making gross demands of their hostess, and speaking in violent and
insulting language to all three ladies. The frightened servants crowded
together in the background waited for their lady's orders ere
interfering; and she, fearing to speak the word, only sat there rigid
and trembling, whilst ever nearer and nearer came the threatening
soldiers with their evil faces and foul words.
Mary's eyes were blazing. Her whole frame was shaken with a passion of
fury. If they dared to come up the steps and lay hands upon her
mother,--dared to touch one of them,--she drew in her breath, she
clenched her hands till the nails dug into the palms. Her eyes were upon
the foremost man. They had begun to sparkle strangely. Just as he
staggered up the first step she darted forward, stooped quickly, and
drew from its sheath the shining sword he carried. Then, backing a few
steps in front of her mother and sister, she cried in a voice shaken
with passion:
"Dare to come one step nearer, dare to lay hands upon any of us, and
thou shalt see what a maid of Taunton will do!"
What happened in those next few seconds it were hard to say. The girl
stood rigidly before her mother and sister with the keen blade in her
slim hands, pointing it immovable at the drunken soldier still advancing
in menacing fashion. He did not believe in the girl's threat, or in the
strength of those little white hands. He laughed to see her pointing the
sword at him, and words even grosser than anything that had passed
before were hurled at her as he came on with drunken violence and
brutality. Was it the impetus of that lurch forward, or did Mary herself
lunge her weapon at him? Those who looked on could never rightly
determine. Mary herself never could answer the question. But the sword
pointed straight at the man's heart was so firmly held by those girlish
hands, that, as he precipitated himself upon her to break down her
guard, the shining blade ran clean through his body, and he fell pierced
to the heart, a dead corpse at Mary's feet.
Eleanor shrieked, and covered her face with her hands. Lady Bridges fell
back white, and gasping:
"Mary! Mary! What hast thou done? Unhappy child! God be merciful to thee
and to us!"
Mary stood very straight and upright. There was no colour in her face;
yet there was no faltering in her eyes. Soldiers and servants alike
stood still and motionless, too much startled and awed by what had
occurred to move or speak; all eyes being fixed upon the motionless
figure of Mary.
"Take that thing away!" she said at last, pointing with a fierce
repulsion to the dead soldier at her feet. "Take him and begone every
one of you! Is it for girls to teach you the lesson how to be men and
not brutes?"
In absolute silence, and with something like fear in their faces, the
other soldiers, thoroughly sobered, came and carried off the corpse of
their companion, and withdrew from the house. Only one significant word
was spoken by the chief of the band ere he finally withdrew.
"Colonel Kirke will have to hear of this, mistress," he said, addressing
Mary with more of respect in his glance than there had ever been before.
She was standing in precisely the same spot and in the same attitude,
and she merely bent her head very slightly as she heard the words.
"Tell him everything!" she exclaimed suddenly, as the man turned to go.
"Do you think I am afraid?"
He gave her a look of admiration, bowed, and retired. It was then and
only then that her mother and sister broke into lamentation and tears;
and Lady Bridges, holding her to her breast, sobbed in the bitterness of
a mother's anguish.
"Oh, Mary! Mary! What hast thou done? And what can they do to thee? Oh,
that man of iron! that cruel, cruel Kirke! And is it before him thou
must go?"
Mary kissed her mother, and freed herself gently from her embrace; her
nerves were still strung tensely up. She felt no qualm of fear.
"Mother," she said, "there was no one else to defend you and Eleanor.
None else would have dared to lift a hand against a soldier of the
King's. Was I to stand by and see and hear such things? God in heaven
alone knows whether it was my act or his that did him to death. But even
if I did strike him to the heart, is not he a man of blood? And is it
not written that they who take the sword shall perish by the sword?"
"Oh, my child, my child," wept the mother, "God in His mercy grant that
such a fate be not thine own!"
It was two days later when Mary Bridges stood pale and dauntless before
that terrible soldier, Colonel Kirke. Her offence was judged to be a
military one, and she was arraigned before him by court-martial. Lady
Bridges, her self-command and dignity recovered, stood close beside her
daughter; and behind them clustered a number of servants, all ready to
swear upon their Bible oath that Mistress Mary had never lunged at the
soldier by so much as a hair's breadth, but that the man had run upon
the weapon with which she was defending her mother and sister.
But their testimony was not destined to be asked or given. Colonel Kirke
was a man of few words, and of rapid decision. It was seldom that any
case coming before him was granted any space for discussion and
hair-splitting.
His own soldiers told the tale fairly enough, admitting the insult, the
drunken violence of their dead comrade, and the fact that they had no
real right to be in Lady Bridges' house or presence at all. They
described the death in detail; and Mary stood silent listening to all
that passed; but speaking never a word, nor giving one sign of wavering
or of fear.
The Colonel's sombre glance rested again and again upon her face; and,
when the accusation was brought to an end, he asked her to state her
defence.
"I did it," she answered, speaking fearlessly, "I am going to tell you
what your 'Lambs' are like, and you can kill me afterwards in any way
you choose. I am not afraid. Your men are cowards and drunkards. I grant
they can fight; but they are cowards in their cups. They insult women
and girls; they make themselves feared and hated and detested wherever
they go. Men speak of them with execration, and they will go down to
posterity hated and loathed. Mother, don't try and stop me! I will speak
now that I have the chance. Colonel Kirke, have you a mother? Were you
ever asked to stand by and hear her grossly threatened and insulted? If
you had been there, what would you have done? I am not a man, I am only
a weak girl, but I was not going to endure that. I would have killed
every man who had sought to attack her. Whether I killed him by an open
pass at him, or whether he ran upon his own sword, I do not know--I do
not care. I stood there to save my mother and my sister from outrage.
You can condemn me to death for it, if you will. I am not afraid!"
There was deathly silence in the hall for a few seconds after those
words were spoken. Then Colonel Kirke's voice rang out firm and clear:
"Bring me the sword with which this deed was done!"
The sword was brought. The Colonel took it in his hands and looked upon
it. There was the stain of blood upon the shining blade.
Lady Bridges gasped when she saw him turn towards Mary. Was he about to
slay her child before her very eyes?
Straight and tall towered the terrible Colonel before Mary; he then did
a very strange thing--a thing so strange that those who witnessed it
drew their breath in silent amaze. He slightly bent the knee, and placed
the naked sword very gently in Mary's hands.
"Mistress Mary Bridges," he said, in that voice which had caused so many
to tremble, and which had of late given so many fearful orders of
merciless savagery, "this sword is yours. Take it; and take with it the
full acquittal of this court. The act that you have performed is no
crime; it is an honour to the strong young hands that performed it, and
the noble young heart that nerved those hands to the deed. Take this
sword, and keep it; let it be in your family a treasured heirloom. Let
it be handed down to other Mary Bridges yet to come, and with it the
tale of how, in the past, a girl, a daughter, a tender maiden, was found
strong enough to rally to the defence of her mother, whilst craven
hirelings shrank and feared, and coward soldiers looked on and raised no
hand to check the violence of a comrade!"
His fierce eyes swept round the hall, and many shrank before the glance;
then it softened once more, and he looked straight at Lady Bridges.
"Madam, I bid you farewell. Take home your daughter, and be proud of
her. Guard her well; and when the time does come, find her a mate worthy
of herself. Mistress Mary Bridges, I kiss your hand. Fare you well, and
may you be known to posterity when this tale is told, as 'Mary Bridges
of the Sword.'"
THERESA DUROC
The city was ringed about with walls of fire. By night it presented a
terrible aspect to those who could gain a safe vantage ground out of
range of the batteries, and watch for awhile the fearful glare from
them, as the fiery missiles were sent hurtling forth, charged with their
errand of death and destruction. And even if the batteries were silent
there was generally some terrible glow of fire in the sky, for almost
every day a conflagration broke out in some portion of the city, and the
terrified inhabitants never knew from day to day whose turn might not
come next.
Theresa lived with her widowed mother in one of those large houses
common in all great cities, where the poor were herded together at close
quarters, and in days like these had to suffer many privations, as well
as all the nameless terrors which beset men's hearts at such a time.
Some of their neighbours had fled before the encompassing army shut in
the city; but Theresa and her mother remained. For they knew not where
else to go. And if Pierre, away fighting for his country, should be
recalled by the exigencies of war, and the siege should suddenly be
raised by help from without, where would the poor boy find them, if not
in the old home?
"The good God will care for us and protect us, if we trust ourselves to
Him," the Widow Duroc had said; and, whilst others collected their few
possessions and quitted the city, she and her daughter remained in the
almost deserted house.
It was necessary for them to remain, if possible, as it was in the city
that Theresa's work lay. She went daily to one of the shops where fine
starching and ironing was done, and, with the money she earned in this
way, she had kept the little home comfortable for some time. Her mother
was a cripple, and could only do a little needlework when she was able
to procure it. Sometimes Theresa was enabled to bring her home some from
the shop, but for the rest they were dependent upon the earnings of the
girl. If they were to seek to fly the city they had nowhere to go, and
would lose their only means of support. It seemed better to remain and
risk the peril within the walls than fly they knew not where.
And now they were fast shut in, and had grown so well used to the
booming of the guns or the sharp scream of the shell hurtling through
the air, that they spoke and moved in the midst of the tumult as quietly
as they had done before it began. Indeed, sometimes, when for a night,
or for part of a day, the batteries became suddenly silent, the
stillness would seem almost more awful than the roar that had gone
before. It would cause them to awake from sleep with a start, or to stop
suddenly in what they were saying or doing, and always the question
arose in the heart, or to the lips:
"What is it that has happened? Has the city fallen?"
The tall house in which they lived was far more silent and empty now
than it had been before the siege began. The authorities had encouraged
all those who were able, to depart before escape should be impossible.
They foresaw that food was likely to become scarce, and the fewer
useless mouths there were to fill the better for all. But those who had
sons, or husbands, or brothers in the army were suffered to remain, as
were all who could not leave without suffering heavily; and it was known
to Theresa, from what she heard spoken about her, that should famine
threaten, and the city be put upon rations, she and her mother would be
entitled to receive a share, as being among those whose bread-winner was
with the army.
But at first there seemed little fear of this, and Theresa's work went
on as before. The tall house where they lived was not in range of any of
the batteries, and though their hearts were often torn by fear for
others, and by sorrow for their beautiful buildings being so sorely
shattered and ruined, they themselves did not suffer, and they grew
accustomed to the conditions which had seemed at first so strange and
terrible.
But day after day passed by, and the days lengthened into weeks, and
still the hoped-for relief did not come; those within the beleaguered
city only heard whispers from the world without, and knew not what was
passing there.
"If only our Pierre could get a letter to us!" the widow would say,
again and again; "then we should know how it was faring with him and
with the army."
Theresa going daily to her work heard all the flying rumours which
reached the city; but she did not speak of them always to her mother,
for she knew not how much or how little to believe, and she feared
either to buoy her up by false hopes, or to crush her with needless
fears.
Gay Paris is slow to believe in disaster, or to credit that the arms of
France can meet with any severe reverse. Each generation is as full of
hopeful confidence as the one that has gone before, as full of
enthusiasm and patriotic fervour, as little disposed to believe in
misfortune.
"The victorious army will march to our relief!" was the cry that was
always finding expression. "A little more patience--only a little
more!--and these accursed foes will be flying before our brave
_garçons_ of soldiers like chaff before the wind."
And nobody believed this more implicitly than Theresa for a long, long
time. The soldiers would come, and Pierre with them. They would see them
marching in, in all the bravery of their gay trappings. Oh, what a day
that would be! How the bells would ring, and the guns salute, and the
people go mad with joy! She lived through the experience a hundred times
a day as she stood at her ironing-table and worked at her piles of snowy
linen. But the sullen boom of the guns was still the accompaniment of
all her musings. And every week as it passed brought home to her heart
the conviction that things were not going well: that the lines of the
enemy were being drawn ever closer and closer: that there could not be
good news from the outer world, else surely it would be noised abroad
with acclamation.
But soon a trouble was to fall upon her for which she was quite
unprepared. Fires had become sadly common in the city. A glare in the
sky was such an ordinary sight that it scarcely aroused any interest or
speculation, save in the immediate neighbourhood where it occurred.
Soldiers and citizens were always on the alert to put it out wherever a
conflagration occurred, and often the flames were speedily extinguished.
Nevertheless, the number of burnt and uninhabitable houses was becoming
daily larger, and persons were removing their goods and furniture from
those streets where the danger threatened into safer localities; so that
the house where the Durocs lived had already been invaded by various
newcomers, seeking an asylum from the storm of shot and shell.
Theresa, however, knew little or nothing of their new neighbours. She
was busy with her work by day, and her mother did not get about easily
enough to learn much of those who had arrived in this sudden fashion.
They were of the class that, in the English phrase, preferred to "keep
themselves to themselves."
One morning Theresa started forth to her work as usual, and, after
taking the accustomed turnings, found herself in the familiar street.
But once there she stopped short and rubbed her eyes. For what did she
see? The whole side of the street, where her workshop had stood, lay a
mass of smoking ruins; and the people from the opposite houses were
hurrying away, carrying their goods and chattels with them.
The terrible news was passing from mouth to mouth. A new battery had
been opened. A new portion of the city was in peril. People small and
great were hastening away before another fusillade should shatter the
remaining part of the quarter. Theresa stood gazing in great dismay at
what she saw. Where was her occupation now? Where was her kindly
employer whom she had served so long?
Even as she asked herself the question a woman from an adjacent house,
well known to Theresa, came hurrying out, the tears raining down her
face.
"Alas! alas! little one, she is dead--God rest her soul!--buried beneath
the fall of the house in the dead of night! Ah, those accursed Germans!
What have they not to answer for? Our good neighbour Clisson!--so
kindly, so merry, so ready to lend a helping hand. And thou, my poor
child--what wilt thou do? Everything swept away in one night! And who
knows whose turn may come next?"
Theresa was indeed dismayed for herself as well as for others. The
terrible fate of her kind mistress cut her to the heart; but when that
shock had passed by, there came the other thought suggested by the
kindly neighbour. What was to become of her and her mother, now their
only means of support was taken from her?
"Thou wilt have to apply for rations as others do," said her friend,
with a look into the troubled face. "Courage, little one! These black
days cannot last for ever! We shall soon see those _canaille_ of
Prussians flying helter-skelter before our brave _garçons_. The good God
will hear our prayers and will send us succour. It will only be for a
time, and then our beautiful city will be gayer and more beautiful than
ever!"
But Theresa had heard words like these too often to put the old faith
in them. Her heart was heavy as lead within her. She was revolving many
plans by which she might still earn something and support her mother.
But the price of food was rising so fearfully that already she scarcely
knew how to keep the wolf from the door; she knew, too, that her mother
desired, if possible, not to be forced to send for the doled-out rations
from the great Government building; and no one could more desire to be
spared the task of fetching it daily than Theresa herself.
She had heard what that meant from others. The long, long, weary wait in
the daily increasing crowd; the hustling and the jostling before one
could get a place in the _queue_; the bitter cold often to be faced when
the wind blew down upon the crowd; the peril, sometimes, of having the
hardly earned food snatched away in some back street by a hungry
ragamuffin before ever it had reached its destination.
All this Theresa knew that she would have to face if they lost all other
means of support. And, moreover, for her was another great danger: to
reach the quarter of the city where the food was doled out, she would be
forced to cross a wide boulevard that was swept from end to end by the
guns of a battery, and each time that she went she would have to take
her life in her hands, as it were.
"But mother must never know that," she said to herself, as she thought
of these things. "She is fearful enough as it is of having me go about
the streets. She must never know that, else she would not enjoy a
moment's peace. Perhaps the good God will save me from it. Perhaps I
shall get work elsewhere. And if I must go--for mother's sake--I must
pray to Him to keep me safe, as so many are kept who have to go day by
day."
Theresa's search after regular employment was not successful. There was
so little doing in the city now, and, with food at famine prices, all
were saving their money, as far as possible, for the bare necessaries of
life. For a few weeks the girl was able to earn just sufficient to
enable them to keep body and soul together, by jobbing about here and
there, turning her hand to any sort of work so long as she might earn a
trifle by it.
But the day came at last when she could no longer find any one to employ
her. Every one told the same tale--it took all they knew to keep the
wolf from the door. Money was scarce; food was scarcer. Larger crowds
were daily going to the places where the rations were doled out. Theresa
made up her mind as she lay in bed one night, that she must go there,
too, on the morrow.
For several days this conviction had been growing upon her; and her
nights had been restless and broken, partly through anxiety and trouble
of mind, partly because she was really in need of more food, having
pinched herself to supply her mother, professing that she got enough to
eat at the houses where she worked--a profession that was by no means
the literal truth.
"Yes, I will go to-morrow," said Theresa to herself. "It is foolish to
be afraid. Others do it, and so must I; and mother must never, never
know how I dread the thought. I will ask the good God to make me brave."
And having thus made up her mind, Theresa turned over and slept more
soundly and peacefully than she had done for many nights before, rising
with a cheerful courage on the morrow.
"Alas, my child!--but if it must be, it must. I would that I could go,
for thou art over-young to bear so much fatigue."
"Nay, mother; it is right for the young to spare the old, and the strong
the weak. I shall be long gone, I fear. There are so many now to serve;
but be not afraid; it will be no more than a day's work, and I will
bring thee the food in the evening."
So, with a smile on her face and a brave and cheerful aspect, she took
her basket and set off, first to get her order and then the much-needed
food.
There was a deal of jostling and pushing and hustling before Theresa
could present her claim; but when she showed how her brother was
fighting in the army, and her father was dead, it was instantly allowed.
"How many are you?" asked the official, in his quick, peremptory tones,
for everything was hurried through as quickly as possible. Without a
thought, Theresa answered:
"Three."
A ticket was thrust into her hands, and she was passed out to make way
for others, and only when she was in the street once more, hastening
along towards the other great building, did she realise that she should
have said, "Two"; for, though they always thought and spoke of Pierre as
one of them, he was not entitled to the rations within the city.
The girl paused and hesitated; but she saw that it would be impossible
to go back. She looked down at the paper in her hand, and a rather
longing gleam came into her eyes.
"I am so hungry; I could well eat two portions," she said; but almost at
once she shook her head with resolute gesture, and spoke out half aloud:
"But no--that would be wrong; that would be like stealing. I know what
we will do. We will set aside Pierre's portion each day, and we will
give it to some poor hungry creature who may not be able to get to the
depôt. There must surely be many such in the city. I will find out one
such, and she or he shall be fed every day, for the order cannot be
changed now. I think that is what the good God would like me to do.
Perhaps it was His will that I made that mistake, His eye looks down and
sees all."
Full of this thought, Theresa hastened on through the streets and
quickly reached that dangerous spot which she had so feared to pass. But
to-day the great guns were silent; there was no peril to be feared; and,
with a happy smile upon her face, she ran across, thinking within her
heart that it seemed almost as though an angel were watching over her
and making her task easy.
Another piece of good fortune befell her, in that a second place had
been recently opened for the distribution of rations, in order to meet
the increasing demand. Theresa heard of this from a woman hurrying away
with her basket, and, instead of pushing into the larger crowd, she
joined the smaller one, and being served far more quickly than she had
thought possible, hurried home with a very light heart.
"It was not half so bad as I thought and feared," cried Theresa, putting
down her basket, and sinking into a chair. "Oh, yes, to be sure, I am
tired; but then what of that? We have food to eat, and a certainty of
more when that is done. And now, my mother, I must tell thee of my plan.
I think thou wilt be pleased that I should carry it out. The good God
has taken such care for us, that I think He would have us take thought
for others."