image012
image013
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.
image014
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.