image043
image044
THE VOYAGE.
THE day at last came for our embarkation. Our luggage was taken away in the first place, but we were allowed to keep each a basket containing a change of linen and certain other necessaries. Mother St. Stanislaus distributed among us with a lavish hand biscuits, dried fruit, gingerbread, and peppermint comfits, and the good Sister St. Anne smuggled into my own basket a bottle of lavender and a flask of a certain fragrant and spicy cordial which she had a great reputation for making, and which was esteemed a sovereign remedy for indigestion. There was a good deal of indigestion among the nuns of St. Ursula.
Poor dear souls! They were all very good to me, and but for the change in my religious views and the hope I still cherished of meeting Andrew once more, I think I could have made myself very content among them. The mothers kissed me and made me various little presents, some of which I have still, especially a medal containing some hairs of St. Ursula, given me by the Superior. They are coarse hairs, and are just the color of the tail of my chestnut mare. I think she sincerely regretted my departure, but I don't think she was at all sorry to get rid of Mother Mary, who was a religious all through, taking a real delight in all sorts of mortifications, and very ready to impose them on others; besides that, she could not for the life of her help wishing to take the management of matters into her own hands, wherever she was. I know she ached to reform the Ursuline Convent from top to bottom, and it was well for the comfort of those concerned that she had not the power to do so.
We were taken in close carriages from the convent through the city to the place of embarkation. The ship could not be brought alongside the wharf, and we had to embark a few at a time in the little boats. Mother Mary, who had managed several such affairs, sent her two assistant nuns first to receive the passengers as they came, and herself remained on the wharf till the whole company were dispatched. Desirée and I were among the last.
I was burning with impatience, for I saw David in the crowd and close to me, and I longed to slip into his hand a note I had written telling him of the fate of poor Lucille, and begging him to lose no time in escaping to England. At last the chance mine. Poor Louisonne, who was always doing the wrong thing at the wrong time, did the right one for me and slipped into the water. The bustle and alarm—for the poor thing was nearly drowned—drew Mother Mary away for a moment and gave me the desired opportunity. David drew near, and as he brushed by me, I put the note into his hand. Nobody saw me but a good-natured-looking Franciscan, who only smiled and shook his head at me.
At last we were all on board and introduced to the cabin, which was to be our lodging for at least six weeks. Oh, what a hole it was!—dirty, ill-lighted, not half furnished.
Mother Mary was very angry, as I could see by her face; and indeed I heard her remonstrating with the captain very energetically on the subject; but he only shrugged his shoulders and said it was not his fault. He had taken command of the ship only a few days before, and that not by any good-will of his own. He added, however, that now he was appointed to the command, he meant to exercise it, and intimated to Mother Mary very plainly that she had better mind her own business.
She certainly had enough to mind. Half the girls were crying or in hysterics; everything was in confusion. We were dreadfully in the way on deck, but no one could bear the idea of going below. Mother Mary at last restored some sort of quiet, and calling me to help her, with the remark that I seemed to have some spirit and sense, we began to try to put our cabin into better order. It was discouraging work, for everything was wanting for comfort or decency; but we worked hard, and by night we had things in better trim. The girls had had their cry out and felt for the time in good spirits. We did not set sail till about six in the evening, being kept by the state of the tide, but at last we were off.
The land gradually faded from view; we lost sight of the lights in the city, and before bedtime we were out in the open sea, and every soul but myself was overcome with the first depressing feelings of sea-sickness. I had a busy time enough for the next week. Every passenger was sick, including Mother Mary herself, who was one of the worst, though she strove against the weakness with all the force of her strong will. But, in truth, a strong will does little for one when one's heels are one moment higher than one's head, and the next knocked violently on the floor, and every portable article is sliding about trying its best to break everything else.
We had a stormy voyage from the first, though the winds were for the most part favorable, and the passage promised to be short. But it was wretchedly uncomfortable. The ship was ill-found and hardly seaworthy. She was crammed with goods, which were thrust even into our cabin, thus abridging the small room allotted to us. The water was bad, and the sailors stole our wine; our provisions were not fit for well people, not to say invalids, and short as our passage was, we had more than one case of scurvy. Poor Desirée succumbed under her hardships and died when we had been out about three weeks. I had become greatly attached to her, but I could not weep for her death. It seemed a merciful deliverance.
For myself, I was not as unhappy as I should have been if I had not been so busy. The only really well person of the party, I had enough to do in waiting on the sick. I had made friends with the cook, a great good-natured blackamoor, by speaking to him in English, when I found that he understood that language, and I cooked our miserable provisions so as to make them as savory as possible, and now and then secured a bit of something better than usual to tempt the appetite of poor Sister Margaret, who seemed likely enough to die of exhaustion.
Going about as I did, I was often free to take out my little book and study its contents. The more I did so, the more I recalled what I had learned of the other Scriptures, the more I wondered how I could ever have so far departed from the simplicity of the Gospel as to profess the Roman Catholic religion. I never should have done so but for the fact that my belief in all religion had been weakened by intercourse with unbelievers, and my heart corrupted by love of pleasure and of the world. I do not say by any means that this is true of all perverts, but I know it was true of me.
But now arose a grave question, which indeed had troubled me before. I felt that I must confess my faith before men; I could not go on serving God according to the faith of my fathers and worshipping the saints at the same time. I could not believe in and apply to the One Mediator, amid at the same time invoke a hundred others. It may be easy for any one who reads these lines, and who has never been in any danger, to say what my conduct should have been. But for me, in the midst of the conflict, it was not so easy. I well knew what would be my fate, for the Jesuits ruled in Canada, and that with a rod of iron, and I had seen enough of Mother Mary to guess well that she would have no compassion for a heretic.
I thought and prayed and wept, and at last strength seemed to come to me. I had nothing to do just now but to wait on my companions. When the time came for help, I should have help. Sufficient unto the day was the evil thereof.
Help did come, and, as so often happens, through trouble. We had been out five weeks when we were overtaken by a tempest, compared to which all we had suffered before was as a summer breeze. I do not know enough of nautical matters to describe it. I know that for many days neither sun nor stars appeared; that we were tossed up to the skies and then hurled down to the abyss; that we lost sail and masts and were more than once in imminent danger of sinking; and that when the storm subsided at last we drifted in helpless wreck, having lost all our boats, and having our ship so injured that the least increase in the storm might send her to the bottom.
The captain, who had behaved like a hero, was busy in overseeing the construction of rafts. He had ordered us all on deck, sick and well together, in order to give us a last chance, though a slender one. We sat huddled together, some praying, some crying, others too miserable to do either—silent, in hopeless despair. Such was our condition when, happening to look up, I was the very first to descry a sail, and almost at the same moment the shout was raised by half a dozen at once. It was a British ship, and a large one. She was rapidly coming up with us, and our despair was changed into the certainty of succor.
It was a work of some danger to transfer so many helpless women from one ship to the other, but it was accomplished at last, the captain and Mother Mary being the last to leave the poor wreck. Nobody but myself understood English, and I was called upon to interpret. The ship was the Good Hope, trading from Bristol to New England, and now on her way to the town of Boston, from which, according to the reckoning of Captain Mayhew, we were but a short day's sail.
Mother Mary was quite in despair. She offered large rewards to the captain to alter his course and sail for the St. Lawrence, but in vain. The captain said his ship had been damaged, and was in no state for such a voyage; that he was overdue at Boston, and that his wife would be anxious about him. He would engage that Mother Mary and her companions should meet with every civility and accommodation, but to the St. Lawrence, he could not and would not go—"and that was all about it."
There was no opportunity to argue the matter further, for poor Mother Mary was taken very ill once more and had to be carried to the cabin which the sailors had hastily arranged for us. The captain apologized for its narrowness, saying that he had another small cabin which should be ours so soon as its occupant, a gentleman passenger who had been hurt in the storm, should give it up, adding, however, that he hoped to set us all on dry ground before that time to-morrow.
From the moment that I set foot on the deck of the Good Hope my mind was made up. I would tell the captain my story, throw myself on his mercy, and entreat him to rescue me. If he refused to do so I would contrive to effect my escape while we were in Boston. Surely in a town full of Protestants there must be some one who would protect me.
I had very little rest that night, though Mother Mary herself, the sickest of the party, scolded the others for their demands on me, and at last bade me lie down and not mind them. At daylight most of my charges were asleep, and I stole on deck to compose myself and breathe a little fresh air. Lo! There before me lay the land, green and fair, clothed with forest for the most part, but with here and there a clearing. How heavenly it all looked, but I had no time for gazing. There stood the captain, as I thought, with his back to me, looking toward the land. There was no time like the present, and I went quickly up to him.
"Captain Mayhew!" said I.
The stranger turned, and I saw Andrew Corbet. He looked at me with a bewildered, half-recognizing gaze, and the thought darted into my mind that he did not mean to know me. But it was no time for scruples or maiden shyness. The need was too imminent.
"Andrew!" said I. "If ever you loved me or my mother, save me!"
"Vevette!" said Andrew, still wondering. "It is Vevette."
Then catching me in his arms, he left me no doubt of the state of his heart. He never asked me whether I still loved him, and I don't think it ever occurred to him to doubt it.
"Well!" said a voice close by. "I should say, Mr. Corbet, that you had found some one you was kind of glad to see."
"Glad is no word," said Andrew, while I released myself, covered with blushes. "But how came you here?"
In a very few words, I told him of what had happened. Andrew's brow grew dark, and Captain Mayhew expressed the wish that he had that Frenchman on board.
"Will you not contrive to save me?" I said, in conclusion. "I am a Protestant—as much as I ever was. I cannot go to Canada. I only ask a safe asylum. They said I was a French subject because my father was French."
"Plague the French!" said Captain Mayhew. "They shan't keep you. Yes, we'll save you somehow. Never fear. But how?"
He considered a moment, and then his thin, clever face broke into a smile, and he turned to Andrew:
"You say this young lady was promised to you, with the consent of her parents?"
"Yes," answered Andrew. "We might have been married before this but for my own hardness and pig-headed jealousies."
"You were not to blame," said I. "The fault has been all mine."
"Reckon you'll have time to settle that," said the captain. "Well, since all that is so, and you like the young lady and she likes you, why, it appears to me that the best way will be to call the good minister who came over with us, and let him marry you on the spot. Then the lady will be the wife of a British subject, which will make her one herself, I take it; and if old King Lewy don't like it, let him come over himself and see about it."
"It would be much the best way, Vevette," said Andrew, turning to me. "It would give me the right to protect you."
I faltered something, I know not what.
"The long and the short of it is, we will have a wedding on the spot," said the captain. "As to the banns and all that, we can settle it afterward. But we had better be in a hurry, for we are getting into smooth water, and your Mother Mary will be astir presently, making a fuss. Just call Mr. Norton, and tell him to make haste, will you?" he said to the steward. "Or, maybe we had better go into my cabin. Mr. Norton is a regular Church of England minister," he explained to me as he assisted me down the companion-way. "He's going out to see his folks, but he don't calculate to settle."
A few words put Mr. Norton in possession of the story. The first mate was called in as an additional witness, and in half an hour, I returned to the cabin the lawful wife of Andrew Corbet of Tre Madoc.
I had not been away an hour, but how the world was changed to me!
"Where have you been, and what kept you so long?" asked Mother Mary as I brought her some coffee which the steward had provided.
"I have been on deck for air, and the captain kept me to answer some questions," I answered. And then, to hide my confusion, I added, "We are in full sight of land, reverend mother. The captain says we shall be at Boston by afternoon."
"Oh that it were Quebec instead of that heretical Boston!" sighed Mother Mary. "Is the captain quite obdurate still?"
"Yes, reverend mother; but he says he is sure. We shall receive every kindness from the people. Will you try to get up? The ship does not roll much now."
I assisted her, and my companions, who were overjoyed when they heard we were in sight of land, though it was a land of heretics. A land of cannibals would have been welcome to the poor souls just then. We were soon all on deck, I keeping by Mother Mary's side as usual, for it had been settled that I should say nothing till the time came for disembarkation.
It came very soon. The anchor rattled down into Boston harbor about three o'clock. We were at once boarded by the harbor-master and another gentleman of goodly presence, who, it seems, was a magistrate. He looked with surprise at the unusual passengers, and Captain Mayhew explained to them the state of the case. The gentleman, who could speak French fluently, turned to Mother Mary, and with much politeness assured her of every consideration. There was a French ship in the bay, which would doubtless take her and her companions to their destination. Meantime a house on shore should be placed at her disposal and furnished with every comfort.
Madame, hearing of the French ship, declined to go on shore, saying that she should prefer going at once to the ship, whereat three or four of the girls burst out crying with disappointment. Mr. Folsom suggested that the ship would not be prepared for our reception, and that at least they must give the captain notice; but Mother Mary was obstinate. She would remain where she was rather than set foot on heretic ground. This, however, was shown to be impossible, and at last she consented to go on shore, provided she could have a house to herself, which Mr. Folsom promised. Then, turning to Andrew, he asked if he were ready to accompany him.
"I am quite ready, if my wife is," replied Andrew, and at a signal from him, I left Mother Mary's side and went to him, placing my arm within his. There was an exclamation of horror from the nuns.
"Vevette, what does this mean?" exclaimed Mother Mary. "Wicked, shameless girl, what are you doing?"
"Good words, madame," said Andrew in French. "This lady was long ago betrothed to me by the consent of all our parents. We have been separated a long time by the force of circumstances; but having come together again, we resolved to put it out of any human power to separate us, and so we were married this morning by the Reverend Mr. Norton, a Church of England minister, who is on board, as Captain Mayhew can certify."
The captain bowed. "Oh, yes, he is a regular minister," said he. "I know him and all his folks. It is all right, Mr. Folsom. Tell the lady so."
The lady was told so, but she refused to listen. With her most majestic air she commanded me to return to her side.
"No, madame," I answered; "I thank you for all your kindness, but my place is with my husband."
"Wretched, deluded child! Know you not that a marriage by a heretic minister is no marriage, and is in itself a crime?"
"In France, madame, no doubt; but we are not in France. This is an English colony, and governed by English laws."
"But a heretic," said Mother Mary; "a blasphemer of our holy religion!"
"A heretic according to your thinking, but no blasphemer, madame," said Andrew. "My wife is herself a Protestant, as her fathers have been before her."
"It is true," said I; "I have been deluded for a time; but I have seen my error. I am of the Reformed, heart and soul; or rather," remembering our old family boast, "I am a Waldensian—of that people who never corrupted the faith, and so needed no reformation."
"And all this time you have been pretending to be a good Catholic," said Mother Mary. "What a wolf in sheep's clothing have I been entertaining among my lambs!"
"No, madame," I answered; "I confess that my judgment was warped for a time by passion and self-interest, and the stress of a great disappointment, and in that frame I made a profession of your religion. But it is long since my faith began to waver, and since I have been on shipboard it hath been confirmed in the old way by thought, prayer, and study of the Word of God. I was no willing emigrant, but was betrayed into my present position by the treachery of those who professed, for motives of gain, to be my friends. I think it neither wrong nor shame to leave that position for the protection of the man to whom my father himself gave me."
Mother Mary was about to reply, when, glancing around, she saw all the girls listening with open mouth and exchanging significant glances with one another. So she cut the matter short.
"It is well," said she; "I wash my hands of you. Child of wicked parents, you have followed in their steps! Go, then, with your paramour, and remember that the vengeance of Heaven dogs your steps! As to me and mine, we will not set foot on this wicked shore. I demand to be taken to the French ship immediately, without a moment's delay."
"Madame," said Andrew, bowing, "I trust I shall not forget that I am a gentleman, and that I am speaking to a woman who has been kind to my wife, and who is old enough to be my mother."
I saw Mother Mary wince a little at this.
"Come, Vevette, Mr. Folsom's boat waits for us."
I would have taken a kind leave of my companions, but Mother Mary would not allow it, fearing, I suppose, that marriage might be catching. We descended into Mr. Folsom's boat, and were soon at the shore.
We walked up through the green lane—oh, how delicious seemed the firm ground and the grass to my feet!—till we came to Mr. Folsom's house, which was not the rude erection I expected to see, but a handsome square mansion, partly of stone, and with a pretty garden beside it. I am told that Boston hath grown to be quite a fine city. It was even then a pretty town, with neat houses and some good shops and a very decent church, which they called a meeting-house, for the most part. For they say that the name church belongs to the faithful who assemble there, and not to the place. 'Tis a matter of small moment—just one of those inconsequent things which people hold to with the most persistence. In my grandmother's time Archbishop Laud would have deposed a worthy minister because he did not believe in St. George. However, I shall never get to Mr. Folsom's house at this rate.
Mistress Folsom came to the door to meet us, having been advertised by a special messenger. She was a comely lady, richly but plainly dressed in a somewhat bygone fashion. Her two pretty daughters stood behind her, as sweet and prim as two pink daisies. She made me welcome with a motherly kiss, and listened with great amaze and interest while my husband made her acquainted with the outline of our history.
"'Tis like something in a romance," said she. "But you must be very weary, and hungry too. We will have supper ready directly. Sweetheart, would you not like to change your dress?"
I explained to her that I had no changes, all my luggage having been lost in the wreck, except my basket, which Sister St. Stanislaus had given me, and which I had clung to through all. Without more ado, she carried me to a plain but pretty and comfortable chamber, and sent her two daughters hither and thither for clean linen, a gown, and other necessaries. Then they left me to myself; but presently a black wench came up with a great can of hot water and an armful of towels. I do not remember in my life any bodily sensation more delicious than that clean, well-laundered linen.
When I was dressed, I took up a Bible which lay upon my toilette-table and read the one hundred and third Psalm, and then said my prayers, and having thus a little composed myself, I went down-stairs. A most bountiful supper was provided for us, and we sat down, waited upon by a black servant. I had no notion of so much style and ceremony in this remote corner of the world; but I soon found that there were other colonists who kept up much more state than Mr. and Mrs. Folsom.
After supper, Andrew and I were left to ourselves in the parlor, and it may be guessed we did not want subjects for talk. I told him my whole story, concealing nothing.
"You see what sort of wife you have taken in your haste," said I, in conclusion. "All these things are much worse than aiding and abetting poor Betty, even if I had done so, which I never did."
"Ah, Vevette! Don't taunt me with my folly and obstinacy," said Andrew, covering his face. "It was just that which threw you into the hands of your enemies."
"My enemies would have had no power, if I had but kept them at arm's length," said I. "It was not your fault that I did not accept Theo's invitation instead of going with Madame de Fayrolles; but the truth was that, when I heard you were going to be married to the Jamaica lady, I thought only of getting out of England before you came into it."
"So it was that piece of folly that drove you away," said Andrew. "I wish you could see the Jamaica lady, Vevette. She was indeed very kind to me when I lay ill at her father's house; but she is fifty years old at least, and about as handsome as old Deborah. Dear soul! She gave me a string of beautiful pearls for you, and when I heard you were married, I threw them into the sea."
"That was very wasteful; you might have given them to the poor," I returned. "But who told you I was married?"
"Nobody said you were actually married; but when I went to Stanton Court, to obtain news of you on my return, I found my lord fuming over a letter he had just received, saying that you were to be married on the morrow to some Frenchman—I don't remember his name—of great wealth and consequence."
"Monsieur de Luynes," said I. "They did try to make me marry him afterward, but I had not heard of him at that time. He was a good old man, and very kind to me."
"That was the name," continued Andrew. "My lord swore you should not touch a penny till you were twenty-one, whatever happened. But how came you to write yourself that you were going to be married?"
"I did not," I answered.
"It was a forgery then. There was a note in your handwriting, and signed with your name. I thought the hand looked a little Frenchified, but the signature was yours to a hair. Only for that I should have gone to Paris to find you; but I thought if you were well married, and with your own consent, I would not be a makebate between you and your husband. So I even turned the old place over to Margaret and her husband to care for, gathered together my prize-money, and what else I could, and came hither intending to turn settler. I was knocked down and hurt in the storm, which was the reason I did not see you upon your coming aboard. I was thinking on you when you came and spoke to me, and for a moment I thought it was your ghost."
"Ghosts don't come at that time of day," said I. "And so Margaret is married?"
"Yes, and well married as I could desire—to Mr. Treverthy, son of our good old knight. 'Tis an excellent marriage in every way."
"And your mother?"
"My mother lives with Margaret, and so does Rosamond for the present. Betty and her husband are in London, where he had some small office."
Our conversation was interrupted by the return of Mr. Folsom.
"And do you know what has kept me abroad so late?" said he, seeming much amused. "Even taking order for the accommodation of your French madame and her flock of lambs. I have them all safely and comfortably housed in the new tavern, and have sent for a French woman who can speak English to interpret for them."
"What! Did she come on shore after all?" I asked.
"She had no choice. The captain of the French ship positively refused to receive her, till his ship should be made ready for sea. So, as she could not well sleep in an open boat, she was at length prevailed upon to hear reason. I have been half over the town gathering beds and other needful comforts for them, and I have left the poor things at last happy over a hot supper."
"I am glad they are comfortable. They have had a hard time of it. I don't know how they will bear to go to sea again."
image045
image046
CONCLUSION.
THE next day I went with Mrs. Folsom to carry some additional comforts, in the shape of linen and so on, to my old companions. I found them all comfortably housed in a new tavern, which, though not quite finished, was clean and cheerful. Mother Mary would not see us at all, but Sister Margaret came to us, and was very grateful for what we brought.
"Every one has been very good," said she. "I did not know that heretics could be so kind. They used to tell us that the English settlers murdered every Catholic, and especially every nun that fell into their hands; but the people here have treated us like true Christians. They have even sent us an interpreter. They say the French vessel will set sail in about a week. Oh, Vevette, how we shall miss you!"
"Dear sister, I wish I could help take care of you; but you know it is impossible," I said.
"Yes, I know; but—" in a frightened whisper. "Ah, Vevette, take good care of yourself. The mother says the French king will have you back if he goes to war for you."
"I am not alarmed," I answered. "The French king has his hands too full to care or concern himself for such an insignificant person as I am. But who is that?" I added, starting as a plainly dressed woman looked into the room and withdrew again.
"That is our interpreter," answered Sister Margaret. "She is a heretic—more is the pity—but she is very good and useful."
"I beseech you, sister, make some excuse to call her hither," said I, all of a tremble. "I am sure I know her."
The sister called her, and held her a moment in some conversation while I looked at her. No, I was not mistaken.
"Lucille!" said I.
She turned, looked at me a moment with wide eyes of wonder, and then dropped in a dead faint at my feet. I had her in my arms in a moment.
"It is my foster-sister," said I to Mrs. Folsom. "I thought she was dead."
I almost thought so again before we brought her to; but she revived at last, and knew me. Poor thing, she was sadly changed. Her black hair was quite gray, and her face looked fifty years old. She went home with us, and after a while was composed enough to tell us her story. She said she had become horribly sick of the convent life, and having fallen into disgrace with her Superior, she determined to make her escape. For this purpose, she feigned stupidity almost to idiocy, and having thus thrown her watchers off their guard, she made her escape; putting on some clothes she found thrown aside, and disposing of her own garments in the way they were found. She had made her way by one means and another to Dieppe, where she fell in with a captain's wife, who was in sore straits for want of a servant. With her, she took service, and came to the new settlements, where she had lived ever since. With what joy she received the news of her parents' welfare, I leave to be guessed.
I have little more to tell in order to complete this long history. Mother Mary took her departure after a fortnight's delay, during which she received a great deal of kindness from the good people, and had more than one sharp theological duel. She did not, however, carry away all her flock.
Louisonne and two other girls were missing at the hour of departure, and could nowhere be found, and she was forced to embark without them. The next day they crept out of their concealment, a good deal scared and ashamed. They were received with kindness, however, and taken to service in decent families, and all three turned out very well.
The next ship to England carried news of us to our friends, but we ourselves remained in New England. Andrew had a mind to see the country now he had come thither, and he thought, moreover, that it would be as safe for me to remain at a good distance till the storm, if storm there were, should blow over. The tale could not fail to reach the ears of King Louis and his ministers, and as our own King Charles was (I say it to our shame) absolutely under his thumb, we knew not what demands might be made.
So after travelling about a while, we bought a house and farm not very far from Hampton. Here we lived for six years, very happy and content; and here one day I had a great fright.
Sitting in my parlor with my youngest babe in my arms, Lucille, who made it her home with us, came in to tell me that three or four Indians were asking for food. This was no uncommon occurrence, and I bade her supply their wants and set them down to eat; but seeing that she was disturbed (for she had never overcome her fear of the natives) I went to attend to them myself. I have a tolerably quick eye and a quick ear for languages, and I discovered at once that these were none of our ordinary peaceable Neponsets, with whom we were on the best of terms, but strangers.
Moreover, I was sure that one of them was a white man. I supplied them with food, and then, slipping into the next room, where I could see all their faces in a mirror without being myself seen, I saw the supposed white man make the sign of the cross, and in the action, I recognized my old confessor, Father Martien.
My blood ran cold for a moment. It was well-known that the Jesuits of Canada constantly set on their Indian allies to rob, burn, and murder all along our settlements; but it was seldom that they came as far as our place. No doubt these were spies sent out to see the nakedness of the land. Woe to me if I fell into their hands.
I stepped to the door and sent a black boy for my husband, who was not far-away. He came, and I told him my convictions.
"Tut!" said he. "I dare say they are harmless enough."
"Look and listen for yourself," said I.
He did so, and was obliged to confess that there was cause for my alarm. They finished their meal, and went away peaceably enough, but I shall never forget the look Father Martien bestowed on me in parting.
They were no sooner gone, than my husband sent to rouse the neighbors, and the little settlement was put into a state of defence, and we kept a strict watch, which was all we could do that night. The next morning scouts were sent out, and it was found that quite a large war party had been in the neighborhood, but had decamped, probably in consequence of seeing us so well prepared for them. I have heard nothing of Father Martien since, though I am sure I had a glimpse of him once in London.
We remained in New England for six years, and then returned to Cornwall. My husband's mother was growing infirm, and longed to see her son and his children. Mr. Treverthy's brother was dead, and it became needful for him to live upon his own estate. So we sold our farm for a good price, and went back to our old home, a sober married couple with three promising children.
My aunt Amy received me with open arms, and I never had any trouble with her, save to keep her from quite spoiling my children's tempers with indulgence and their digestion with gingerbread.
We had the happiness of restoring Lucille to her parents, who received her like one returned from the grave. David had already settled in Penzance as a carpenter, and taken a modest Cornish maid to wife. He is an old man now, quite rich, and a person of great importance in the town; but wealth has not spoiled him in the least. Lucille hath never married, and still lives with me, a most valued helper and friend. Jeanne and Simon survived to a good old age.
Of poor Betty, as I can say no good, I will say nothing.
My uncle Charles married a rich old woman from the city—a widow—who has led him a sad life, and seems likely to outlive him after all. I saw her once, and thought if there were anything in the doctrine of penance, her husband was in a fair way to expiate all his offences. Her name was Felicia, but the felicity was all in the name. She would neither be happy herself nor let any one else be so, if she could help it.
I never saw Monsieur de Fayrolles again. He perished in a duel, under very disgraceful circumstances, some years after I left him, and there was no one remaining to bear that dishonored name. His wife, after leading life for a time, suddenly turned devotee, retired to a convent, and gave all her jewels to the shrine of Our Lady of something or other—whatever image was most in fashion at the time. I suppose the pearl necklace my lady gave me was among them.
Susanne came to London, set up as a milliner and hair-dresser, and did very well. I never forgot her kindness to me, and was glad to be able to return it.
Lord and Lady Stanton lived to a good old age. Lewis caused them a good deal of uneasiness for a time by running rather wild, and absolutely refusing to marry in his father's life-time. I believe my lord would have been very glad if his son had married his ward when he wished it—not that I ever wanted him. However, Lewis did take a wife at last, and that a wife of the Religion—a pretty, gentle, scared little Provençal—who I fear he will not keep very long.
Theo and her husband have had little trouble except that she has no children. She is a blessing to every one who comes in contact with her, as Mrs. Barnard is the reverse.
Margaret hath at this moment twenty children and grandchildren, and is as proud of the last as if it had been the first.
Rosamond divides her time among us, happy and making happy wherever she goes.
And now I bring this long memoir of my young days to a close. I have written it at the instance of my husband and for the benefit of my children, in accordance with a kind of custom which hath obtained in our family for several generations. As to the moral, if any be needed, it may be read in two or three places of Holy Scripture, which I will copy here.
"A double-minded man is unstable in all his ways."—St. James 1:8."If any man love the world, the love of the Father is not in him."—1 St. John 2:15."Ye cannot serve God and mammon."—St. Matt. 6:24.AGNES GENEVIEVE CORBET née d'ANTIN.
image047
ENDE.
LONDON:JOHN F. SHAW AND CO., PATERNOSTER ROW.
John F. Shaw & Co.'s New Juvenile Publications.
CHAPTERS IN OUR "ISLAND STORY."
BY L. E. GUERNSEY.
THROUGH UNKNOWN WAYS;Or, The Journal Books of Dorothea Trundal. Large Crown 8vo, 5/."A capital tale illustrative of the times of James II."—The Schoolmaster."One of the most pleasant of the series."—Standard."Miss Guernsey deserves the more credit for the decided success which she has attained."—Spectator.OLDHAM; or, Sow beside all Waters.A Quiet Story. Large Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 5/."The doctrinal teaching, warm earnest, and devotional tone of the story, are all we could desire."—Record.LOVEDAY'S HISTORY.A Story of Many Changes. Large Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 5/-."One of the most fascinating stories we have read."—Daily Review.THE FOSTER SISTERS.A Story of the Great Revival. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 5/-."A pretty story of the last century; the style is bright and sparkling."—Athenæum."The story is charmingly told."—Guardian.THE CHEVALIER'S DAUGHTER;Or, An Exile for the Truth. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 5/-."One of those quaint old world stories which the author knows so well how to write."—Leeds Mercury.LADY BETTY'S GOVERNESS;Or, The Corbet Chronicles. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 5/-."An unusually successful attempt to reproduce the manners of the 17th century."—Saturday Review.LADY ROSAMOND'S BOOK;Or, Dawnings of Light. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 5/-."A well-told story, written in quaint old-time style, the plot interesting and well sustained, and the tone good."—Leeds Mercury.WINIFRED.An English Maiden of the Seventeenth Century. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3/6."A truly delightful story, drawn to the life."—Leeds Mercury.
=================
BY REV. ANDREW REED.
EDGAR NELTHORPE;Or, The Fair Maids of Taunton. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6/-."It is very well done, with an earnest, moral purpose."—The Scotsman.ALICE BRIDGE OF NORWICH.A Tale of the Time of Charles I. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6/-."Well adapted to give a clearer perception of a period that has passed away."—English Independent.IDA VANE.A Tale of the Restoration. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6/-."A delightfully written book; there is scarcely a dull page in it."—Scotsman.
LONDON: JOHN F. SHAW AND CO., 48, PATERNOSTER ROW, E. C.