It is curious with what ease we adapt ourselves to the completest change
in the very foundations of life; a little difference is vexatious and
irritating, while a revolution which carries us away from our own
identity, substituting a new routine, an entirely altered existence, is
comparatively easy. Mr Goulburn, whose affairs had been of the vastest,
who had been in the full turmoil of life, in the midst of society and
excitement, held at the highest strain, and running the most tremendous
risks, fell into the life of the village with an ease which bewildered
himself. He could not comprehend the soothing influences of the calm
and good order, the silence and dulness which all at once enveloped him
like a cloud. Even Montdard was farther off from Latour than any part of
the civilised world is from London. Amid the woods of the Haute
Bourgogne it was more difficult to realise what went on ten leagues off,
than it was in England to understand how all the great affairs of the
world were going. He had bought that clump of pine-trees in a momentary
sympathy with the excitement of the country, and with a notion brought
from the old life which he had abandoned, that it was a good thing to
have something to occupy him. But he was not so keen even about his
fir-trees as he had expected to be. The leisurely habits of the country
got possession of him. He walked to the woods and looked at them, then
came home to breakfast, then amused himself with calculating the profit
to be made of them, and all that could be done.
Never before in his active life had he been out of the world. He was so
now, and the distance confused all his faculties. He had lost sight of
everything he knew, of all that he had calculated upon, of all the
influences which had affected him before. The people about, in the
_cabarets_, by the roadside, talked politics indeed, but their
discussions seemed so fantastic and unreal to the constitutional
Englishman, that they rather increased than lessened his sense that he
was out of the world altogether, drifted into some other life. Those
wild theories of universal right, broken lights of communism, all the
more lurid because of the passion of proprietorship with which they were
mixed; the hatred of the aristocrats; the fear of the Church; all those
prejudices which were so extraordinary to his mind, looked to him like
something got up for his admiration and bewilderment,--scenes at the
theatre, which not even the players themselves could believe in. They
amused him greatly, being all sham as he thought, dramatic exhibitions
natural to the French character; he for one was not taken in by them;
but they convinced him more and more of the unreality of this life. He
had got into some enchanter’s cave, some lotus island; he did not know
at all what was going on outside. Was he a man for whom there was search
being made, and with a price upon his head? Or had he dropped out of all
agitations whatsoever, out of knowledge of the world? He could not tell;
he had not seen a ‘Times’ since he had left London. One terrible fit of
alarm he had gone through at Sainte-Barbe. But Charley Ashton certainly
could not have known anything, or he would have let it somehow appear
in his looks, even if he had taken no ulterior steps. And how could any
one, however great an offender, however well known to the world, be
found in this place, which was not in the world? The idea seemed absurd.
Then Mr Goulburn amused himself with his calculations about the wood. He
was not in any danger from Antoine. A peasant and poacher of the rudest
French type was not very likely to take in a man of the world; and he
had no more intention of leaving the wood-cutting in Antoine’s hands
than of doing it himself.
As for little Janey, she was as happy as the day was long, with little
Marie from the cottage next door, and Petit-Jean. Her French bubbled up
like a little fountain, all mingled with laughter. It was so funny to
talk like the little French children, Janey thought; and no doubt they
too could talk English like her if they would take the trouble. Helen,
too, settled down as if she had been to the manner born. She, who had
scarcely ever threaded a needle for herself, mended the rents in Janey’s
frocks, and took pleasure in it. She learned from Blanchette how to
knit, and began to make warm stockings for her little sister. She taught
Janey her letters every morning. She had a great deal to do, to
supplement Margot’s exertions with the featherbrush, and arrange
everything as well as she could, the meals and all the details of the
house. And by-and-by Helen began to forget the strange way in which this
change had been accomplished. She forgot that midnight flight, the
dismal journey, the fugitives’ career from place to place. She could
scarcely have told any one what it was that had brought them to Latour.
Had they meant to come to Latour when they left England? Helen could
not tell. She was embarrassed, bewildered by the question, though it was
she who put it to herself. She had lived a life so retired and quiet at
home, that she had nobody to regret except Miss Temple, who had married
Mr Ashton; but this marriage had happened nearly a year ago, and Helen
had spent all the summer alone. The time we spend alone goes so slowly.
She had lived like a young hermit in the great house; even Janey she had
only seen when Nurse thought proper. She had nothing to do, nothing to
live by, nobody to think of. She had been awoke all at once from that
feeble dream of existence by the thunder-clap of the sudden flight. And
now she found herself like one who has fallen from a great height, or
recovered from a severe illness, or been picked up out of the
sea--living, and thankful to be living, accustoming herself to this
surprising reality of existence, so true after so much that was not
true. Helen’s intellect had not very many requirements, and such as it
had could be supplied by that perennial fountain of dreams which makes
up for so much that is lacking in youth. She had no books to read, but
she told herself a long and endless fable through all the silent hours,
so much the more enthralling that she was always in it, the doer, or the
cause of the doing, present in all its succeeding scenes.
The ruddy October weather had come to an end, and November had begun to
close in, dark and heavy, when the next incident occurred in Helen’s
life. This was when she made the acquaintance of the young ladies at the
_château_, who had looked very wistfully at her for a long time when
they met her, before they finally broke the ice. Helen herself had
thought it was “her place” to await overtures, not to make any attempt
at a beginning, which ought to come from the other side. It was the
morning after the first snow, when everything was white around Latour,
the trees hanging heavy with a load of crystals, the path sparkling
underneath their feet. Very few, indeed, were the people who were out to
brave it. Most of the villagers had got in their stock of wood, and
collected their potatoes, their winter supply of vegetables: no
improvident buying from day to day, except by the poorest and least
respectable of the population, was known at Latour. Those who had
gardens, or little farms, had stored up all their treasures for the
severe season. A great number of the men were busy in the woods; the
women kept indoors. Till evening, when the men came home, there was
scarcely a soul visible in the village; then there was a little stir, a
sound of heavy feet, and all was quiet again. Blanchette shivered when
she saw that Helen had prepared to go out--“Mademoiselle will die of the
cold,” she said; “and _la petite_! it is to kill her.”
“But Ursule has been at Mass as usual,” said Helen, with a little
triumph, seeing the prints of a little pair of _sabots_ in the snow.
“That is a different thing, that is _obligatoire_,” Blanchette said,
with great gravity. “Mademoiselle knows that my sister is almost a
religious; and when it is so, what does it matter? cold or wet, is there
not the _bon Dieu_ to take care of you?”
“The _bon Dieu_ takes care of us all,” said Helen.
She was a Protestant, which, though no one knew what it was, was
certainly not a Christian, and therefore had no particular right to be
cared for by God. Still Blanchette did not object to this supernatural
shield for Helen. She only shook her head as they left the door. These
uncovenanted mercies, though always to be hoped for, are risky; whereas
in the case of Ursule, there could be no doubt, on all sides, of the
perfect security of the guarantees. Janey was delighted to feel the
crisp and dazzling snow under her little feet; she ran and danced upon
it, stamping on the hard shining surface. “It is like a big, big cake,”
said Janey, “and me the little lady on it. Don’t you know, Helen, the
little lady with the stick?”
It was a Twelfth-Day cake of which Janey was thinking, and Helen could
not help recollecting the very cake which had kept a tender place in her
little sister’s thoughts. It was one which had figured at the school
treat organised by Miss Temple, before she went away and married.
“Do you remember the little lady, Janey?”
“She turned round and round,” said the child; “she had a stick and
pointed. Let me get a stick and point too.”
What a different scene came before Helen’s eyes! the schoolroom at
Fareham all decked with holly, the great white cake sparkling like the
snow, the eager children drawing their characters,--and in the midst of
the party a splendid, shy little person wrapped in furs, who was the
giver of the feast, and to whom everybody looked with so much desire
that she should be pleased. She thought she could hear the horses pawing
with impatience at the door, and see little Janey flushed with
excitement, wrapped in the softest satin-quilted mantle, carried out by
the biggest of footmen to the most luxurious of carriages. Helen laughed
softly to herself--was it a dream? She thought of it as Cinderella
might have thought of her ball had there been no young prince in it,
nothing to make the episode of special importance. Was it really true?
And it was at this moment, while Janey was pirouetting round and round
with the wand in her hand, and when Helen had just laughed to herself at
the strange recollection of the past, which was so unlike the
present--that the two Demoiselles de Vieux-bois came suddenly round the
corner and met them. There was a little pause on both sides. An “Oh!” of
startled expectation came to Helen’s Britannic lips, and the two young
Frenchwomen swerved for a moment, then stopped and held a hurried
consultation. Then one of them advanced with pretty hesitation, a blush
and a smile.
“Pardon, mademoiselle,” she said; then added in very passable English,
“we have wished to call, but our mamma has been sick, and we were
doubtful to come alone. Perhaps you will let us make friends now?”
“Oh, I shall be so glad!” cried Helen, putting out her hands shyly, with
a sudden flash of light and colour coming to her face. They had thought
the English miss, like all English misses, pale and cold.
“I told you so,” said the one to the other. “I am Cécile de Vieux-bois,
and my sister is Thérèse. We have wanted so much to speak to you. You
are English, and we have such dear friends in England.”
“She has her _fiancé_ there,” said the other, laughing. “She is going to
be English herself.”
“Et peut-être toi aussi,” said Cécile, half reproachfully, in an
undertone.
“_Crois pas_,” said the younger, shaking her head. She caught Janey up
and gave her a sudden kiss. “This little one is delicious,” she said,
translating her native idiom into English. “We have so much remarked
her in church, everywhere; and you too, Miss----” she added anxiously,
lest Helen’s feelings should be hurt. “How shall we call you? Miss----”
Helen’s face grew scarlet. She had never been brought face to face
before with this terrible difficulty. Her name had been of no importance
in Latour. If her father called himself by one name or another, she knew
nothing of it. Mademoiselle was enough for everything.
“Please do not say Miss at all,” she said, the tears (and how sharp they
were, like fire more than water!) coming to her eyes. “I am Helen, and
she is little Janey. Will you call us so?”
“But it will not be _comme il faut_ to call you Helen the first time we
see you, without either Miss or Mademoiselle.”
“We don’t say Miss in England,” said Helen stoutly; “no one says it who
is _comme il faut_,--only the servants.”
The two French girls looked at each other with a little
surprise--perhaps they did not like to be supposed ignorant on this
point; or perhaps the fervour of Helen’s protest struck them, though
they could not tell what it meant. But they were too well bred to make
any further difficulty. “Do you like our poor little Latour?” said
Cécile. “It is so strange to us to see any new faces here. We shall be
so happy to have you all the long winter--that is, if you are going to
stay.”
It was Cécile who spoke the best English. The younger one was playing
with Janey, and chattering in a mixture of languages which amused and
suited them both. Cécile and Helen walked on demurely side by side.
“We shall stay if--if papa likes it,” she said.
“Monsieur your father is not strong?” said Cécile, with a sympathetic
look. “I said so when I saw him first. I told mamma that there was
something here----” She put her hand to her lips, and the tears filled
her eyes. “We lost our dear father all in one moment,” she said; “thus
we know what it is to be unquiet. But at least you are warned. You can
watch over him, and if there is no _crise_ that goes on for a long
time.”
“Oh, there is nothing the matter--I mean, papa is not ill,” cried Helen,
half alarmed, half amazed. “At least, it is only----”
“That is what we said,” said Cécile, gently; “it is only--a little want
of breath, a little palpitation. And we might have taken more care
perhaps to avoid emotion--to avoid danger; but who can say? _Le bon
Dieu_ knows best.”
“I assure you,” said Helen, “I am not alarmed at all about papa. We are
not so well off as we were, and he wishes to be quiet, that is all. I
think he likes Latour, and I like it. Yes, I think we shall stay all the
winter. Perhaps we shall stay always. Janey will not remember any other
place.”
“But you--were you not sorry to leave your home?”
“Sorry?” said Helen, meditating. “I ought to have been. I do not quite
know, it was so strange. Before I knew that we had left home we were
here, or, at all events, at Sainte-Barbe,” she said, with a smile.
“Sainte-Barbe? that is a long way off, beyond Dijon. But tell me, is it
not very gloomy in England, more gloomy than here? Thérèse was quite
right, I am _fiancé_, and I shall live in England. Tell me a little
about your home.”
“I was thinking of it when I saw you,” said Helen. “Little Janey said
the snow was like a great white cake--like the cake we had on Twelfth
Night, and that made me think. I thought I saw the room all dressed with
holly--we do that in England at Christmas; and all the children from all
the parish--they came from miles round--and the great huge cake. The
children all came and curtseyed to us when they had their slice of cake,
and stared at Janey. She looked like a little fairy princess,” said
Helen, with a smile and a sigh. Her new acquaintance looked at her very
closely, then gave a glance at the child, who was very simply dressed,
not like a princess at all.
“The people loved you very much?” said Cécile; “they do so in England;
they do not hate you as aristocrats. I shall be very glad of that. Why
should they hate us in France? We try to do what good we can, but there
is always suspicion. They think we have no right to differ from them.
But how can we help it? It is so, it is not our doing. They have not
that feeling in England. They loved you, the people? Oh, how happy I
shall be!”
“They were always very nice,” said Helen. “Loved--I don’t know that they
loved us. We do not say that word in England except when--except when it
is very strong indeed;--but they were always very nice. Though Miss
Temple used to say papa was too good--a great deal too liberal, giving
them too much--almost everything they wanted.”
“Miss Temple was----?”
“My governess,” said Helen--“my very dear friend; she went away from me
and married. I never had a mother, nor Janey either,” she said, in a low
tone.
“But it was very good, very kind of monsieur your father to be so good
to the poor.”
“I thought so too; but Miss Temple said it was wrong to give so much,”
said Helen, simply. She did not understand the wonder that was rising in
the mind of her new acquaintance. What Helen innocently revealed seemed
to Cécile the condition of a grand seigneur in the old days when a grand
seigneur was a prince in rural France. And it was very extraordinary to
think of a great English nobleman or gentleman--words of which she
partially understood the meaning--living in Latour! She looked at Helen
again, examining her very closely; and Cécile knew that her dress, which
was the dress she had brought from Fareham, was costly and fine, though
so simple. They had wondered, gazed at the English family in church, and
wherever they met them. But it was still more extraordinary now. The
only thing was that they were English. That accounts for so much! for
every kind of eccentricity, Cécile thought.
“Some friends, some people whom we know--indeed,” said Cécile with
pretty dignity, “why should I not say it?--the gentleman who is my
_fiancé_ is coming soon to see us. You will like to meet your
compatriots? But I hope you will come before that time--oh, long before!
as soon as you will--to-morrow! I should like to show you the _château_.
It is very old and curious. You will forgive us for not going sooner to
see you. We hoped mamma would have been well; but now they tell us that
she must not go out all the winter. She who loves the air so much and to
be active. She will like to see you, Miss----”
“You promised to call me Helen.” Helen had forgotten her own horror
about the name, and said this with a mischievous sense of amusement, her
pleasure in her new friend and in the prospect thus offered to her
opening up all the closed doors in her heart. She laughed as she spoke.
It had gone out of her mind that for the moment she had no name.
“It seems too familiar,” said Cécile, gravely, “for the first time; but
if it is so that in England one does not say Miss--but they do say it,
or why should the word exist?--I will willingly call you Helen. Do you
thus pronounce the ‘h’? In France we say (H)élène.”
“Is it that mademoiselle will come to the _château_ to-morrow?” said
Thérèse, coming up. “The little one will come. She has told me a great
many things. Oh, how it is pleasant to have some one new to talk to! She
is delicious,” cried the young Frenchwoman. “And mademoiselle, I hope
she too finds it pleasant to have friends.”
“We are to say Helen,” said Cécile, with her air of dignity. They had
reached M. Goudron’s house as she spoke, where he was standing with an
old shawl wrapped about his shoulders. He was not susceptible about his
personal appearance. But the sight of Helen’s companions made a change
in his looks. He grinned, but he scowled as well. His countenance became
diabolical between hatred and mockery. Thérèse caught her sister by the
arm.
“He is like the demons in the pictures. I dare not go any nearer.
Cécile, come! he will do thee some harm. Me, I am not _fiancé_, nothing
is going to happen to me; but he will bewitch thee, he will do thee
harm.”
“I am not afraid,” said Cécile, though she trembled a little; “there
are no people in England who hate you because you are aristocrats, that
makes me very happy. And you will come to-morrow to the _château_? At
one o’clock, after the _déjeuner_, will that do? and we will come to
meet you. Then good-bye, _à demain, au revoir_,” both the girls cried,
turning hastily away. M. Goudron had put them to flight. The frown
disappeared from his face as they turned, and the grin became more
diabolical than ever.
“What a pity,” he said, “mesdemoiselles, that your fine friends, those
magnificent young ladies from the _château_, the young princesses, the
great personages, should run away from a poor old man.”
Little Janey had no restraints of politeness upon her. She pulled at the
end of his eccentric old tartan shawl. “C’est parce que vous êtes si
méchant,” she cried. “C’est parce que you are a fright--a horrible,
nasty, old man. I hate you too,” cried Janey--“vous êtes méchant,
méchant! Personne vous aime; vous êtes an old, old, wicked! a horror! a
fright! all wrapped in a shawl like an old vieille fille; nobody loves
you--they all hate you,” she cried.
M. Goudron was dismayed by this sudden attack: he had a weakness--he
loved children. He cried in a querulous tone, “Petite, vous n’en savez
rien,” loudly, as if defying the world. At the window up-stairs
Blanchette and Ursule were secretly kissing the tips of their fingers,
waving anxious salutations to the departing ladies of the _château_. As
for Helen, she held her dress close to her, not to touch him as she
brushed past into her own room. She was not so outspoken as Janey,
neither did she think, like her father, that these extraordinary
antipathies and political extravagances were fictitious like the
politics of a _vaudeville_. But the horror was evanescent, and how
delightful was the reflection that she had found a pair of friends!