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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 streamsHe 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.
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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.