Who could describe the pleasure felt by the Frenchmen as they gazed once
more on the shores of their own dear country after so long an absence!
Even Villemet lost his lugubrious looks, while his friend, brimming over
with joy, seemed almost ready to leap into the sea to get there. He
sprung about the deck, sang snatches of songs, laughed at every remark
Villemet made even when there was nothing to laugh at, in fact, made
himself somewhat ridiculous.
As soon as they landed, they instantly made arrangements to post straight
away to their homes, which were not far apart from each other. Villemet's
came first; and there, as they drove up, a perfect swarm of younger
brothers and sisters came out to devour him; his old father and mother
looking on behind with calmer but not less real delight. It was a pretty
sight, and as Tournier drove away amid their joyful greetings, he could
not help for the moment envying him, and contrasting the scene with that
which was awaiting himself, with only one welcome--only one--but then
that was the welcome of a mother!
He had to pass a well-known house; but as he drew near, he dashed down
the blind, and turned away fiercely, till it was passed. "Dead!" he
muttered.
The nearer he drew to his old home the more familiar were the objects
that met his eye, till at last he spun through the gates, and up the
drive, and almost leaping into the house, cried to the smiling servants,
"Is she in her old room?"
And there he found her. She was pretty as ever, prettier than ever, as
_he_ thought.
"Mother, I have come to take care of you at last," he said; "and _to_ the
last, thank God."
"Thank God," she murmured in reply.
But though his mother seemed almost like her old self under the
exhilaration of that happy meeting, Tournier could not but observe how
feeble she was in every way. And when the first gush of joy was over, he
saw it more plainly; and every day he noticed it increasingly. Where
some stamina is left, a sudden stimulus may lead to permanent
improvement, but when there is none, excitement only revives for the
moment, and leaves the patient weaker than ever. So was it with the dear
old lady. Those years of lonely sorrow, aggravated by uncertainty and
bitter disappointment, had killed her; and Tournier had only come in time
to make the last few months of her life her happiest ones for many a day
past.
One evening, as the end was drawing near, she suddenly said, "My son,
what will you do when I am gone?"
"Sweet mother," was his reply, "I shall trust in God to help me bear my
sorrow patiently. I know He will."
"Why not marry a wife? It is God's own remedy for man's loneliness."
"Where shall I find one? I know no woman that I could trust _now_."
Then, after a pause, he added, "And yet there is one I could trust. Yes,
those blue eyes could be trusted. I would spurn the man who dared to say
they could not."
Then he told his mother all about Alice; and she listened with deepest
interest, and a little flush came over her delicate pale face. But it
became pale as before when he said, "Ah! mother mine, Alice Cosin is not
for me, nor for anyone: she is bound for life to her good brother, and I
would not break that lovely bond even if I could."
In the autumn of 1815 she died, her eyes fixed to the last on her son.
And when they closed for ever, it seemed to him that love unutterable was
extinguished. But he took refuge in his God.
It was hard work, however, to keep on living in the old place where
everything reminded him so much of the past, both of joy and pain. He
would have asked his friend, Villemet, to take compassion on his
loneliness, and come and stay with him awhile; but the irrepressible
fellow had gone off to the wars some time ago, and joined the army of
Napoleon, distinguishing himself greatly at Waterloo. Again and again
had Tournier's thoughts reverted to Alice Cosin, but each time he had
repelled the pleasing idea as an impossibility. "How could I," he
repeated, as the fair vision floated away, "for my selfish ends spoil the
happiness of a friend like him?"
Fortified by this resolution, he determined at length to find consolation
in fulfilling his promise of a visit to England. There was no reason why
he should not enjoy the immense pleasure of seeing his friend again, and
of course his sister. It would do him all the good in the world.
So he started with gladness to visit once more the land to which he had
been unwillingly conveyed as a prisoner some seven years before. The old
welcome was renewed with yet greater heartiness, and Tournier felt for
the first time at home since his mother's death. Only, at their first
greeting, he thought it proper to shew a little sort of restraint in
addressing Alice, and he could not but notice that this assumed restraint
made her beaming face look rather grave.
{The House of the Commandant. New the residence of J. A. Herbert, Esq.,
J.P. From photo. by Rev. E. H. Brown: p168.jpg}
One of the first things Tournier said he must see was the barracks.
"They have just finished pulling them all down," said Cosin. "Every
building except Major Kelly's house, and the officers' quarters has been
removed and the material sold by auction. However, you would like to see
the old spot. I am sorry I cannot go with you to-morrow, but Alice can
shew you the way if you have forgotten it!"
So they rode there the next morning.
"It seems like a dream," said Tournier, as he gazed for a long while upon
the site where, as he too well knew, so many hearts had ached for years.
"Who is going to live in the house of Major Kelly?"
"He has bought it for himself, but he is not there now."
"How I should have liked to see him. He was a fine officer and an
excellent man. And now, Miss Cosin, will you mind going with me to
another spot more interesting to me than even this, I mean the prisoners'
burial ground, where my body would now have been laid but for your dear
brother and you?"
That last word would have made Alice willing to go anywhere, and she
cheerfully consented to pay the rather doleful visit.
When they reached the portion of the field where the interments had taken
place, they let their horses nibble the grass, and silently surveyed the
scanty mounds.
Tournier was lost in thought, and Alice watched him.
"Poor fellows, poor fellows," he said at length: "how many of them I have
known! Some of them were in my squadron. Nearly all young, or in the
prime of life--all dead before their time, worn out or broken-hearted."
"How many, do you think, are buried here?" asked Alice.
"Roughly speaking, I should say at least three or four hundred."
"Will not the Government mark the spot, or at least raise some memorial
to these brave men?"
"I should think so," replied Tournier; "or if the English Government
failed to do so, ours will not forget them. And yet, the shameful
butchery of Marshal Ney does not favour the idea. They may look on them,
as they did him, as soldiers of Napoleon, not of France."
Then they slowly wended their way homeward, Tournier turning round on his
saddle to take a last look at the place that interested him so deeply,
and again exclaiming, "There should I be lying now, in a dishonoured
grave, but for God's great mercy."
That night, poor Alice could not sleep, but watered her pillow with
tears.
"He does not care for me a bit," she said; "he is just the same as he
used to be, only stiffer in his manner. But what does it matter? I
could never leave my darling brother; and what is more, I never will. But
he is so nice, nicer than ever." And the tears came again, with a wee
bit of vexation in them, and kept on at intervals, till kindly sleep at
length fell on those dear blue eyes, and dried them up.
And while this was going on, her brother and his friend were smoking and
talking together below.
"You must find it very wearysome, Tournier, to live by yourself now. You
are not the man to like that sort of thing. You are too unselfish to be
a confirmed bachelor. Excuse me for touching on a painful subject, I use
the privilege of a friend."
"I thank you for doing so. But the fact is, and _you_ cannot be
surprised at it, I have lost all faith in a woman's constancy. No doubt
there are many of my countrywomen who would make me a happy man, but I
don't know them, and do not mean to search them out."
Cosin was silent.
What good angel put it into Tournier's mind to come out with it? but he
_did_ burst forth, after a pause, with the imprudent assertion, "The only
woman in the world I know in whom anybody might place entire reliance is
your sister. Sure am I that the blue sky of Heaven does not more truly
reflect the love of God than her blue eyes reflect constancy and truth!"
Tournier felt he had betrayed himself, and was vexed.
As to Cosin, he opened his eyes with amazement at the other's vehemence
of manner. Then a bright smile of surprise lighted up his face, and he
said, "Why on earth then do you not ask her to be your wife?"
"My dear fellow," replied Tournier, in his turn amazed, "you surely know
why. Did you not tell me years ago that she would always be your
companion through life? and do you think I could be such a base scoundrel
as to breathe one single syllable to her that might tempt her for even a
moment to think of leaving you?"
Cosin seemed really angry instead of pleased at this, and said severely,
"And so _you_ thought _me_ such a selfish brute, that I would rather keep
her sweet companionship to myself, and be her gaoler more than her
brother, than give her a free woman's choice to marry anyone that was
worthy of her, and on whom (lucky dog!) she had set her dear heart? I do
not thank you for the compliment."
Tournier looked on his irritated friend with admiring surprise. It was
like the harsh grating of a heavy door that had hitherto barred his way
to happiness, but was now opening.
"The thing is," said Cosin in a milder tone, "does Alice like _you_?"
"I cannot say. She never did anything to make me suppose it. But I was
not observant, for I did not think about it."
"And yet, silly fellow that I am," said Cosin, "I now remember how her
face always lighted up when she heard about you, or we talked of your
coming. What a blind bat I have been! Oh, how I hope she does like you.
I am sure she must. But you must find it out, and if she has any
scruples left, tell her to come to me and I will satisfy her."
And Tournier, nothing loth, did find it out next day. The interview
shall not be described, for such things are sometimes related with
admirable taste and effect, but much more often are made ridiculous; and
as this was pre-eminently sensible, natural and real, it shall not run
the risk of being spoilt by any attempt of the kind. It must be
sufficient to say that the interview was perfectly successful, only Alice
persisted in saying that, although she entirely and joyfully believed
what Tournier told her about her brother, yet she must speak to him
herself, and hear from his own lips that he gave a willing consent. And
Tournier only admired her the more for it.
Away, therefore, she went with radiant face to seek her brother; nor did
it take long to get his consent. As she came into the room he
forestalled her object, and folding her to his breast said, "Dear Alice,
I know what you are going to say. Your face tells the tale. You have
fulfilled, more than fulfilled, your loving duty to me. Do one thing
more to make me happy--go and make that dear good _fellow_ happy all the
rest of his days. And remember," he added, as he held her a little from
him, and looked into her blushing face with pretended severity, "you
shall never come under my roof again if you disobey me! Come, I will
give you to him myself."
And they found Tournier awaiting the verdict without the slightest degree
of suspense.
"I have brought you your wife," Cosin cried.
What followed may well be imagined by all but ill-natured people, who see
no chance of their ever being placed in a similar predicament themselves.
In the course of the evening, Cosin suddenly said with great gravity,
amounting almost to solemnity, and looking first at Tournier, and then at
Alice: "There is a matter that still remains to be settled. You have run
away, Tournier, with my wife, and it is only fit and right that you
should make what compensation is in your power."
Both the others were taken rather aback, especially as Cosin continued to
seem very much in earnest.
"There must be a marriage-settlement of some sort."
"Assuredly," Tournier replied, relieved, but still somewhat puzzled.
"Whatever you think right, I shall be delighted to do."
"Do you really mean that?" said Cosin, still very seriously.
"Indeed I do. Everything I possess I would joyfully give to my sweet
love," looking at her with intense affection. "She is worth more than
all I have beside."
"But I want more than money and lands," persisted Cosin. "Mind, you have
agreed to do whatever I may propose."
"Yes. Anything you require. I trust you as my own soul."
"Then the marriage-settlement must be this: That so long as we all three
live, you two shall come and spend a good part of the summer with me
every year, and that you will let me spend a good part of every winter
with you in your sunny home. Provided always--here comes the lawyer--that
if we do at any time wish to turn summer into winter, or winter into
summer, we may do so by mutual agreement."
"Could anything be better!" cried the others in great delight. "Agreed,
agreed."
Then Cosin, no longer able to look grave, laughingly exclaimed, "Signed,
sealed, and delivered."
A few weeks after, Captain Tournier went over to France to prepare his
house for the reception of his bride. He did not stop long, but returned
with a heart full of gratitude to God, and joyful expectation of a happy
future.
They were married in Yaxley Church in the presence of a crowded
congregation. More than half the people who attended could see nothing
because of the bullock-boxes: but they were there, and their hearts too.
And when the grand old bells pealed forth a joyous welcome, the
bridegroom could hardly repress a tear (only one!) for they reminded him
how often the merry sound that now so truly harmonized with his
over-brimming joy, had seemed of old to mock his misery as he listened to
them from within his prison walls.
* * * * *
Their happy union, to compare small things with great, may be taken as an
emblem of the _entente cordiale_ that ought ever to subsist between the
two countries of France and England, and which can only be jeopardized by
that rabid journalism which, with slight occasion, or none at all, seems
always to take delight in doing its utmost to "let loose the dogs of
war."
One word more.
The two stone bosses which for many years have capped the piers of the
west gateway of Yaxley Churchyard, formerly occupied the same position on
the piers of the principal entrance to the Norman Cross Barracks. And
when the poor prisoners of old passed between them, they were entering
the place of captivity and grief and hopelessness. But now, as the good
Yaxley people pass between the same bosses to go into their noble House
of Prayer, they may rejoice in the thought that they are entering the
place where liberty and peace and everlasting hope await them as the gift
of God, through Jesus Christ their Saviour.
THE END.
Footnotes:
{17} See account of the battle of Vimiero in Napier's History of the
Peninsular War, Book II, Chapter V.
{44} This is fact, not fiction. It would be interesting to know the
history of this good man after the prisoners were discharged in 1814. One
thing is certain, that he must ever have enjoyed a feast of memory to his
dying day in having been a shepherd and bishop of souls to these poor
prisoners.
{133} It is much to be regretted that the ravenous curiosity of a former
vicar has since made this very hole. A wooden box was found with a heart
inside in perfect form, but which instantly crumbled to dust when exposed
to the air. The dust was returned to the cavity, and the box is kept at
the Vicarage; but an aromatic odour still impregnates the box, just as
the church William of Yaxley built still preserves the holy use to which
it was devoted.