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A SUDDEN SUMMONS.
FOR about a fortnight or more after the departure of the pastor we had a very quiet, pleasant time. The weather was lovely, and we made long excursions out of doors. We gathered apples and quinces, and hunted for herbs and flowers, for Andrew was a good deal of an herbalist (a botanist, I think they call it now, though I am sure herbalist is the prettier word), and he was in correspondence with some learned gentleman in London on the subject of plants. He told me many things about flowers that I had never known or dreamed of before, showing me the several parts of the blossom, the leaves, and roots, by means of a pocket magnifying-glass which he always carried about him.
He read to my mother and myself as we sat at our embroidery or spinning, and he held endless gossips with my mother about old families in Cornwall and Devonshire, and people and places she used to know. I listened with great interest to these tales, for I had begun now to look upon Tre Madoc as my future home, and any detail concerning it was of interest to me. I was growing more and more fond of my cousin all the time, and the image of Lord Percy had quite ceased to haunt my imagination.
I do not think that I ever spent two happier weeks in all my life. For one thing, I was at peace with myself. The events of the last month had aroused my conscience and wakened the religious principles implanted by education to new life. I laid aside the dreams of worldly pleasure and ambition, which usually occupied so much of my time, and kept my conscience in a state of chronic discomfort, and I really did begin to experience some of those higher and holier joys of which poor Lucille had spoken in that memorable conference of ours. True, we were still under the power of our enemies—still in danger at any time of losing liberty and life. But one becomes used to danger as to everything else, and somehow to me the presence of my cousin seemed a protection, though if I had been asked why, I could not have told for my life.
Andrew was very earnest with my parents to consent to our being married immediately. He said, and with some show of reason, that he should then have the right to protect me, whatever happened, and that the fact of my father's daughter having married a British subject might be some advantage to him. This, however, my father doubted. He had no idea that the English government would quarrel with Louis on any such frivolous pretext.
Both he and my mother were opposed to such early marriages, though they were common enough at the time. And moreover, they wished to learn a little more about Andrew before giving their only child wholly into his hands. So the matter was postponed for an indefinite time.
Of course I should have acquiesced in any arrangement made by my honored parents, and I do not think I should have found any difficulty in doing so, for, as I have said, I liked Andrew better and better every day. But my heart had not awaked to love in its highest sense. I looked upon Andrew as a big brother, very nice to play with, and to order about, but that was all. I had, besides, very high though very indefinite notions of the duties and responsibilities of a married woman, and dreaded assuming them, all the more because my mind was more awakened to a sense of duty than it had ever been before. On the whole I very much preferred to let matters remain as they were.
The feast of St. Michael occurred during Andrew's stay, and it was to be celebrated with more pomp than usual. The new curé was very zealous in beating up for pilgrims to the shrine, and, as we heard, preached more than one sermon on the subject. We had had a bad harvest that year of everything but apples, and the fishing had been unusually unsuccessful. This the curé attributed to the anger of our great patron, St. Michael, because his feast day had been neglected of late, owing—so he said, though I don't think it was true—to the influence of the heretics who were allowed to defile the holy soil of La Manche with their presence; and he threatened the people with still severer judgments unless the great archangel were appeased by a grand pilgrimage, and by the purification of the holy soil before mentioned.
"St. Michael must have been rather astonished at the acts attributed to him, if he happened to be anywhere in the neighborhood," said Andrew; but my father shook his head.
"It is no laughing matter," said he. "We have lived in great peace with our Roman Catholic neighbors, under the rule of the last curé, who was a kindhearted old man, much fonder of his garden and orchard than of his breviary; but this new priest is of a different type. He is doing his best to arouse the fanaticism of the peasants, and especially of the lower and more debased class. I do not believe he would hesitate to hold out, as an inducement, the plunder of the tower."
"Would he dare do that?" asked Andrew.
"It has been done in a hundred instances," answered my father. "It is no lower motive than that of relieving a man of the payment of his honest debts, on condition of his returning to the bosom of the church, and that has been done by a public edict."
"And this is the king who must not be resisted, because, forsooth, he is the Lord's anointed!" said Andrew, with that peculiar flash of his gray eye, like sunlight reflected from bright armor, that I had learned to know so well.
"The king is governed by his counsellors," said my father.
"As to that," answered Andrew, "he does not seem to be very much governed by his counsellors in the matter of his building and gambling expenses, and—some other things," catching a warning glance from my mother. "I thought he made a boast that he was the state. As to his being deceived, why does he not find out for himself? Things are no better in Paris than here. How can he be ignorant of what happens under his very nose?"
"Very easily, my son. A good many things happen under the very nose of His Majesty King Charles of England which do not seem to make much impression on his mind," said my father, a little testily. He had his full share of that unreasoning loyalty—unreasonable, too, as I think—which possessed all France, Protestant and Catholic, at that time. "We have all heard how the king was engaged the night that the Dutch sailed up the river. You cannot propose him as a model, nephew!"
"I never said he was," answered Andrew dryly, and then the conversation stopped.
The next morning I went out very early into the lane to look for a pair of scissors which I had dropped the day before, when I was joined by my cousin.
"Vevette," said he, "is there no place from which we can view this procession in safety? I have a great curiosity about it."
"Oh, yes, we can do so from the top of the rock at the end of our lane, if you like," I answered. "But we must make haste thither, for they will soon be on their way."
I was all the more ready for the adventure as I hoped to obtain a glimpse of Lucille.
We were soon safely hidden among the tall bushes and wild vines which covered the top of the rock, but not too soon, for we were hardly settled before the head of the procession appeared in sight. It had been joined by pilgrims from all parts of Normandy, and looked like a little army. The cross-bearer came first, as usual, then a company of priests, loudly chanting as they walked, then banners without number, and I know not what devices besides of images and angels and what not. Then came a company of women, headed by the nuns from the hospital, each leading by the hand one of the new converts, as they were called, in bitter derision.
The poor little Luchon was there, pale and thin as a shadow. Her wasted hand held a rosary like the rest, but it drooped listlessly by her side. Either the sad-faced nun who led her by the other hand did not think it worth while to have a public contest with her, or she had tried and failed, for she did not interfere with the child, and, I even fancied, looked at her with an eye of pity.
Lucille was one of the last. I saw in a moment that she was at least no happier than she had been at home, for the dark shade was on her face which I knew so well. However, she was telling her beads as diligently as the best of them. As she passed the foot of the rock she looked up. I had ventured a little nearer the edge than was quite prudent, and our eyes met for a moment. She made me a warning sign, and then a bitter smile curled her lips, and she pressed to them with fervor the crucifix attached to her rosary. Her companion looked up also, but saw nothing, as I had shrunk back from my dangerous position. That was the last time I saw my old playmate for many a long day, though I heard from her once or twice, as I have reason to remember.
There were more banners and more pilgrims, but I saw none of them. I had retreated to the back of the cliff and thrown myself down on the moss in a fit of bitter weeping. I had loved Lucille dearly, despite our many quarrels, and I believe she loved me as much as her self-absorbed nature would let her love any one. Hers was an asking love, always thinking more of what it was to get than of what it had to give.
Andrew was so absorbed in the spectacle that he did not miss me till all were past, and when he came to find me, he was frightened at my agitation. It was some time before I could even be got to move or speak. Andrew brought me water in a little drinking-cup he always carried, fanned me, and soothed me with the greatest tenderness, and at last I was able to tell him the story.
"Then that was the girl who looked up," said he. "I thought there was something peculiar about her. She does not look very happy with her new friends. I wonder what they will do with her?"
"Make a nun of her, if they can squeeze her dowry out of Father Simon, or perhaps marry her up to some one," I answered. "Julienne's sister says the Le Febres are very angry with Pierre for marrying his old sweetheart Isabeau, when he might have waited and taken Lucille and her farm."
"But the farm is her father's, and will descend to her brother, won't it?" asked Andrew in surprise. "Did you not tell me she had a brother who was expected home?"
"Yes, my foster-brother, David. You will like him, I am sure. But he is of the Religion, like his father, and if Lucille should marry a Catholic, * the law would find some way of handing the farm over to him, though David is honest and industrious, and Pierre is a bit of a reprobate. I hope David will come; I should like you to see him."
* I do not like to use Catholic in this sense, but we were in a manner forced to it at that time.—G. C.
"Pierre may be a bit of a reprobate, but he is a good bit of a man as well," said Andrew. "I saw him give that great hulking Antoine Michaud a blow that knocked him flat because he insulted that poor old woman whose grandchildren were taken away from her."
(I forgot to mention that poor old Gran'mère Luchon had been allowed to return to her cottage, being, I suppose, too small game to be worth the bagging, or perhaps with the hope of catching some one else by her means.)
"He knows how to sail a boat, too," continued Andrew. "I went out with him yesterday, and I never saw a boat better handled, though it is a horrid old tub, too. Such a fellow ought to be a soldier or sailor. Many a man has made a good record on shipboard who would never do anything for himself."
"I hope he will be good to poor Isabeau," said I. "But come, Andrew, we must go home."
We had been sitting all this time on the top of the rock, in the very place where Lucille had cleared a spot for her spindle. As we rose, we both cast a glance over the landscape.
"There is going to be a storm," said I. "See how the sea-birds are all flying to shore, and how the fog is beginning to creep in from the sea. I am glad I am not going to cross the Grèves this day. Some one is sure to go astray and be lost."
"Drowned by the tide?" asked Andrew.
"Yes, or more likely sucked under by the quicksands, which extend themselves very much at times. There is hardly ever a great pilgrimage but some one is lost. Come, we must be going. My mother will wonder where we are."
The storm I had predicted came on later in the day, just in time to catch many of the returning pilgrims, and several were drowned, among them, as we heard, the poor little Luchon and the nun who had her in charge.
"One cannot be sorry for the child," remarked my father when he heard the news. "She has escaped a great deal."
"Nor for her companion either, if there be any truth in looks," said Andrew. "I never saw a sadder, more hopeless face. Did you not notice it, Vevette?"
"I did," I answered. "I noticed, too, that she looked compassionately on the poor child, and did not try to force her to tell her beads, like some of the others."
"This storm is an unlucky thing for us," said my mother. "I can see well how it will be used to excite the people more and more against us. Armand, when shall we leave this place, and put our children and ourselves in safety?"
"As soon as Mrs. Grace is able to travel," answered my father. "We could not leave her behind, or take her with us at present. I trust another month will see us in England. I would not leave my people so long as my presence was any protection to them, but I think, as things are now, they would be better without me."
"Could not your brother in Paris secure you a protection from the king?" asked Andrew. "He seems to be a great courtier, and greatly in favor."
"So great a courtier that he would not risk a frown from the king to save my whole family from destruction," answered my father dryly.
"No, there is nothing to hope and everything to fear from attracting the notice of any one about the king. I have looked the matter all over, and tried to gain every light on the subject that I was able," continued my father gravely; "I have also asked counsel of such of our pastors as I have been able to meet with, and my mind is made up. So soon as Grace is able to travel we must endeavor to escape. So, my wife and daughter, you must pack up your valuables and necessaries in the smallest possible compass, and keep the bundles where you can lay your hands upon them at any moment."
"But mind, the necessaries must be reduced to the lowest point," he added, with that sorrowful smile I had learned to know so well. "Vevette cannot carry her story books nor her carved wheel, nor madame her rose-bushes or her poultry, or Mrs. Grace her precious marmalade. A very few clothes and the jewels and a little money are all we can take with us."
These words fell coldly upon my ear and heart. I was familiar enough with the idea of flight, but I had not realized that flight meant leaving behind all my most cherished possessions—my beloved books, my lute, my pet cows, all that I treasured most. I went up to my pretty little room, and, sitting down, I wept as if my heart would break for a while. Then I knelt down and prayed, with all sincerity and earnestness, that I might have grace cheerfully to abandon all I had, yea and mine own life also, if need be, for the kingdom of heaven's sake.
And after a while, feeling comforted and strengthened, I arose and began looking over my possessions, to see what should be taken and what left. I do not think that in this I was foolish or even childish. It is not seldom that very little things bring home to us the bitterness of grief. I have seen a lady who was perfectly cool, collected, and sweet-tempered through all the dangers of a terrible storm and shipwreck and the miseries of dreadful sea-sickness, protracted for weeks, break down in an agony of grief because the little dog she had brought from France was swept overboard from the wreck an which she might herself go down at any moment.
But poor Mrs. Grace was destined to take a longer journey than that we proposed, and to find a refuge where neither danger nor home-sickness can enter—where the wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at rest. She had been for several weeks confined to her bed.
One day my father and mother, Andrew and myself set out for a long walk over the domain. It was rather a silent and sorrowful expedition, for, though no one said so, we all felt that it might be a last farewell. We called at Simon Sablot's farm, and any father confided to Simon certain weighty deposits and an important secret concerning his own affairs, and told him where certain valuable packages would be found in case he should be obliged to send for them.
I should say that for several nights my father and Andrew had been busily occupied in conveying to places of safety so much of our stock of plate as could be removed without suspicion. This was the more easy because we used very little silver every day, the rest being secured in a strong closet which opened from my father's room. We went through the orchards and the little vineyard, visited the old people at the lonely grange, walked through the chestnut wood and filled our pockets with the nuts, which were just ripening and falling.*
* The fine chestnut-tree at the south end of the house is from one of these nuts. I trust no one will over cut it down.—G. C.
"There is a fine harvest of chestnuts at least," said my mother, sighing. "I hope some one will be the better for them."
My father pressed the hand that lay on his arm, but he could not trust himself to speak. The moment was an unspeakably bitter one to him. He had taken great pains with his estate, and had laid out much money in improvements, not only for his own profit but still more for the good of his tenants. Every field and tree and vine, yea, every bush and stone, was dear to his heart, and though he did not hesitate—no, not for a moment, when he had to choose between these things and the kingdom of heaven—yet he could not but feel the wrench when he had to tear himself away from them. I sometimes fear, in these days when the church and the world are so mixed together that it is rather hard to see any division line between them, that people will utterly lose the meaning of such places of Scripture as the tenth chapter of St. Matthew.
We had not reached the tower when Julienne came running to meet us, her face as pale as her cap.
"Thank Heaven, you are come, madame!" said she breathlessly. "I have sent everywhere for you. Mamselle Grace has had a swoon, and we cannot bring her to herself."
"A swoon? How was that?" asked my mother, as we all quickened our steps. "I thought she was feeling very well this morning."
"She was, madame; but you were no sooner out of the house than she would make me help her up and dress her, and she has been up ever since. She would even walk into your room, leaning on my arm, and sat there while I dusted the furniture, though I had dusted it all not more than an hour before," said Julienne, in an aggrieved voice. "Then she would have her work-basket and darn a cambric ruffle of monsieur's, and all I could say she would not lie down. I assure madame that I did my best to persuade her."
"I doubt it not, my good Julienne; but what then?"
"Then, just as the bell rang for noon, she said she felt tired, and would lie down. I called Marie and Annette, for I saw she looked dreadfully ill; but we had not got her on the bed before she fainted, and we cannot get a sign of life from her any more than if she were dead. So I sent for madame."
We had reached the tower by that time, and any mother run up-stairs to Mrs. Grace's room, closely followed by myself. Though I had never, to my knowledge, seen death before, I knew, the moment I set eyes upon Grace, what had happened. People talk of death and sleep being alike, but I can never see the resemblance. We tried a long time and in every way to bring back animation, but it was of no use, and we soon came to perceive that our good faithful friend had left us forever.
I cannot describe my mother's grief on the occasion. Grace had been her own personal attendant ever since she could remember. She had been taken into my grandmother's nursery a little maid of nine years old, and had been specially assigned to my mother. She had followed her mistress to a strange land, had been with her through all her ill-health and the loss of her many children, had been nurse, friend, companion, and servant, all in one. I loved Grace dearly, lamented her deeply; but the event was not to me what it was to my mother.
However, she was gone, and there was an end. The servants wept, too, as they prepared her body for the grave. They forgot all the scoldings she had given them, and only remembered how she had nursed them in sickness, and the numberless kindnesses she had shown them and their friends at home.
"I was vexed enough at her this morning," sobbed Julienne, who, as a bit of a slattern, and especially as being guilty of the crowning enormity of having a sweetheart, most frequently fell under the displeasure of Mrs. Grace; "but I am sure I would dust all the furniture of the house thrice over if it would do her any good."
"And what will madame do without her?" asked Marie. "Nobody can know her ways like Mamselle Grace, though there are perhaps others who can govern the household as well, or even better. I always thought she was very wasteful of sugar and honey in preserving the fruits."
"Yes, you would like them as sour as last year's cider," retorted Julienne. "Mamselle Grace was not a skinflint, whatever else she was."
"What will you do about the funeral?" asked Andrew of my father. "Shall you send to Granville or Avranches for an undertaker?"
"No indeed!" answered my father. "I have given special orders to the servants not to say a word about poor Grace's death. It would be sure to bring down upon us a visitation. Mathew is making her a coffin now, and we must place the body in the vault beneath the chapel, as soon as may be—this very night, if possible. There she may perhaps rest in peace. I would not, if I could help it, have my poor old friend's body thrown out into a ditch like a dead dog."
"They would not dare to do it," said Andrew, aghast.
"They would be sure to do it," was my father's answer. "Things have not improved since the Duke of Guise kicked the dead face of brave old Coligny. If it were only the dead who were warred upon, it would not be so much matter."
"And yet somehow an insult to the dead seems baser and more cowardly than one offered to the living," said Andrew thoughtfully. "Many a rude fellow who would knock a man down as soon as look at him, as we say, would be horrified at any rough treatment of a corpse. Why is it?"
"Partly, perhaps, from superstition, but more from an idea that the dead are helpless to defend themselves," answered my father. "If a man have any manhood in him, his heart will be touched by the plea of helplessness. It is only when men are turned into demons by war or cruelty or lust that they will disregard the plea of helplessness."
That very night at midnight, the corpse of our good old friend was conveyed down to the vault, beneath the ruined chapel, and built into one of the niches of the wall with some of the rough stones which lay loose about the floor. I had never been in the vault before, and my father cautioned me to beware how I stepped. The floor was of the natural rock, rough and uneven, and in some places were deep cracks from which issued a solemn roaring sound, now loud, now faint and almost dying away. By one of the niches I have mentioned which surrounded the vault, and which were like small chambers hewn in the rock, was placed a little pile of building materials. In this chamber was placed the body of our good old friend.
My father read from my mother's prayer-book the funeral service of the Church of England, so solemn, touching, and comforting. Then the vault was built up with stones taken from the floor, and carefully daubed with mould and slime, to look as much like the rest of the wall as possible. It was a dreary funeral enough, but not so sad as was many another in these sad days, when many a dutiful child had to look on and see the body of a father or mother dragged away on a hurdle and cast into a bog or buried in a dunghill.
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FLIGHT.
THE next day my father took Andrew and myself once more into the vault—this time by the secret passage which led from the pastor's room in the tower. We had a lantern with us, which we lighted as soon as we had shut ourselves in, for the lower passage and the staircase were quite dark.
"I made a discovery in this place some years since, which I think may be of great service to us, if worse comes to worst," said my father. "There used to be a legend to the effect that a great cavern existed under this vault which had an outlet to the sea-shore, and to which there was formerly an entrance from this place. It was said that this entrance had been built up on account of some dreadful crime committed in the cavern. However that may be, in trying when a young man, to satisfy my curiosity upon the subject, I found an underground passage leading from hence to the little ruined tower in the orchard, which you were teaching Vevette to sketch the other day."
"How curious!" said Andrew. "What could it have been used for?"
"Probably for a sally-port in the days when the house was fortified. Such underground ways are not uncommon in old buildings. It may serve us a good turn upon a pinch; but you must help me to open it, and you, Vevette, must hold the light. I built it up myself with the hewn stones which seem to have been left here from ancient times, perhaps from the time that the entrance was closed to the cavern below. No one knows the secret but old Sablot, who died the other day, and who assisted me in the work. So as there is no one else about the place whom I dare trust, I must even ask you, my fair son, to turn laborer for once, and help me with these same stones."
"I want no better fun," said Andrew, pulling off his coat at once. "I have been suffering for some hard work ever since I came here."
"Is that the reason you go out so often with Pierre Le Febre in his new boat?" I asked.
For my father, seeing that Pierre was really making a great struggle to do well, had given him a fine new fishing-boat, to be paid for in very small instalments, as he could afford, and the poor fellow and his wife were very grateful.
"Partly for that reason, and partly because I am interested in the man himself," answered Andrew. "He is one who, under good teaching, would have made a brave seaman. If I read him aright, he is one of those people who need grand motives—more than the mere living and working from day to day, and I have been trying in my stupid way to set before him something of the sort. He was as much astonished when I told him that God was his Father, and was pleased when he did well and grieved when he did ill, as if he had been brought up among the heathen I have seen in the Indian seas. But I beg your pardon, sir; I did not mean to preach."
And Andrew caught himself up and blushed like a girl, for, like other young men, he was dreadfully ashamed of having any one think he was trying to be good.
"I do not see why you should beg my pardon, dear son," said my father, with a smile—that sweet, sudden smile which does so light up a usually grave face, and which I see again sometimes on my sober little Armand. "Surely it is a blessed work, and one which God will own. But I must warn you that it is not without danger. You may be accused proselyting, which is one of our deadliest sins in the eyes of our enemies."
"Well," said Andrew, with a great sigh, "I think I shall appreciate it, if I reach a land where a man may open his mouth. Why should you delay any longer? Why not fly to-night?"
"Because my arrangements are not yet complete," said my father.
"If you wait till everything is ready, you will never go at all," said Andrew.
"That is true; but there are certain things yet to be arranged concerning those who stay behind. I must see our friends at Avranches, and leave with them some means of raising funds to help themselves withal. To-morrow I shall go thither, and the day after I hope to go—but why should I say hope?" he murmured, in the sad voice I knew so well. "Weep not for the dead, neither bemoan him, but weep, son, for him that goeth away, for he shall return no more, nor see his native country."
"If my native country was such a step-dame as this, I don't think I should bemoan it very much," muttered Andrew between his teeth.
"Don't the people who have gone away and settled in America long to see England again?" I asked.
"No, I don't believe they do," he said. "They are as self-satisfied as any people I ever saw. And yet I don't know," he added. "The names they give their children are very touching, especially those on the stones in their burying-ground."
"What names?" I asked.
"Such names as 'Hopestill,' 'Waitstill,' 'Submit,' 'Resignation,' and the like. I read one epitaph over a little baby girl which runs thus:
"'Submit submitted to her Heavenly King,Being a flower of that Eternal Spring!Near three years old, she died, in Heaven to wait;The year was sixteen hundred forty-eight.'
"Not the best of poetry, you will say, but very affecting to my mind."
"Come, come, son," said my father; "we did not come into this mouldy old hole to repeat verses. Let us set to work."
Andrew blushed again, and at once bent himself to the task of removing the heavy stones. This was hard work, especially as it was necessary to make as little noise about it as possible. But it was accomplished at last, and the arched entrance of the passage made practicable. More my father did not care to do.
"Now for the other end," said my father. "Vevette, are you afraid?"
"No indeed!" said I indignantly.
"Vevette is a real Corbet woman!" said Andrew. "She is afraid of nothing."
"Except of being laughed at," returned my father. "Come, then, give me the light. I will go first, and do you young ones follow, carefully, and looking to your steps."
I was about to speak, but my father put his finger upon his lip.
"We will not talk," whispered he; "we are now outside the bounds of the vault, and may be overheard."
Accordingly we proceeded in silence for some hundred yards, sometimes able to walk upright, sometimes bending almost double, as the walls and roof contracted, till our further passage was barred by a heap of large stones. These, however, being loosely piled, were easily removed, and we found ourselves in a cellar-like vault, in which were piled up old cider-casks. (All such places in that part of Normandy always are full of useless old casks, though what they are kept for I cannot say.)
From this vault a ruined but passable staircase led up to the level of the ground. I shall never forget how beautiful everything looked to me as we emerged from the deeps of the earth and saw the whole landscape bathed in the mild autumnal sunshine. My heart bounded for a moment and then sank as in a deep of cold, bitter waves, when I thought how soon I must leave all this beauty, never, never to see it again. English people sometimes fancy that French people do not care for their homes because they have no one word which answers to the English one. It is just one of those pieces of insular pride and—I was going to say stupidity—which always enrage me, though I am half an English woman by birth and wholly one by adoption.
"Ah, fair France!" said my father mournfully. "Thou that killest the prophets and stonest them that are sent unto thee. Surely the day will come when thou shalt desire to see one of the days of the Son of Man, and shall not see it. Thou hast condemned and killed the just, and he doth not resist thee!"
"And that is where the just is not of my mind," muttered Andrew between his teeth. "If he were, he would have one fight for it."
My father did not hear, but I did, and gave Andrew a look, partly of approbation, partly of warning. I felt as he did. If we could only have fought for our lives, I should not have minded it so much.
We returned by the fields, after my father and Andrew had shut up the entrance to the passage with the loose stones in such a manner that they could easily be removed. As to the other end, we were not afraid to leave it open, since not one of our farm or house servants would have descended into the vault for any consideration. We found my mother anxiously expecting us.
"You are gone a long time," said she. "Here is a strange visitor—no less than a Capuchin friar—who says he used to know you, and desires much to see you."
"A friar!" said my father, turning pale. "What can he want? Where is he?"
"Eating and drinking in the dining-room at this moment, if he is not asleep in his chair," answered my mother. "I could do no less than offer him hospitality, especially as he asked no impertinent questions, and had nothing to say about religious matters. He seems a harmless old soul enough."
"Many of them are, I believe, while others are wolves in sheep's clothing," said my father; "but I shall soon see to which class our friend belongs."
My father went to the dining-room, where he shut himself in with his guest and remained a long time, apparently in earnest conversation. Finally, however, we saw him accompany the friar to the gate and take a friendly leave of him.
"Well, what had your ghostly father to say?" asked my mother when my father returned to us.
"Nothing more than I knew already," replied my father. "Did you not know him? It was my old playmate and companion in arms, Louis de Reviere."
"I thought there was something familiar in his face and voice," said my mother. "But what brought him here, and in that dress?"
"He has taken the tonsure, and is now a Franciscan," answered my father. "He had always rather a turn for a religious life, as they call it. As to his errand, he came ostensibly to convert me—really to warn us of danger, and beg us to fly. He says that a company of dragoons will be at Avranches next week. Ah, my poor people!"
"Do not give way, my Armand," said my mother tenderly. "But now, tell us clearly, what is your plan?"
"To set forth by night and travel to Honfleur by the most retired roads, disguised in the peasant dresses I bade you prepare. You and Vevette will ride the donkeys. Andrew and myself will walk beside you. We will also have another beast laden with poor Grace's dried fruits and confections which we are carrying to Honfleur to sell. Once there we shall find English ships, and, I trust, have no difficulty in making our way. Simon Sablot is in the secret, and will have the animals all ready."
"And when shall we set out?" I asked anxiously.
"To-morrow night, my little one. I must go once more to Avranches to bestow in safety the money belonging to our consistory, which thou knowest is in my hands."
"Could not Simon take the money to Avranches?" asked my mother.
"And thus run the risk while I was escaping? Nay, my Margaret, that is not spoken like thyself. But, in truth, my risk would be much less than his. Thou knowest I have made many errands thither of late, concerning the houses which are being repaired in the market-place. No one will think it at all strange."
My mother shook her head, but both she and I knew that, once my father's mind was made up on a point of duty, there was no more to be said.
The day passed quietly and sadly enough, for we all felt it was probably the last day we should spend in the dear old house. Our preparations were all completed, even to filling the panniers of the spare donkey with the dried fruits and other matters which were to form our ostensible errand to Honfleur. As my father said, he had laid by a considerable amount of wealth in diamonds and other jewels, which, being of small bulk, could be easily concealed about our persons. We had also about three hundred Louis in gold, which was divided between us. We dared take but very few clothes, and as for books or any treasures of that sort, they were of course quite out of the question.
I think none of us slept that night. I am sure I did not. It seemed to me as if I could not endure to lose sight for a moment of the things and places I was so soon to leave forever. At daylight my father called us all together, and for the last time we joined in prayer about that family altar which was so soon to be laid in ruins, never to be builded in that place again.
But why should I say so? Never is a long day. Perhaps some time, in the councils of heaven, that altar may be once more erected.
We took our breakfast together very silently, and then my father kissed us all and mounted his horse to go to Avranches, taking Andrew with him. My mother called all the servants and paid them their wages, with a little present into the bargain. I believe the good souls had an idea of what was going to happen, though none of them said a word. It was a weary day, for we had done everything we could think of by way of precaution, and the time hung heavy on our hands. My father was to have returned by three o'clock, but the hour struck and he did not come. Alas, never again!
I had gone down to the gate for the tenth time to look for them, when, as I opened the little wicket, I met Pierre Le Febre face to face.
"Thank the holy archangel," said he breathlessly. "I was wondering how I should get speech of you, mademoiselle. But let me come in, for I have somewhat to say."
I let him into the courtyard, and called my mother to hear Pierre's tale.
"I was standing by the great gate of the hospital, as they call it," said he. "I had sold my fish to the Sisters, and was waiting for my money when the wicket suddenly opened and Lucille Sablot looked out. Ah, madame, how changed! But, as I said, she looked out, and, seeing no one, she put this little packet into any hand."
"'Quick, Pierre, if ever you cared for me,' said she. 'This for Mamselle Vevette, and make haste. Life and death are in thy steps. Tell Vevette I dared not write, but she will know what this means by the English name.' Then she drew in her head, and I heard some one scolding her within for looking out of bounds."
Breathlessly I opened the paper. There was nothing in it but a grosse mouche, what in English we call a bluebottle.
"A fly," said I. "Fly! That is what it means, maman. Lucille has sent us a warning. She knows of some danger that threatens us immediately. What shall we do?"
"Oh, if your father were but here!" said my mother, wringing her hands convulsively.
"There he comes," said I, and at that moment appeared, not my father, but Andrew, riding across the fields at break-neck speed, his horse covered with foam. He sprang to the ground, flinging his reins loose anyhow.
"Armand! My husband!" said my mother. "Where is he?"
"To the tower first, aunt, then I will tell you all. Pierre, if ever he or I did you a good turn, do me one now!" said Andrew sharply. "I do not ask you to risk yourself, but let me have your boat. The wind is fair. We must run for Jersey as soon as it is a little later. Go, and get it ready."
"My boat does not go without me, monsieur," said Pierre. "I can bring it back, and if I am out two or three days I am kept by the wind. You can never manage it alone; you do not know the channels, and I do."
"As you will; but have it ready by ten this night. It will be very dark, but so much the better. Run, now. Come, aunt, for Heaven's sake, for your child's sake."
For maman stood like a marble statue.
"I will not move till you tell me news of Armand," said she.
"He is with God," answered Andrew, with a convulsed face. "His last words were, 'Tell Margaret to escape, for my sake, and the child's. We shall meet again.'"
"True, we shall meet again. It is but a short parting," said my mother musingly.
Then, as Andrew stamped his foot with impatience, she seemed to rouse herself.
"I am ready, my dear son. What shall we do?"
"Go, you and Vevette, and put on your peasant dresses, and secure the money and jewels, while I warn the servants. I want them to find an empty nest. Stay in your room till I come."
We obeyed at once. My mother was pale as ashes, but calm, and even cheerful. As to myself. I believe I retained only one rational thought at that moment—to do as I was bid. We changed our dresses and made our other arrangements with the speed of thought, but we had hardly finished before the noise of voices and clapping of doors told that the alarm had been given. In another moment Andrew appeared.
"I have told them that the mob are coming, and that their ladies have already escaped. I have bid them take to the woods for the night. Come, now! Leave everything in all the confusion possible to look like a hasty flight. It will all the better throw them off the scent."
We entered the secret passage, and closing it securely after us we sought the upper floor of the tower—not, however, the uppermost one, but the second.
"Do you know the way, Andrew?" I asked. "My father said these floors were not safe."
"They are safe enough for us, but our enemies will not find them very safe," was Andrew's response. "Step lightly, and follow me exactly."
We went around the side of the room to a cupboard with shelves, masking a door so entirely that no one would have known it was there. This door opened into a second and much smaller room, which again opened upon the staircase up which I had led the preacher.
"We can take breath now," said he. "We need not seek the vaults till we hear them approaching, and not then unless they come into this tower."
"They will come," said I. "Remember the staircase from the gallery."
"Let them," was Andrew's grim reply. "There are a few secrets about this place which even you do not know, Vevette."
As he spoke he stooped down, drew out two large iron bolts and laid them on the floor.
"The trap is set and baited," said he; "now let the rats walk in whenever they please."
"But how—how was it," I asked in a whisper, for my mother never said a word. The fact that my father was dead seemed enough for her.
"We had hardly reached Avranches when we heard the uproar in the market-place," returned Andrew. "At first we did not think of the cause, but as soon as we caught sight of the place we saw what was going on. They were pulling down the houses of the Protestants, and dragging out the women and the little children."
Andrew shuddered and covered his face. "I saw one man in a friar's gown take two little baby girls in his arms and try to carry them out of the press, but they were torn from him. Then they caught sight of us, and one cried out, 'There is the arch heretic. There is the man who shelters the preachers.' And a volley of stones flew about our ears. We turned to fly, as there was clearly nothing else to be done, but a man named Michaud—I don't know whether you know him—"
"My father saved him from the galleys," said I.
"Well, he raised his arquebus and deliberately fired at my uncle, wounding him in the breast. He did not fall nor lose his presence of mind, and by lanes and by-ways we gained the wood. Then he sank to the ground, and I saw that he was dying.
"'Lose no time with me,' said he faintly. 'Hasten home at once. Did we not hear them cry, "To the tower!" Remember the secret passage. Hide as long as you can, if you cannot get away. Go not by the road, but across the heath. Why do you stay?'
"But I did not leave him till he had breathed his last. Then I drew his body aside into the bushes, and hastened hither."
"And do you think they will come?" I asked, as soon as I could speak.
"I most surely do," he answered. "The hope of plunder would bring the rascals, of whom there are abundance. The priest sets on the zealots and others join because they are afraid of being suspected of favoring the cause."
We sat in silence for what seemed a very long time, till the great clock struck eight. At that very moment we heard a shout and the trampling of many feet, while a strong glare shone through the little grated casement of the room.
"There they are," said Andrew, stepping to the window. I followed him and looked out. On they came, a mob of ruffians and abandoned women, with many, too, of whom I should have hoped better things. Heading the press was one of the curés of Avranches, a man whose openly dissolute life was a scandal to his own people. There were also two or three friars, among them the one who had visited us the day before.
"Ah, the traitor!" said I. "My father's old companion in arms, and but yesterday eating his bread."
"I believe you do him injustice," said my mother, in as calm a tone as if she were speaking of the most ordinary matter. "He has come in the hope of rendering us some service. Poor, miserable, deluded people!"
"I would I had some charges of grapeshot for these poor people," said Andrew. "They would go farther to dispel their illusions than a deal of reasoning. Anything but hiding like rats in a hole. But we have no choice. Not a word or sound, for your lives. But what is here?"
It was something which in my excited state almost sent are off into a hysterical laugh—namely, my great, long-haired, white cat Blanchon, which had followed us into the tower, and now mounted upon the window-seat was growling savagely at the intruders. He was an odd creature, very fond of his friends, but formidable to his enemies, and he had this peculiarity, that he never mewed. A strange yell, which sounded like that of a human being in the wildest rage, when he flew upon his enemies, and a loud purr were all the noises he ever made.
"Let him be. He will do no harm," said I. "He never makes any noise. What shall we do now?" as the mob made their onslaught on the gates with a savage yell which made me shudder.
"Keep quiet," was the reply. "We are safe enough unless they set fire to the tower."
In another moment the gate yielded, and the people poured in. Before one could speak they were all over the house, calling to each other and venting their rage at finding no one by breaking and destroying all before them.
"To the old tower, comrades!" finally cried a voice. "There is the hiding-place."
I suppose numbers gave the people courage, for I am certain not one of them would have dared invade the domain of the white chevalier alone. We heard the rush up the stairs and then the battering down of the door. Then there was a short pause.
"Come on," cried the same voice, which I now recognized as that of Michaud, our old gamekeeper, whom my father had saved only to be murdered by him. "Come on. Who cares for ghost or devil?"
There was a rush into the room, then a cry from those nearest the door.
"Take care! The floor!"
But it was too late. The loosened boards gave way, and down went a dozen men, Michaud among them, through a yawning gulf clear to the ground floor.
"Back! Back! The tower is falling!" was the cry, while the shrieks of the men below added to the confusion. The tower was at once deserted, and we presently heard sounds which told us that the fallen men were being rescued from amid the ruins of the floor.
"To the cellars!" cried now the voice of Pierre Le Febre. "Let us taste the old chevalier's wine and brandy."
"Good, Pierre!" said Andrew. "Once let them get among the casks and bottles, and we are safe."
"If Pierre does not get among them himself," said I.
"I do not believe he will, and in any case we have the boat. But it is time we were stirring. Aunt, can you walk?"
"Oh, yes! I can do anything you wish," answered my mother, in the same calm way. She seemed to have all her wits about her, but she did not speak unless we spoke to her.
"Come, then," and he opened the door of the secret passage into which pussy led the way, majestically waving his tail and looking back as if to say, "Come on, and fear nothing! You are under my protection."
I remember smiling, in all my grief and anxiety, at his air of patronage.
I went first, after I had lighted the lantern, then came my mother, and lastly Andrew.
We heard only distant and muffled sounds, and judged that the people were busied in the cellar, where was stored not only wine and liquor, but abundance of old cider, strong as brandy itself.
We had just reached the level of the chapel and were about passing the door which led into it, when Blanchon the cat stopped, growling fiercely. In another moment a light shone through the opened door. The next Blanchon sprang forward with his wild, unearthly yell of onset, and flung himself into the face of a man who had just put his head through the opening. There was a scream of quite another character, and the man fled stumbling and falling on his way out, while Blanchon came back to us with the loud purr, which was his way of expressing complacency.
"Good cat," said Andrew. "That man won't find his way back in a hurry, but some one else may. Hold up the light, Vevette."
I held up the light while Andrew pulled to the door and with a stone smashed the spring-lock.
"Nobody will open that, even if any one dares try," said he. "Now for all the haste we can make."
I caught up Blanchon and carried him, to which he made no objection. We were soon in the open air, and walking quickly down the course of the stream which had scooped out the valley, we found ourselves in the little hamlet. It seemed to be deserted. Not a man was to be seen, nor a light, save in Isabeau's cottage. The night had grown wild and stormy, but it was not very dark. And we could see the mast of the boat, which lay at the end of the little pier.
"Now if Pierre has been true," said Andrew, and at that moment we heard his voice.
"Monsieur and madame, is that you! All is ready; but we shall have a wild night."
"Never mind, so long as the wind is fair," returned Andrew, in the same whisper. "I would rather face the sea than the devils we have left behind."
We were assisted into the boat. I holding fast to my cat, and set sail. I can give little account of the voyage. I know it was a rough and tempestuous one, and that we were many times in the greatest danger from the rocks and counter currents which make navigation in those parts so difficult.
Andrew had the helm most of the time, while Pierre, whose smuggling and other lawless exploits had made him well acquainted with the channel, directed our course. My mother sat quite still under the half-deck of the boat, and I dozed by fits, with Blanchon in my lap, who now and then uttered a peevish growl, as he vainly tried to lick himself dry.
"There comes the morning at last," said Le Febre joyously; "and here is the blessed St. Aubin's bay spread out before us, if we can but get into it. I would we had a better pilot than myself."
"Yonder comes a boat which has been out all night," said Andrew. And he stood up and hailed her in English:
"Boat ahoy!"
"Hilloa!" came back, as the stranger rapidly overhauled us. "Who are you?"
"English," was the answer. "We have ladies on board. Where are you bound?"
"To St. Aubin's," was the reply. "Follow us, and you will do well enough."
"Good!" said Andrew to my mother. "We shall land close at home. And now that we are comparatively safe, tell me, Pierre, did I not hear your voice at the tower last night?"
"You did, monsieur," was the reply. "I had a mind to see what was going on, for I knew I would get back in time, and without being missed. It was I who put the rascals up to break into the cellars. The priest tried to draw them away after him to search the old chapel, but he did not know his men so well as I did. Then, when I saw them well engaged, I took to my heels and reached the pier before you, not having so far to go, or knowing the way better. But where were you when the floors fell? I trembled for you then."
"We were safe enough, and not far off," was the reply. "Was any one much hurt?"
"Yes; Michaud will die, and a good riddance too. There were some broken heads and bones; I don't know how many. But, monsieur, what could have been in the chapel which handled the priest so terribly. I found him in the court blinded in both eyes and his face torn to pieces as by a wild beast, and he said something sprang at him in the old chapel. Could it have been that devil of a white chevalier, think you? Could a ghost handle a man like that?"
"I do not know whether or no ghosts can scratch," answered Andrew gravely; "but the one who attacked the priest has been a passenger with us."
And he raised my cloak and showed Blanchon, who had abandoned the attempt to keep himself dry, and lay a wet and sulky heap in my lap.
Pierre's face fell.
"A white cat," said he. "If I had known we had a white cat on board, I should have given up in despair a dozen times. However, all is well that ends well," he added, brightening up; "and here we come sure enough."
"And yonder is your cousin's house, Vevette," said Andrew, pointing to a comfortable-looking mansion not far-away. "We shall soon be under a roof once more."
The family of the fisherman whose boat had preceded us were gathered at the landing to see us come in, and loud were their exclamations of wonder and pity as my mother and myself were assisted from our cramped position in the bottom of the boat to the landing-place.
By one of the boys Andrew sent a message up to the house, and in what seemed a wonderfully short time we were surrounded and conveyed to the mansion Andrew had pointed out, by a troop of excited boys and girls, under the leadership of an elderly considerate manservant. Here we were warmly welcomed, kissed, fed with hot soup and mulled wine, and finally put to bed in the most fluffy of feather-beds, my mother and myself in adjoining rooms. Maman was still in the same curiously passive state, but not unconscious.
"Go to rest, my Vevette," she said, kissing me as I hung over her. "Have no fears for me. I shall do well. Thank God that you are in safety. Ah, if thy father were but here!" And for the first time, she burst into tears.
"That is well, my love," said my oldest cousin, to whom I looked in anxiety. "These tears will relieve your mother, and she will sleep, and all the better if she knows you are at rest. Go, my child."
I was used to obey, and my kind motherly cousin inspired confidence by her very tone. I undressed, put on the dry warm flannels provided for me, and crept into the bed, on which Blanchon was already established.
Oh, the delicious depths of that English bed! I thought I should lie awake to listen to the sounds from the next room, but I was worn-out, and fell asleep before my head was fairly on the pillow.