I told him of what had happened. Andrew's brow
grew dark, and Captain Mayhew expressed the wish that he had that
Frenchman on board.

"Will you not contrive to save me?" I said, in conclusion. "I am a
Protestant—as much as I ever was. I cannot go to Canada. I only ask a
safe asylum. They said I was a French subject because my father was
French."

"Plague the French!" said Captain Mayhew. "They shan't keep you. Yes,
we'll save you somehow. Never fear. But how?"

He considered a moment, and then his thin, clever face broke into a
smile, and he turned to Andrew:

"You say this young lady was promised to you, with the consent of her
parents?"

"Yes," answered Andrew. "We might have been married before this but for
my own hardness and pig-headed jealousies."

"You were not to blame," said I. "The fault has been all mine."

"Reckon you'll have time to settle that," said the captain. "Well,
since all that is so, and you like the young lady and she likes you,
why, it appears to me that the best way will be to call the good
minister who came over with us, and let him marry you on the spot. Then
the lady will be the wife of a British subject, which will make her one
herself, I take it; and if old King Lewy don't like it, let him come
over himself and see about it."

"It would be much the best way, Vevette," said Andrew, turning to me.
"It would give me the right to protect you."

I faltered something, I know not what.

"The long and the short of it is, we will have a wedding on the spot,"
said the captain. "As to the banns and all that, we can settle it
afterward. But we had better be in a hurry, for we are getting into
smooth water, and your Mother Mary will be astir presently, making a
fuss. Just call Mr. Norton, and tell him to make haste, will you?" he
said to the steward. "Or, maybe we had better go into my cabin. Mr.
Norton is a regular Church of England minister," he explained to me
as he assisted me down the companion-way. "He's going out to see his
folks, but he don't calculate to settle."

A few words put Mr. Norton in possession of the story. The first mate
was called in as an additional witness, and in half an hour, I returned
to the cabin the lawful wife of Andrew Corbet of Tre Madoc.

I had not been away an hour, but how the world was changed to me!

"Where have you been, and what kept you so long?" asked Mother Mary as
I brought her some coffee which the steward had provided.

"I have been on deck for air, and the captain kept me to answer some
questions," I answered. And then, to hide my confusion, I added, "We
are in full sight of land, reverend mother. The captain says we shall
be at Boston by afternoon."

"Oh that it were Quebec instead of that heretical Boston!" sighed
Mother Mary. "Is the captain quite obdurate still?"

"Yes, reverend mother; but he says he is sure. We shall receive every
kindness from the people. Will you try to get up? The ship does not
roll much now."

I assisted her, and my companions, who were overjoyed when they heard
we were in sight of land, though it was a land of heretics. A land
of cannibals would have been welcome to the poor souls just then. We
were soon all on deck, I keeping by Mother Mary's side as usual, for
it had been settled that I should say nothing till the time came for
disembarkation.

It came very soon. The anchor rattled down into Boston harbor about
three o'clock. We were at once boarded by the harbor-master and another
gentleman of goodly presence, who, it seems, was a magistrate. He
looked with surprise at the unusual passengers, and Captain Mayhew
explained to them the state of the case. The gentleman, who could
speak French fluently, turned to Mother Mary, and with much politeness
assured her of every consideration. There was a French ship in the bay,
which would doubtless take her and her companions to their destination.
Meantime a house on shore should be placed at her disposal and
furnished with every comfort.

Madame, hearing of the French ship, declined to go on shore, saying
that she should prefer going at once to the ship, whereat three or four
of the girls burst out crying with disappointment. Mr. Folsom suggested
that the ship would not be prepared for our reception, and that at
least they must give the captain notice; but Mother Mary was obstinate.
She would remain where she was rather than set foot on heretic ground.
This, however, was shown to be impossible, and at last she consented
to go on shore, provided she could have a house to herself, which Mr.
Folsom promised. Then, turning to Andrew, he asked if he were ready to
accompany him.

"I am quite ready, if my wife is," replied Andrew, and at a signal from
him, I left Mother Mary's side and went to him, placing my arm within
his. There was an exclamation of horror from the nuns.

"Vevette, what does this mean?" exclaimed Mother Mary. "Wicked,
shameless girl, what are you doing?"

"Good words, madame," said Andrew in French. "This lady was long
ago betrothed to me by the consent of all our parents. We have been
separated a long time by the force of circumstances; but having come
together again, we resolved to put it out of any human power to
separate us, and so we were married this morning by the Reverend Mr.
Norton, a Church of England minister, who is on board, as Captain
Mayhew can certify."

The captain bowed. "Oh, yes, he is a regular minister," said he. "I
know him and all his folks. It is all right, Mr. Folsom. Tell the lady
so."

The lady was told so, but she refused to listen. With her most majestic
air she commanded me to return to her side.

"No, madame," I answered; "I thank you for all your kindness, but my
place is with my husband."

"Wretched, deluded child! Know you not that a marriage by a heretic
minister is no marriage, and is in itself a crime?"

"In France, madame, no doubt; but we are not in France. This is an
English colony, and governed by English laws."

"But a heretic," said Mother Mary; "a blasphemer of our holy religion!"

"A heretic according to your thinking, but no blasphemer, madame," said
Andrew. "My wife is herself a Protestant, as her fathers have been
before her."

"It is true," said I; "I have been deluded for a time; but I have seen
my error. I am of the Reformed, heart and soul; or rather," remembering
our old family boast, "I am a Waldensian—of that people who never
corrupted the faith, and so needed no reformation."

"And all this time you have been pretending to be a good Catholic,"
said Mother Mary. "What a wolf in sheep's clothing have I been
entertaining among my lambs!"

"No, madame," I answered; "I confess that my judgment was warped
for a time by passion and self-interest, and the stress of a great
disappointment, and in that frame I made a profession of your religion.
But it is long since my faith began to waver, and since I have been on
shipboard it hath been confirmed in the old way by thought, prayer, and
study of the Word of God. I was no willing emigrant, but was betrayed
into my present position by the treachery of those who professed, for
motives of gain, to be my friends. I think it neither wrong nor shame
to leave that position for the protection of the man to whom my father
himself gave me."

Mother Mary was about to reply, when, glancing around, she saw all the
girls listening with open mouth and exchanging significant glances with
one another. So she cut the matter short.

"It is well," said she; "I wash my hands of you. Child of wicked
parents, you have followed in their steps! Go, then, with your
paramour, and remember that the vengeance of Heaven dogs your steps! As
to me and mine, we will not set foot on this wicked shore. I demand to
be taken to the French ship immediately, without a moment's delay."

"Madame," said Andrew, bowing, "I trust I shall not forget that I am a
gentleman, and that I am speaking to a woman who has been kind to my
wife, and who is old enough to be my mother."

I saw Mother Mary wince a little at this.

"Come, Vevette, Mr. Folsom's boat waits for us."

I would have taken a kind leave of my companions, but Mother Mary would
not allow it, fearing, I suppose, that marriage might be catching. We
descended into Mr. Folsom's boat, and were soon at the shore.

We walked up through the green lane—oh, how delicious seemed the firm
ground and the grass to my feet!—till we came to Mr. Folsom's house,
which was not the rude erection I expected to see, but a handsome
square mansion, partly of stone, and with a pretty garden beside it.
I am told that Boston hath grown to be quite a fine city. It was even
then a pretty town, with neat houses and some good shops and a very
decent church, which they called a meeting-house, for the most part.
For they say that the name church belongs to the faithful who assemble
there, and not to the place. 'Tis a matter of small moment—just one
of those inconsequent things which people hold to with the most
persistence. In my grandmother's time Archbishop Laud would have
deposed a worthy minister because he did not believe in St. George.
However, I shall never get to Mr. Folsom's house at this rate.

Mistress Folsom came to the door to meet us, having been advertised by
a special messenger. She was a comely lady, richly but plainly dressed
in a somewhat bygone fashion. Her two pretty daughters stood behind
her, as sweet and prim as two pink daisies. She made me welcome with
a motherly kiss, and listened with great amaze and interest while my
husband made her acquainted with the outline of our history.

"'Tis like something in a romance," said she. "But you must be very
weary, and hungry too. We will have supper ready directly. Sweetheart,
would you not like to change your dress?"

I explained to her that I had no changes, all my luggage having been
lost in the wreck, except my basket, which Sister St. Stanislaus had
given me, and which I had clung to through all. Without more ado, she
carried me to a plain but pretty and comfortable chamber, and sent her
two daughters hither and thither for clean linen, a gown, and other
necessaries. Then they left me to myself; but presently a black wench
came up with a great can of hot water and an armful of towels. I do
not remember in my life any bodily sensation more delicious than that
clean, well-laundered linen.

When I was dressed, I took up a Bible which lay upon my toilette-table
and read the one hundred and third Psalm, and then said my prayers,
and having thus a little composed myself, I went down-stairs. A most
bountiful supper was provided for us, and we sat down, waited upon by
a black servant. I had no notion of so much style and ceremony in this
remote corner of the world; but I soon found that there were other
colonists who kept up much more state than Mr. and Mrs. Folsom.

After supper, Andrew and I were left to ourselves in the parlor, and it
may be guessed we did not want subjects for talk. I told him my whole
story, concealing nothing.

"You see what sort of wife you have taken in your haste," said I, in
conclusion. "All these things are much worse than aiding and abetting
poor Betty, even if I had done so, which I never did."

"Ah, Vevette! Don't taunt me with my folly and obstinacy," said Andrew,
covering his face. "It was just that which threw you into the hands of
your enemies."

"My enemies would have had no power, if I had but kept them at arm's
length," said I. "It was not your fault that I did not accept Theo's
invitation instead of going with Madame de Fayrolles; but the truth was
that, when I heard you were going to be married to the Jamaica lady, I
thought only of getting out of England before you came into it."

"So it was that piece of folly that drove you away," said Andrew. "I
wish you could see the Jamaica lady, Vevette. She was indeed very kind
to me when I lay ill at her father's house; but she is fifty years old
at least, and about as handsome as old Deborah. Dear soul! She gave
me a string of beautiful pearls for you, and when I heard you were
married, I threw them into the sea."

"That was very wasteful; you might have given them to the poor," I
returned. "But who told you I was married?"

"Nobody said you were actually married; but when I went to Stanton
Court, to obtain news of you on my return, I found my lord fuming over
a letter he had just received, saying that you were to be married on
the morrow to some Frenchman—I don't remember his name—of great wealth
and consequence."

"Monsieur de Luynes," said I. "They did try to make me marry him
afterward, but I had not heard of him at that time. He was a good old
man, and very kind to me."

"That was the name," continued Andrew. "My lord swore you should not
touch a penny till you were twenty-one, whatever happened. But how came
you to write yourself that you were going to be married?"

"I did not," I answered.

"It was a forgery then. There was a note in your handwriting, and
signed with your name. I thought the hand looked a little Frenchified,
but the signature was yours to a hair. Only for that I should have
gone to Paris to find you; but I thought if you were well married,
and with your own consent, I would not be a makebate between you and
your husband. So I even turned the old place over to Margaret and her
husband to care for, gathered together my prize-money, and what else I
could, and came hither intending to turn settler. I was knocked down
and hurt in the storm, which was the reason I did not see you upon your
coming aboard. I was thinking on you when you came and spoke to me, and
for a moment I thought it was your ghost."

"Ghosts don't come at that time of day," said I. "And so Margaret is
married?"

"Yes, and well married as I could desire—to Mr. Treverthy, son of our
good old knight. 'Tis an excellent marriage in every way."

"And your mother?"

"My mother lives with Margaret, and so does Rosamond for the present.
Betty and her husband are in London, where he had some small office."

Our conversation was interrupted by the return of Mr. Folsom.

"And do you know what has kept me abroad so late?" said he, seeming
much amused. "Even taking order for the accommodation of your French
madame and her flock of lambs. I have them all safely and comfortably
housed in the new tavern, and have sent for a French woman who can
speak English to interpret for them."

"What! Did she come on shore after all?" I asked.

"She had no choice. The captain of the French ship positively refused
to receive her, till his ship should be made ready for sea. So, as she
could not well sleep in an open boat, she was at length prevailed upon
to hear reason. I have been half over the town gathering beds and other
needful comforts for them, and I have left the poor things at last
happy over a hot supper."

"I am glad they are comfortable. They have had a hard time of it. I
don't know how they will bear to go to sea again."

[Illustration]



[Illustration]

CHAPTER XXIII.

CONCLUSION.

THE next day I went with Mrs. Folsom to carry some additional comforts,
in the shape of linen and so on, to my old companions. I found them all
comfortably housed in a new tavern, which, though not quite finished,
was clean and cheerful. Mother Mary would not see us at all, but Sister
Margaret came to us, and was very grateful for what we brought.

"Every one has been very good," said she. "I did not know that heretics
could be so kind. They used to tell us that the English settlers
murdered every Catholic, and especially every nun that fell into their
hands; but the people here have treated us like true Christians. They
have even sent us an interpreter. They say the French vessel will set
sail in about a week. Oh, Vevette, how we shall miss you!"

"Dear sister, I wish I could help take care of you; but you know it is
impossible," I said.

"Yes, I know; but—" in a frightened whisper. "Ah, Vevette, take good
care of yourself. The mother says the French king will have you back if
he goes to war for you."

"I am not alarmed," I answered. "The French king has his hands too full
to care or concern himself for such an insignificant person as I am.
But who is that?" I added, starting as a plainly dressed woman looked
into the room and withdrew again.

"That is our interpreter," answered Sister Margaret. "She is a
heretic—more is the pity—but she is very good and useful."

"I beseech you, sister, make some excuse to call her hither," said I,
all of a tremble. "I am sure I know her."

The sister called her, and held her a moment in some conversation while
I looked at her. No, I was not mistaken.

"Lucille!" said I.

She turned, looked at me a moment with wide eyes of wonder, and then
dropped in a dead faint at my feet. I had her in my arms in a moment.

"It is my foster-sister," said I to Mrs. Folsom. "I thought she was
dead."

I almost thought so again before we brought her to; but she revived at
last, and knew me. Poor thing, she was sadly changed. Her black hair
was quite gray, and her face looked fifty years old. She went home
with us, and after a while was composed enough to tell us her story.
She said she had become horribly sick of the convent life, and having
fallen into disgrace with her Superior, she determined to make her
escape. For this purpose, she feigned stupidity almost to idiocy, and
having thus thrown her watchers off their guard, she made her escape;
putting on some clothes she found thrown aside, and disposing of her
own garments in the way they were found. She had made her way by one
means and another to Dieppe, where she fell in with a captain's wife,
who was in sore straits for want of a servant. With her, she took
service, and came to the new settlements, where she had lived ever
since. With what joy she received the news of her parents' welfare, I
leave to be guessed.

I have little more to tell in order to complete this long history.
Mother Mary took her departure after a fortnight's delay, during which
she received a great deal of kindness from the good people, and had
more than one sharp theological duel. She did not, however, carry away
all her flock.

Louisonne and two other girls were missing at the hour of departure,
and could nowhere be found, and she was forced to embark without them.
The next day they crept out of their concealment, a good deal scared
and ashamed. They were received with kindness, however, and taken to
service in decent families, and all three turned out very well.

The next ship to England carried news of us to our friends, but we
ourselves remained in New England. Andrew had a mind to see the country
now he had come thither, and he thought, moreover, that it would be as
safe for me to remain at a good distance till the storm, if storm there
were, should blow over. The tale could not fail to reach the ears of
King Louis and his ministers, and as our own King Charles was (I say
it to our shame) absolutely under his thumb, we knew not what demands
might be made.

So after travelling about a while, we bought a house and farm not very
far from Hampton. Here we lived for six years, very happy and content;
and here one day I had a great fright.

Sitting in my parlor with my youngest babe in my arms, Lucille, who
made it her home with us, came in to tell me that three or four Indians
were asking for food. This was no uncommon occurrence, and I bade her
supply their wants and set them down to eat; but seeing that she was
disturbed (for she had never overcome her fear of the natives) I went
to attend to them myself. I have a tolerably quick eye and a quick ear
for languages, and I discovered at once that these were none of our
ordinary peaceable Neponsets, with whom we were on the best of terms,
but strangers.

Moreover, I was sure that one of them was a white man. I supplied them
with food, and then, slipping into the next room, where I could see all
their faces in a mirror without being myself seen, I saw the supposed
white man make the sign of the cross, and in the action, I recognized
my old confessor, Father Martien.

My blood ran cold for a moment. It was well-known that the Jesuits of
Canada constantly set on their Indian allies to rob, burn, and murder
all along our settlements; but it was seldom that they came as far as
our place. No doubt these were spies sent out to see the nakedness of
the land. Woe to me if I fell into their hands.

I stepped to the door and sent a black boy for my husband, who was not
far-away. He came, and I told him my convictions.

"Tut!" said he. "I dare say they are harmless enough."

"Look and listen for yourself," said I.

He did so, and was obliged to confess that there was cause for my
alarm. They finished their meal, and went away peaceably enough, but I
shall never forget the look Father Martien bestowed on me in parting.

They were no sooner gone, than my husband sent to rouse the neighbors,
and the little settlement was put into a state of defence, and we kept
a strict watch, which was all we could do that night. The next morning
scouts were sent out, and it was found that quite a large war party had
been in the neighborhood, but had decamped, probably in consequence of
seeing us so well prepared for them. I have heard nothing of Father
Martien since, though I am sure I had a glimpse of him once in London.

We remained in New England for six years, and then returned to
Cornwall. My husband's mother was growing infirm, and longed to see her
son and his children. Mr. Treverthy's brother was dead, and it became
needful for him to live upon his own estate. So we sold our farm for a
good price, and went back to our old home, a sober married couple with
three promising children.

My aunt Amy received me with open arms, and I never had any trouble
with her, save to keep her from quite spoiling my children's tempers
with indulgence and their digestion with gingerbread.

We had the happiness of restoring Lucille to her parents, who received
her like one returned from the grave. David had already settled in
Penzance as a carpenter, and taken a modest Cornish maid to wife. He
is an old man now, quite rich, and a person of great importance in the
town; but wealth has not spoiled him in the least. Lucille hath never
married, and still lives with me, a most valued helper and friend.
Jeanne and Simon survived to a good old age.

Of poor Betty, as I can say no good, I will say nothing.

My uncle Charles married a rich old woman from the city—a widow—who
has led him a sad life, and seems likely to outlive him after all. I
saw her once, and thought if there were anything in the doctrine of
penance, her husband was in a fair way to expiate all his offences.
Her name was Felicia, but the felicity was all in the name. She would
neither be happy herself nor let any one else be so, if she could help
it.

I never saw Monsieur de Fayrolles again. He perished in a duel, under
very disgraceful circumstances, some years after I left him, and there
was no one remaining to bear that dishonored name. His wife, after
leading life for a time, suddenly turned devotee, retired to a convent,
and gave all her jewels to the shrine of Our Lady of something or
other—whatever image was most in fashion at the time. I suppose the
pearl necklace my lady gave me was among them.

Susanne came to London, set up as a milliner and hair-dresser, and did
very well. I never forgot her kindness to me, and was glad to be able
to return it.

Lord and Lady Stanton lived to a good old age. Lewis caused them a good
deal of uneasiness for a time by running rather wild, and absolutely
refusing to marry in his father's life-time. I believe my lord would
have been very glad if his son had married his ward when he wished
it—not that I ever wanted him. However, Lewis did take a wife at
last, and that a wife of the Religion—a pretty, gentle, scared little
Provençal—who I fear he will not keep very long.

Theo and her husband have had little trouble except that she has no
children. She is a blessing to every one who comes in contact with her,
as Mrs. Barnard is the reverse.

Margaret hath at this moment twenty children and grandchildren, and is
as proud of the last as if it had been the first.

Rosamond divides her time among us, happy and making happy wherever she
goes.

And now I bring this long memoir of my young days to a close. I have
written it at the instance of my husband and for the benefit of my
children, in accordance with a kind of custom which hath obtained in
our family for several generations. As to the moral, if any be needed,
it may be read in two or three places of Holy Scripture, which I will
copy here.

   "A double-minded man is unstable in all his ways."—St. James 1:8.

   "If any man love the world, the love of the Father is not
in him."—1 St. John 2:15.

   "Ye cannot serve God and mammon."—St. Matt. 6:24.


                        AGNES GENEVIEVE CORBET née d'ANTIN.



[Illustration: ENDE.]



                               LONDON:
                JOHN F. SHAW AND CO., PATERNOSTER ROW.



          John F. Shaw & Co.'s New Juvenile Publications.

                  CHAPTERS IN OUR "ISLAND STORY."

                        BY L. E. GUERNSEY.


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