It was not long before Captain Tournier was allowed to go out on parole,
and that too with considerable latitude both as to distance and length of
absence. Major Kelly, the Commandant, and Captain Mortimer, the
Admiralty agent, had had some talk together about the matter, and were
not quite in agreement on the subject.
"We shall have some trouble with that fellow Tournier. He keeps himself
aloof from the others, and takes no part in their amusements, and goes
mooning about as if he had got mischief brewing."
"Have you ever found him uncivil or disobedient to orders?" enquired the
major.
"Oh, not in the least; he conducts himself quite like a gentleman. But I
have always found your silent, moody man the most likely one to try and
blow up the ship."
Captain Mortimer was an honest, open-hearted sailor, inclined to be a
martinet, but with very little power to discriminate character and (like
a great many other people in the world,) without painstaking sympathy, as
the prisoners found to their cost in many ways, though they did not know
exactly how it was. Major Kelly, on the contrary, did not judge after
the outward appearance, but detected something in Tournier's profound
melancholy which he could not understand indeed, but which his heart
revolted from setting down uncharitably to evil.
So as his authority was supreme in such a matter as granting parole to a
prisoner, the agent having charge only (but it was a most important one,)
of the Commissariat and Transport service, Tournier soon obtained his
parole.
"You will be disappointed some day about him I fear, major."
"Well, it may be; perhaps so--yes;" which may be regarded as an
expression of no very great confidence in the prophecy.
One day, Tournier was walking down the hill leading to Yaxley with his
now customary gloom over-shadowing his face, when he saw a horseman
approaching. The rider had been watching him for some little distance as
he came up, and just before they met pulled up his horse, and bowing,
said with a pleasant smile, "Good morning, Captain Tournier, I hope I see
you well."
"Thank you, sir," said the other politely, but with some little surprise,
"I am very well; but pardon me for asking who it is I have the pleasure
of speaking to?"
"My name is Cosin, and I live at the old house facing the church close by
where we are. So we are fellow-parishioners, _habitants de la meme
commune_, as you would say in France, I think."
Again a polite bow. "But will you excuse me for asking how you know
_me_?"
"Oh, I have heard of you from my friend, Major Kelly. I will not tell
you what he said when he described you to me, but I knew you at once from
his description; and I am very pleased to have met you."
Another bow. "He told you, I suppose, that you would know me by my sour
looks. They all tell me that, or something very similar."
"Far from it. But you would not like me to repeat compliments. Yet the
major did tell me you took your captivity too much to heart."
"That is true, I daresay. But I cannot help it."
"Then, if you will allow me, let me try and act the part of a friend and
neighbour. We are close by each other, as you see. If you will do me
the favour of calling on me at the Manor Farm whenever you may in course
of time feel disposed, I shall be delighted: only the sooner the better."
"A thousand thanks," said the captain with a faint smile, but with no
intention then of availing himself of the kind offer.
Friendship is not often formed on the instant, as Jonathan's for David,
when the soul of Jonathan was knit in a moment with the soul of David,
and "Jonathan loved him as his own soul." Albeit the two _had_ met
before.
They shook hands heartily and went their ways.
Mr. Cosin was the gentleman who had laid his whip across the saucy lout's
back at the time the French prisoners were marching into the barracks. He
was possessed of a fair competence; but loving a country life and
something to do, had hired the Manor Farm in Yaxley. The house was of no
great size, but built of stone, picturesque, and of considerable
antiquity; and it stood, as we have already said, on the opposite side of
the road to the church, looking towards the west end, where its handsome
tower stands, with lofty well-proportioned spire, a conspicuous object to
all the fen country for miles around. It was about a mile from the
Norman Cross barracks.
About two years before this Mr. Cosin had met with the greatest loss that
can befall a man. He had lost his wife. It changed the whole complexion
of his future. He was like a traveller who had come to the crest of a
ridge from which he could look back on the road he had traversed, and the
unknown future was spread before him, sharply separated from all the
past. In his case that had been a happy past--a very happy past. But
the future, whatever it might be, must at least be without _her_. He was
still a young man, and without a family; but he determined to have a
sister for his companion, and a sweet memory for his wife.
What a strange idea! many may say, or something stronger.
Well. It may be so. But he did it.
When Tournier returned to the barracks after his meeting with Cosin, he
fell in with his young friend, who has already been alluded to, and whose
name was Villemet.
"Somebody has been asking after you, Tournier."
"Who was he?" but not the slightest curiosity was in the tone of enquiry.
"Our bishop."
The interest fell lower, if possible.
"You mean the chaplain. What does he want?"
"To see you."
Tournier was a gentleman, and therefore repressed the exclamation that
was rising to his lips, and simply said, "Oh!" in a very languid sort of
way.
But it was true. The chaplain to the prisoners had been asking after
Tournier, expressing a very great desire to see him; and the Chaplain was
none other than the Bishop of Moulines. He had voluntarily come to
England, out of pure compassion for his imprisoned countrymen; and with
true missionary zeal was giving himself up to their spiritual welfare. He
was a venerable-looking man, much respected by the prisoners generally.
It was a noble act of self-sacrifice. {44}
But his work among the prisoners was no sinecure. Many of them were
deeply tainted with the foul atheism engendered by the Revolution; many
more with the practical atheism that comes of reckless living. Scenes of
cruelty and depravity would occasionally take place, only too likely
where a large number of men were left so much to themselves. Yet there
were doubtless hundreds among them who, but for the demands of a most
cruel war, would have been living the lives of peaceful, useful citizens.
It may be, moreover, that among the officers there was infidelity behind
the outward decorum of gentlemen.
So the good bishop had plenty on his hands, and he did his best patiently
and perseveringly, though by no means always with success (as is the case
still with good efforts, under much more favourable circumstances); and
all but the vilest respected him, and many paid at least outward
attention to his ministrations: and for this reason--because they felt
there could not be the slightest doubt that his kind intentions were
altogether sincere.
A few days afterwards, the bishop came up to Tournier as he was taking
exercise in the paved portion of the yard, and shaking him with gentle
courtesy by the hand, said, "Captain Tournier, will you oblige me by
letting us have a short walk together?" Then turning to others who were
near, he added, with a pleasant smile, "Gentlemen, I hope you are all
well this morning," and putting his arm in Tournier's went to the gate.
There was a guard-room and a turnkey's lodge outside. A glance through
the grating of the heavy door, and the wicket was instantly unlocked.
They proceeded together along the Peterborough road towards Yaxley. The
day was bright, and the broad distant view from the high ground they trod
was very pretty, with comfortable-looking homesteads dotted about, the
very picture of freedom and peace.
"The English have chosen an agreeable and healthy spot for us poor
prisoners, Captain Tournier."
He called himself a "prisoner," but he was not. And yet he was--a
prisoner to sympathy with the unhappy.
"May I hope that you are becoming more reconciled with your lot, my
friend," he said, in a soft persuasive tone, as if he feared to seem
intrusive.
"Not in the slightest degree, Monseigneur," was the answer. "Why should
I? Yet, believe me, I am exceedingly touched by your interesting
yourself in me."
"You say _why_ should you become more reconciled with your lot. My
simple reply is, because it is God's will."
"I do not wish to shock you--you who are so good and true, and who hold
so high a position in the church: but I will not deceive you, nor will I
play the hypocrite even to gain your better opinion of me. I will be
plain and honest from the first; and, therefore, I tell you, I do not
believe there is a God."
The bishop did not withdraw his arm, nor start with horror, nor call him
a fool (though he _was_ one). On the contrary, he pressed Tournier's arm
a little closer, and said, very softly, as a kind doctor might say when
he finds a patient's symptoms more serious than he thought, but does not
therefore give him up, "I am so sorry."
There was a pause for a minute or two, and they went on walking together.
Tournier was the first to speak.
"I cannot believe that a good God (and I do not care to believe in an
evil one--a devil, as the heathen do, so at least I have heard), but I
cannot believe that a good God would blast my hopes as they have been
blasted: and, therefore, I believe in none. I cannot. Excuse me,
Monseigneur, but my reason refuses to let me do so. I can only believe
in fate."
"And who regulates fate?" asked the bishop.
"Oh, I know not. It regulates itself, I suppose."
"And therefore is God," said the bishop, as if he were musing. "But tell
me, my friend, how it is you take to heart so keenly the unkindness of
fate (as you call it) to yourself, while thousands are buffeted by
misfortunes, perhaps as great as your own, and yet maintain equanimity of
mind, and even enjoy some pleasure in life?"
"They are not sensitive as I am."
"And who makes the difference?"
"Fate--Chance--Destiny."
"How miserable a notion! However, I should be wanting in my duty to Holy
Church, of which I am an unworthy minister," and here he disengaged his
arm from Tournier's, and looking him steadily in the face, with an
expression, not of severity, but of yearning tenderness, that pierced the
manly fellow's heart more than a hundred anathemas would have done, "if I
did not most solemnly warn thee that these notions of thine are damnable
heresy, and that it behoves thee therefore to repent of this thy
wickedness, if perhaps the thought of thine heart may be forgiven thee."
And then the good bishop took him by the hand and added, "Still look on
me as a would-be friend, and whenever you want me seek me, and better
far, whenever you want God seek Him, and you shall surely find Him."
He turned away and went to his lodging, not in the barracks, but in the
village of Stilton, about a mile off.
Captain Tournier soon lost the impression made by the solemn words, but
he never to his dying day forgot the compassionate look that accompanied
them. The old priest left his mark.
Winter had passed, and Spring was far advanced before Tournier paid his
first visit to Mr. Cosin. It was not want of sociability or indifference
to the friendship of such a very genial man that made him delay. He
himself was naturally a very jolly sort of fellow, so that his friend,
Villemet, could not in the least make out the transformation. In fact,
he began to think him _un peu timbre_. However, at last, he made up his
mind to call at the Manor Farm; and one sunny day he appeared at the
door, somewhat like a martyr tied to the stake, but without his
cheerfulness of resignation. He had not long to wait. The door was
opened with a will, and Cosin himself stood before him with welcome
beaming in his face. There could be no doubt of it. His friend, whom he
had treated so coldly, was heartily glad to see him, and said as much.
"Can you forgive me, Mr. Cosin, for being so long in accepting your kind
invitation?"
"Not a word about it. I am delighted to have you under my roof," and he
led him into a cosy sitting-room, where a young lady was sitting at work.
"Let me introduce you to my sister, Captain Tournier. Oh, but you must
not be so formal, dear Alice, in your welcome to my friend. I have been
expecting him too long for that. Give him your hand."
And she did so in the prettiest way imaginable, with all the simple grace
of true kindness of heart.
The effect on Tournier was reviving. It reminded him of happy days gone
by, which he never thought to see again.
Alice Cosin was a girl worth looking at. And the gallant captain could
not refrain from doing so whenever it was possible without rudeness. And
if his true love, in France, had been watching him, she would have found
no fault, if her love were as true as his. A jealous woman is a
distrustful one; and a man who makes his own love first will always keep
her first, however he may admire another. So it was, at all events, with
Tournier.
And how shall we describe the young lady? It shall be done briefly. She
was not what connoisseurs would call a beauty. Her features were not
altogether regular enough for that, and _very_ regular features are
rather of the dutch-doll type of beauty. But her open brow looked
honesty itself, while a slightly aquiline nose betokened force of
character of the true feminine type. The eyes, however, formed the great
attraction in her face. You were struck by them at once. True blue
eyes, not washed out, not milk and water, but grey-blue eyes, like "the
body of heaven in its clearness:" yet with a glint in them, as if they
could flash under just provocation.
They spent a pleasant afternoon together, Cosin doing all he could to
divert and amuse his friend, and his sister helping him: for they were
cheerful souls, though Tournier thought he saw at times a vein of sadness
in his host, amid all his cheerfulness, which, they say, and say truly,
always adds piquancy to mirth.
A message was brought to Cosin that required him to quit the room, and
Alice and Tournier were left alone.
"Do you know, Miss Cosin, what it was that forced me at last to come and
see your brother?"
"Indeed, I do not," she replied, a little surprised at the earnestness
with which he so abruptly asked the question.
"It was misery. For months I have kept it to myself, and at last I could
bear it no longer. I must have gone mad if I could not have spoken to
some one outside that wretched prison house."
"I am very glad you have taken the first step towards making my brother
your confidant. You will find him a very sensible and sympathizing
friend."
"Oh, but I want you, Miss Cosin, to give me the first encouragement."
She was inclined at first to laugh, but seeing how serious, and even
solemn, his manner was, she said, rather severely, "And do you think,
sir, after so very short an acquaintance, you have any right to expect
such a thing of me?"
He saw instantly what a mistake he had made, and how naturally she had
misunderstood his meaning.
"Oh, pardon me, Miss Cosin; my eagerness to know something made me frame
my words awkwardly. Let me explain. I have a dear mother in my home in
France, and, if possible, a still dearer friend to whom I am engaged, and
I love her with my whole heart and soul. I cannot tell you how I love
her."
"Well, Captain Tournier," said Alice, relaxing her severity of manner,
though it was not very severe.
"Separation, and hopelessness of ever seeing them again, are a torment I
find unendurable."
"Well, sir," she repeated, but this time with more softness, and with
sympathy in the true blue eyes.
"Did not your brother lose his wife some two years ago? I was told he
did."
"He did. But I do not see the relevancy of that to what you have just
been saying."
"Then your brother has actually suffered what I am only _dreading_ I may
have to suffer. He can never, by any possibility, see his wife again."
Poor Alice was sorely puzzled. She could only wonder what he was coming
to, and acquiesce.
"But was he really fond of her?"
"I cannot imagine, Captain Tournier, why you should ask such a question.
I am glad you did not ask _him_."
"Oh, but I have a reason for asking. Of your charity, bear with me a
little longer. But you say he really did love his wife passionately?"
"Beyond all doubt. His life was bound up in hers. When he lost her, he
lost his best. He tells me he will never marry again, and has asked me
to be his companion."
There was a tone of impatience in her voice, which Tournier, however,
noticed not, but passed from his former eagerness of manner into a sort
of dreamy abstraction, as if talking to himself.
"And yet the man seems happy--_is_ happy; goes about as cheerful as the
day; laughs and jokes, and enjoys his life. I cannot comprehend it!"
Alice was indeed in "Wonderland."
He seemed lost in thought.
At length he changed back to his eager manner again.
"And now, Miss Cosin, comes the question: I want you, of your great
kindness, to answer, and to lead up to which I have given you so much
trouble. Pardon, pardon an unhappy man. Tell me, what is the secret of
your brother's power to bear his trouble, and even triumph over it. I
want, _myself_, to learn it."
"I can only say," replied Alice, with all simplicity, but looking with
her clear blue eyes into his face, "I know God helped him, as no one else
could, and was very kind to him, as He is to all who want Him."
She was only just in time, for, as she finished, her brother came back
again.
Soon after they took leave of each other, and the captain returned to his
quarters. And as he went along this thought kept coming into his mind,
like the flash of a revolving light--"Cosin not only believes in God, but
has found Him a help in time of greatest trouble!"