It was a soft spring morning, with an exhilarating, jubilant lightness
in the air, such as only comes in the very early spring, or at sunrise
on a dewy summer-day. A few gray clouds lay low along the horizon, but
overhead the sky was a deep, rich blue, with fine, filmy streaks of
white vapor floating slowly across it. The branches of the trees were
still bare, showing the blue through their delicate net-work; but the
ends of the twigs were thickening, and the leaf-buds swelling under the
rind. The shoots of the hazel-bushes wore a purple bloom, with yellow
catkins already hanging in tassels about them. The white buds of the
chestnut-trees shone with silvery lustre. In the orchards, though the
tangled boughs of the apple-trees were still thickly covered with gray
lichens, small specks of green among the gray gave a promise of early
blossom. Thrushes were singing from every thorn-bush; and the larks,
lost in the blue heights above us, flung down their triumphant carols,
careless whether our ears caught them or no. A long, straight road
stretched before us, and seemed to end upon the skyline in the far
distance. Below us, when we looked back, lay the valley and the town;
and all around us a vast sweep of country, rising up to the low floor of
clouds from which the bright dome of the sky was springing.
We strolled on as if we were walking on air, and could feel no fatigue;
Minima with a flush upon her pale cheeks, and chattering incessantly
about the boys, whose memories were her constant companions. I too had
my companions; faces and voices were about me, which no eye or ear but
mine could perceive.
During the night, while my brain had been between waking and sleeping, I
had been busy with the new idea that had taken possession of it. The
more I pondered upon the subject, the more impossible it appeared that
the laws of any Christian country should doom me, and deliver me up
against my will, to a bondage more degrading and more cruel than slavery
itself. If every man, I had said to myself, were proved to be good and
chivalrous, of high and steadfast honor, it might be possible to place
another soul, more frail and less wise, into his charge unchallenged.
But the law is made for evil men, not for good. I began to believe it
incredible that it should subject me to the tyranny of a husband who
made my home a hell, and gave me no companionship but that of the
vicious. Should the law make me forfeit all else, it would at least
recognize my right to myself. Once free from the necessity of hiding, I
did not fear to face any difficulty. Surely he had been deceiving me,
and playing upon my ignorance, when he told me I belonged to him as a
chattel!
Every step which carried us nearer to Granville brought new hope to me.
The face of Martin's mother came often to my mind, looking at me, as she
had done in Sark, with a mournful yet tender smile--a smile behind which
lay many tears. If I could but lay my head upon her lap, and tell her
all, all which I had never breathed into any ear, I should feel secure
and happy. "Courage!" I said to myself; "every hour brings you nearer to
her."
Now and then, whenever we came to a pleasant place, where a fallen tree,
or the step under a cross, offered us a resting-place by the roadside,
we sat down, scarcely from weariness, but rather for enjoyment. I had
full directions as to our route, and I carried a letter from Rosalie to
a cousin of hers, who lived in a convent about twelve miles from
Noirean; where, she assured me, they would take us in gladly for a
night, and perhaps send us on part of our way in their conveyance, in
the morning. Twelve miles only had to be accomplished this first day,
and we could saunter as we chose, making our dinner of the little loaves
which we had bought hot from the oven, as we quitted the town, and
drinking of the clear little rills, which were gurgling merrily under
the brown hedge-rows. If we reached the convent before six o'clock we
should find the doors open, and should gain admission.
But in the afternoon the sky changed. The low floor of clouds rose
gradually, and began to spread themselves, growing grayer and thicker as
they crept higher into the sky. The blue became paler and colder. The
wind changed a point or two from the south, and a breath from the east
blew, with a chilly touch, over the wide open plain we were now
crossing.
Insensibly our high spirits sank. Minima ceased to prattle; and I began
to shiver a little, more from an inward dread of the utterly unknown
future, than from any chill of the easterly wind. The road was very
desolate. Not a creature had we seen for an hour or two, from whom I
could inquire if we were on the high-road to Granville. About noon we
had passed a roadside cross, standing where three ways met, and below it
a board had pointed toward Granville. I had followed its direction in
confidence, but now I began to feel somewhat anxious. This road, along
which the grass was growing, was strangely solitary and dreary.
It brought us after a while to the edge of a common, stretching before
us, drear and brown, as far as my eye could reach. A wild, weird-looking
flat, with no sign of cultivation; and the road running across it lying
in deep ruts, where moss and grass were springing. As far as I could
guess, it was drawing near to five o'clock; and, if we had wandered out
of our way, the right road took an opposite direction some miles behind
us. There was no gleam of sunshine now, no vision of blue overhead. All
there was gray, gloomy, and threatening. The horizon was rapidly
becoming invisible; a thin, cold, clinging vapor shut it from us. Every
few minutes a fold of this mist overtook us, and wrapped itself about
us, until the moaning wind drifted it away. Minima was quite silent now,
and her weary feet dragged along the rough road. The hand which rested
upon my wrist felt hot, as it clasped it closely. The child was worn
out, and was suffering more than I did, though in uncomplaining
patience.
"Are you very tired, my Minima?" I asked.
"It will be so nice to go to bed, when we reach the convent," she said,
looking up with a smile. "I can't imagine why the prince has not come
yet."
"Perhaps he is coming all the time," I answered, "and he'll find us when
we want him worst."
We plodded on after that, looking for the convent, or for any dwelling
where we could stay till morning. But none came in sight, or any person
from whom we could learn where we were wandering. I was growing
frightened, dismayed. What would become of us both, if we could find no
shelter from the cold of a February night?
There were unshed tears in my eyes--for I would not let Minima know my
fears--when I saw dimly, through the mist, a high cross standing in the
midst of a small grove of yews and cypresses, planted formally about it.
There were three tiers of steps at its foot, the lowest partly screened
from the gathering rain by the trees. The shaft of the cross, with a
serpent twining about its base, rose high above the cypresses; and the
image of the Christ hanging upon its crossbeams fronted the east, which
was now heavy with clouds. The half-closed eyes seemed to be gazing over
the vast wintry plain, lying in the brown desolateness of a February
evening. The face was full of an unutterable and complete agony, and
there was the helpless languor of dying in the limbs. The rain was
beating against it, and the wind sobbing in the trees surrounding it. It
seemed so sad, so forsaken, that it drew us to it. Without speaking the
child and I crept to the shelter at its foot, and sat down to rest
there, as if we were companions to it in its loneliness.
There was no sound to listen to save the sighing of the east wind
through the fine needle-like leaflets of the yew-trees; and the mist was
rapidly shutting out every sight but the awful, pathetic form above us.
Evening had closed in, night was coming gradually, yet swiftly. Every
minute was drawing the darkness more densely about us. If we did not
bestir ourselves soon, and hasten along, it would overtake us, and find
us without resource. Yet I felt as if I had no heart to abandon that
gray figure, with the rain-drops beating heavily against it. I forgot
myself, forgot Minima, forgot all the world, while looking up to the
face, growing more dim to me through my own tears.
"Hush! hush!" cried Minima, though I was neither moving nor speaking,
and the stillness was profound; "hark! I hear something coming along the
road, only very far off."
I listened for a minute or two, and there reached my ears a faint
tinkling, which drew nearer and nearer every moment. At last it was
plainly the sound of bells on a horse's collar; and presently I could
distinguish the beat of a horse's hoofs coming slowly along the road. In
a few minutes some person would be passing by, who would be able to help
us; and no one could be so inhuman as to leave us in our distress.
It was too dark now to see far along the road, but as we waited and
watched there came into sight a rude sort of covered carriage, like a
market-cart, drawn by a horse with a blue sheep-skin hanging round his
neck. The pace at which he was going was not above a jog-trot, and he
came almost to a stand-still opposite the cross, as if it was customary
to pause there.
This was the instant to appeal for aid. I darted forward in front of the
_char à bancs_, and stretched out my hands to the driver.
"Help us," I cried; we have lost our way, and the night is come. "Help
us, for the love of Christ!" I could see now that the driver was a
burly, red-faced, cleanshaven Norman peasant, wearing a white cotton
cap, with a tassel over his forehead, who stared at me, and at Minima
dragging herself weariedly to my side, as if we had both dropped from
the clouds. He crossed himself hurriedly, and glanced at the grove of
dark, solemn trees from which we had come. But by his side sat a priest,
in his cassock and broad-brimmed hat fastened up at the sides, who
alighted almost before I had finished speaking, and stood before us
bareheaded, and bowing profoundly.
"Madame," he said, in a bland tone, "to what town are you going?"
"We are going to Granville," I answered, "but I am afraid I have lost
the way. We are very tired, this little child and I. We can walk no
more, monsieur. Take care of us, I pray you."
I spoke brokenly, for in an extremity like this it was difficult to put
my request into French. The priest appeared perplexed, but he went back
to the _char à bancs_, and held a short, earnest conversation with the
driver, in a subdued voice.
"Madame," he said, returning to me, "I am Francis Laurentie, the curé of
Ville-en-bois. It is quite a small village about a league from here, and
we are on the road to it; but the route to Granville is two leagues
behind us, and it is still farther to the first village. There is not
time to return with you this evening. Will you, then, go with us to
Ville-en-bois, and to-morrow we will send you on to Granville?"
He spoke very slowly and distinctly, with a clear, cordial voice, which
filled me with confidence. I could hardly distinguish his features, but
his hair was silvery white, and shone in the gloom, as he still stood
bareheaded before me, though the rain was falling fast.
"Take care of us, monsieur?" I replied, putting my hand in his; "we will
go with you."
"Make haste then, my children," he said, cheerfully; "the rain will hurt
you. Let me lift the _mignonne_ into the _char à bancs_. Bah! How little
she is! _Voilà!_ Now, madame, permit me."
There was a seat in the back of the _char à bancs_ which we reached by
climbing over the front bench, assisted by the driver. There we were
well sheltered from the driving wind and rain, with our feet resting
upon a sack of potatoes, and the two strange figures of the Norman
peasant in his blouse and white cotton cap, and the curé in his hat and
cassock, filling up the front of the car before us.
It was so unlike any thing I had foreseen, that I could scarcely believe
that it was real.