TRUST AND DISTRUST.
"YOU are to have a holiday to-day, Mrs. Vevette," was Grace's
announcement to me one fine morning somewhere toward the end of
September. "Your mother has one of her bad headaches."
"Oh, how sorry I am!" I exclaimed, thinking not of the holiday but of
the headache. "Is it very bad, Mrs. Grace?"
"Very bad indeed," returned the lady-in-waiting, solemnly shaking
her head; "I have seldom seen her worse. I have been up with her
half the night. You must be very quiet, my dear, and not rush up and
down-stairs, or drop your books, or—"
"May I go up to the farm and see Mother Jeanne?" I asked, breaking in
upon the catalogue of what Grace called my "headlong ways." "I want to
teach Lucille that new lace-stitch, and I dare say Jeanne won't mind if
I do make a little noise," I added, with some resentment.
Not, of course, that I wished to disturb my mother, or indeed any one
else, but I was a little tired of this same catalogue, which had been
rehearsed so many times.
"There you go again, breaking right into the middle of a sentence,"
said Grace. "What would your mother say?"
"Perhaps she would say, 'Don't be always lecturing the child, Grace,'"
said I mischievously, quoting some words I had overheard from my mother.
Then, as I saw by her rising color that she was really angry, I threw
my arms round her and hugged her.
"There, don't be vexed, Gracy dear; you know I would not disturb maman
for the world. But I do really want to go to the farm very much to
teach Lucille the lace-stitch you showed me yesterday, and to see the
new kittens."
"Kittens! What kittens?" said Grace, who was a dear lover of pussies of
all sorts.
"Why, the new kittens. Don't you remember the beautiful young cats that
David brought to his mother the last time he came home? One of them has
kittens, and Mother Jeanne says I may have my choice of them."
"Oh, yes; go by all means, my dear; and I hope you will have a pleasant
day. Only be sure you are at home before dark, and mind you don't
wait till it is time you were here before you set out. And, as to the
kitlings, if there should be a tortoise-shell or a dark brindle, I
would choose that, especially if it have a white face. Such cats are
always good-tempered and good mousers."
"I believe these cats are all white," said I; "the mother is as white
as snow."
Grace's face was shadowed a little.
"I don't know about that," said she doubtfully. "In Cornwall, we think
that white cats bring ill-luck. My poor sister had a beautiful white
cat come to her, and that very night she broke her china jug, and the
next day her husband fell from the tall pear-tree and was lamed for
life."
"But these are not like common cats, you know," said I, suppressing a
laugh which I knew would mortally offend Grace and perhaps lose me my
holiday. "They are outlandish cats, with long hair and bushy tails. I
should think that would be different."
"Perhaps so; but I would think about it a little. However, I will come
down and see them myself."
I tiptoed through my mother's room into my own little cell, collected
my working things into the pretty foreign basket which David had
brought me the last time he came home, and then, kissing my mother's
pale cheek, I descended the stairs softly, and did not give a single
skip till I was beyond the precincts of the tower.
"How full of notions Grace is," I said to myself. "I wonder if all the
Cornish people are like that." * (N.B. † If a hare had run across my
own path, or I had heard a crow on my left hand, I dare say I should
have turned back from my expedition.) "But I mean to have the kitten in
spite of her. As though I would give up a beautiful long-haired white
cat for such a fancy as that!"
* They are, even to this day.—L. S.
† N. B.—nota bene
I did not hasten on my way, for it was early, and I found my walk
so pleasant that I had no desire to shorten it. The bramble-berries
and filberts that were ripening by the sides of the lane had great
attractions for me. There were late autumn flowers to gather, and
lizards to watch as they ran to and fro on the walls or sunned their
gilded sides on a broad flat stone, vanishing like a shadow when one
drew near. A great wind had blown the day before and thrown down many
apples from the trees that overhung the lane.
I filled my pocket with some ripe golden pippins, and walked on
eating one till I drew near the place where the highway to Avranches,
such as it was, crossed our lane. This was a favorite resting-place,
since it commanded a glorious view of sea and shore and the great
fortress-monastery. There was a kind of crag or projecting rock some
thirty feet high, round which the road wound, and which, while it
presented a perpendicular face to the highway, was easily ascended by
an active person from the side of the lane.
"I wonder whether they are gathering the vraic," I said to myself. "I
should think a great quantity must have come ashore after the wind last
night. I mean to climb up and see." *
* The vraic or varech is the seaweed, which is very abundant on this
coast, and much esteemed for manure. It is regularly harvested in
spring and autumn, but may be gathered at any time.
I climbed lightly up the rude rocky steps, but started as I came
upon Lucille, who was sitting upon the dry moss which covered like a
soft carpet the top of the rock. She was wrapped closely in her long
black cloak, the hood of which was drawn over her head, somewhat to
the detriment of her clean starched cap. Her unfailing companion, the
distaff, was in her girdle, but the spindle lay idle beside her, though
she seemed to have cleared a flat place especially for it to dance
upon. Her hands were folded over her knee, and her eyes were fixed upon
the high road, which from this elevated point could be traced all the
way to Avranches.
I saw in a moment that she was in one of her moods, but I was in too
high spirits with my walk and my holiday to mind that. And as she did
not seem to hear my approach, I put my two hands over her eyes, saying,
in the words of our child's game, "Guess whose fingers are all these."
"Vevette, how you startled me!" she exclaimed, rather angrily. And
then, recovering herself, "How did you come here?"
"On my feet, since I have no wings," I answered, sitting down beside
her on the dry moss. "Maman gave me a whole holiday because she has a
headache, and I thought I would come down and teach you my new lace
stitches. It is well I took a fancy to climb up here, or I should have
missed you. But now, tell me how came you here?"
"Because I have a holiday as well as yourself," answered Lucille, in
a tone which had no pleasure in it. "Aunt Denise has come up from
Granville to see my mother, and maman said I might have a play-day too,
and go to see Marie Lebrun if I liked. But I don't care about going.
I know they only sent me away because they have secrets to talk about
which they don't want me to hear."
"Well, why need you mind?" I asked. "Maman often says to me, 'Run away,
petite, I wish to say something to Grace,' and I never mind it a bit.
Of course grown people have things to talk about which they don't want
children to hear. Why should you care?"
"But I do care," said Lucille, and her eyes with tears. "I am not a
child like you. I am three years older, and I do think they might trust
me."
"It is not that they do not trust you, silly one," I returned, a little
out of patience with the mood I could not comprehend. "As I tell you,
there are things to be talked about by grown people which girls do not
understand and ought not to know. Mrs. Grace has told me that a dozen
times. What is the use of minding? We don't understand, and there is
the end. Some time we shall, I suppose."
Lucille did not answer. She fixed her eyes once more on the highway,
and I let mine wander off over the sands and the shore where people,
looking like little black ants, were busily collecting the precious
seaweed, to Mount St. Michael, whose turrets shone brightly in the sun.
"I wish I had wings," said I at last. "How I should like to fly over
the sands and alight on the top of the mount yonder, where the great
gilded angel used to stand looking over land and seas. I wonder whether
he got tired of his perch and flew away some night."
"You should not speak so of the holy angels. It is not right," said
Lucille gravely.
"I was not speaking of the angel, but of his image," said I; "that is
quite another thing. Then I would spread my wings and travel over to
the islands yonder, and then to England, where my uncles live."
"And get shot for a strange water-fowl," said Lucille, apparently
diverted for the moment, and laughing at my fancy. "Then you would be
stuffed and set up to be gazed at for sixpence a head, and that would
be more tiresome than sitting at your embroidery."
"Yes, I don't think I should like it at all. Let me take the distaff,
Lucille. I have not spun any thread in a long time. What beautiful fine
flax!"
"Yes, it is some that my aunt brought me. She got it of a ship-captain
who came from foreign parts. Take care you don't break my thread."
We chatted on indifferent subjects a while, and Lucille seemed to have
recovered her good humor, when I inadvertently disturbed it again.
"Martin said he met your father coming from Avranches yesterday. What
took him so far from home?"
"I don't know; they never tell me anything," answered Lucille, her face
clouding.
"There might be a very good reason for his not telling you," I remarked
in a low tone. "If his journey was about the Religion, it might be a
great deal better for you to be able to say you did not know. And I
dare say it was, for my father has been away a great deal of late."
"Oh, the Religion—always the Religion!" said Lucille between her teeth;
"I hate the very name of the Religion."
"Lucille, how dare you?" I gasped, rather than spoke. I was too shocked
to say more.
"Well, I do," she returned vehemently. "It spoils everything. It
separates families and neighbors, shuts us up just to our own little
selves, and cuts us off from everything that is pleasant. Jennette
Maury can go to the Sunday fêtes and the dances on feast days under the
great chestnut, but I must stay at home and read a musty book, because
I am of the Religion. Other people live in peace, and nobody interferes
with them. We live with a sword hung over our heads, and our daily path
is like that over the Grève yonder—likely to swallow us up any time.
And what do we gain by it in this world, I should like to know?"
"What should we lose in the next world if we deserted it?" I asked,
finding my voice at last.
"I am not talking of deserting it. I am no Judas, though they seem to
think I am by the way they treat me—never telling me anything. But I
don't see why we should not have kept to the ways of our fathers, and
saved all this trouble."
"WE DO keep to the faith of our fathers," said I, repeating the proud
boast of the Vaudois, which I had long ago learned by heart. "Our
church never was corrupted by Rome, and did not need reforming. But,
Lucille, what would your father and mother say to such words?"
"I should never say such words to them," answered Lucille, "and I am
foolish to say them to you. I suppose, however, you will go and repeat
them to every one, and let the world say how much better and more
religious is the heiress of the Tour d'Antin than poor Lucille Sablot."
"Lucille, you know better," I answered indignantly; "but I see you
don't want anything of me, so I shall go home again, as you say Mother
Jeanne is busy."
And gathering up my basket and laying down the distaff in Lucille's
lap, I rose to depart, though I trembled so much with excitement and
indignation that I could hardly stand.
Lucille looked at me in surprise, for in our ordinary quarrels, I grew
cool as she grew angry, and vice versâ.
"Don't go, Vevette. I ought not to have spoken so. I did not half mean
it, but I am so very, very unhappy."
As she spoke, she hid her face and burst into a flood of tears and sobs.
I sat down again, knowing from experience that when she recovered from
her crying fit, her bad mood would be gone for that day.
So it proved. After sobbing a long time, she wiped her eyes and made a
great effort to compose herself.
"I am sorry I was so cross," said she; "but I am so unhappy. There
is so much that I cannot understand. Why should you be the heiress
of d'Antin and I only a poor farmer's daughter? Why should you learn
music and English and dress in silk, while I wear homespun and tend
sheep, and come and go at everybody's call? Why should our enemies
triumph and eat us up like bread, and live in all sorts of luxury,
while we are poor and trodden down like the mire in the streets, and
our Master never put forth a hand to help us? We give up everything for
him, and he lets us be beaten on every side, and gives us nothing but
promises—promises for another world, from which nobody has come back to
tell us anything. No, I don't understand it."
Lucille spoke with a fire and passion compared to which her former
vehemence was nothing.
I had never thought of these things—never dreamed of questioning
anything that was taught me. Indeed, I believe I had been too full of
dreams to think at all. I was stricken dumb before her at first, but as
she gazed at me with her dark eyes like sombre flames, I felt I must
say something, so I gave the only answer that occurred to me—the only
one indeed that I have ever found.
"It is the will of God, Lucille, and he must know best."
Lucille muttered something which I did not quite hear.
"And besides, he does help us," I added, gathering courage. "Just think
how all the martyrs have been helped to stand firm, and what joys they
have felt even at the galleys and in dark dungeons, where they had
hardly room to breathe."
"I know they say so," said Lucille; "but tell me, Vevette, have you
experienced any of these wonderful joys. Because I know I never did."
I did not know exactly what to answer to this question. In fact,
in those days my conscience was in that uneasy state in which it
always must be with any half-hearted person. No, I could not say
that my religion was any comfort to me, and I hastened to change the
conversation.
"Anyhow, Lucille, I don't think you would be any happier if we were to
change places. You would be lectured and ordered about, and sent out
of the way a great deal more than you are now, and you would not have
nearly as much time to yourself. I believe, after all, it is more in
being contented than anything else. Look at Gran'mère Luchon. She has
as little as any one I know—living down by the shore in that dark smoky
little hut with her two little grandchildren, and supporting them and
herself with her net-making and mending and her spinning. And yet she
is happy. She is always singing over her work, and I never heard her
make a complaint."
"She is not there any more," said Lucille. "The new curé ordered her to
go to mass, and because she would not, he has taken the children away
and handed them over to the nuns, and nobody knows what, has become of
the old woman."
"The wretches!" I exclaimed.
"Hush!" said Lucille. "Don't speak so loud; nobody knows who may be
listening. I hate living so—in such constraint and danger all the time.
It is odious."
"Don't let us talk about it any more," said I. "I have some news for
you. My cousin, Andrew Corbet, from England, is coming to visit us.
Will it not seem odd to have a cousin?"
"Not to me," said Lucille, making an effort to throw off her moodiness.
"I have a plenty of them, you know. When do you expect him?"
"Next week, perhaps; the time is not set."
"What is he like?"
"I don't know; I have never seen him. He is about twenty years old,
and has been educated at a great college in England, so I suppose he
is like other young gentlemen. Come, let us eat some of Mrs. Grace's
cakes and bonbons, and then I will show you my new stitch. Grace gave
me a nice basket, because she said we might like to make a little feast
under the trees."
Lucille had something too—a bottle of milk and some wheaten bread which
she had set out to carry to Gran'mère Luchon, when she heard of the
misfortune which had befallen the poor woman. We grew quite merry over
our little feast, and the lesson in needlework went on prosperously
afterward.
"You have caught it beautifully," said I. "Mrs. Grace would say that
you excelled your pattern. But what are you looking at?"
For Lucille had dropped her work and was gazing intently in the
direction of Avranches.
I turned my eyes the same way and beheld a procession coming up
the road—of what sort I could not at first discover. There was a
cross-bearer and two or three banners; then a sight dreaded by every
Huguenot child in France—the Host carried under a fine canopy—and then
came a dozen or so of donkeys, each led by a man and bearing a woman
dressed in black, with a white scapular and long black veil.
"They are the nuns coming to take possession of the hospital," said
Lucille. "It has been all repaired and fitted up anew, and they are to
have a school and teach lace-making and embroidery."
"Lucille, what do you mean?" I exclaimed; for she had risen and stepped
to the edge of the rock to have a better view. "They will see you. Come
down here behind the bushes till they are past."
Lucille obeyed rather unwillingly, as I thought.
We peeped through the bushes as the procession advanced, and had a good
view of the nuns. There were ten of them, riding with eyes cast down
and hands folded in their large sleeves. One or two of them were very
pretty, and all had a ladylike look.
Last came the two little grandchildren of poor Mère Luchon. The
youngest, a mere baby, was sucking a lump of gingerbread, apparently
quite content; but the sobs and tear-stained face of the other told a
different story. She was seven years old, and was already a great help
and comfort to the old woman. As she passed, she raised her streaming
eyes as if imploring pity.
My blood boiled at the sight, and if I could have commanded the
lightning from heaven, that procession would have gone no farther. It
was closed by a number of villagers, all telling their beads, some with
a great show of devotion, others languidly and carelessly enough.
The new curé came last of all. He was a small, thin, sharp-faced man,
with a cruel mouth, and eyes that seemed to see everything at once.
He was certainly a great contrast to poor Father Jean, who used to go
about with his deep pockets filled with bonbons, which he distributed
to Catholic and Protestant children alike.
"The wretches! The murderous brigands!" said I between my teeth. "Oh,
if I could kill them all! The vile kidnappers! Oh, why does the Lord
suffer such things?"
"That is what I ask," said Lucille. "Why should they be so prospered
and have so much power if the Lord is not on their side? As to these
children, I don't know that I pity them so very much. The old woman
could not have lived long, and now they are sure of support and a good
education. I think the nuns are very kind-looking ladies, for my part.
And if they were right after all—if one's salvation does depend upon
being a Roman Catholic—then they are right in forcing people to become
so."
"Why did not our Lord and his apostles force all the Jews to become
Christians?" I demanded hotly enough. "He said he had only to ask to
receive more than twelve legions of angels. Why did not he do it, and
shut up all those people who did not believe on him, or put them to
death, if that is the right way?"
"He said his kingdom was not of this world, else would his servants
fight," answered Lucille.
"Then the kingdom which is of this world, and whose servants do fight
and oppress, is not his," I answered, for I could reason well enough
when I was roused from my daydreams.
"We ought to be going," said Lucille, abruptly changing the subject.
"The supper will be ready, and my father will be angry if I am not
there. I am to be kept to rules as if I were no more than five years
old."
Jeanne welcomed me with her usual affection, but her eyes were red with
weeping, and she was evidently absent-minded.
I told her what we had seen.
"Yes, I have had the story from my sister," said Jeanne, her eyes
overflowing as she spoke. "The poor old woman! Happily it cannot be
long in the course of nature before she goes to her rest, but my heart
aches for the little ones. My children, you must be doubly careful.
This new priest is not like the old one—he will leave us no peace. You
must take care never even to go near the church, or stop to look on at
any of their doings. Perhaps a way of escape may be opened to us before
long. It would indeed be hard to leave our home and go among strangers,
but exile with liberty of worship would be better than living in such
constant fear."
"Put thy trust in God, my Jeanne," said Father Simon. "We are all in
his hands. We must remember that the church has never been promised
anything in this world but tribulation and the cross. The crown is to
come hereafter. Now let us think of something else. Mamselle Vevette,
will you come and help to gather the apples on your own tree? They are
quite ready, and I will carry them up for you when you go home."
I had been grave quite as long as I liked, and was very ready to enjoy
the apple-picking from my own particular tree of golden Jeannetons,
which had been solemnly planted when I was born, and now hung loaded
with fruit. Never were such apples as those, I am sure. I wonder
whether the tree is still in bearing? It must be old and moss-grown by
this time, if it has not been cut down.
Jeanne made us a supper of fresh pan-cakes, galette, fruit, and rich
cream cheese, and when I went home, Father Simon shouldered his hotte *
and carried a famous load of beautiful apples up to the tower.
* A kind of deep, roomy basket, made to be carried on the shoulders.
I found my mother much better, and able to welcome me, and to hear all
I had to tell her. I hesitated about repeating my conversation with
Lucille on the rock, but my mind had been so disturbed that at last I
thought best to do so, hoping to have my doubts laid at rest.
"You gave the right answer, my little one," said my mother when I
had finished. "It is the will of God. Remember that he has never
promised his children temporal prosperity. 'In the world ye shall have
tribulation,' are his own words. Yet he does give his children many
pleasures. There are beautiful flowers and fair fruits growing even by
the side of the strait and narrow way, but we must not go out of the
way to seek them. Neither must we be discouraged when the path leads
over rocks and thorns, or even through marshes and quicksands; but
remember that our dear Lord has trodden every step before us, and is
waiting to receive us at the end."
Much more she said, in the same wise and gentle strain, and at last
sent me to bed feeling somewhat comforted. The night was warm, and my
door was left ajar for air. I had hardly fallen asleep, as it seemed to
me, when I was waked by voices, and heard my mother say:
"I do not like what she says about Lucille. I fear the girl has been
tampered with. Perhaps we should warn her parents."
"We will think about that," said my father. "Ah, my Marguerite, if you
and the little one were but in safety—"
"Do not ask me to leave you, Armand—not yet," said my mother, clasping
her hands. "If we could but send the child home to my sister, I should
be at ease. Could we not do it, when Andrew comes?"
"We will consider of it," answered my father. "And now, my Pearl, let
us betake ourselves to prayer."
The murmured sound of the prayer sent me to sleep, and I heard no more,
but I turned Lucille's words over in my mind with a vague uneasiness
many times during the next few days. I was destined to remember them
for long afterward.
The next day was made memorable by an unlucky accident. Mrs. Grace was
standing in the door of my room (which I have said was raised several
steps), lecturing me in her usual prim fashion concerning certain
untidinesses which she had discovered about my toilette-table, when,
suddenly stepping backward, she fell down the stairs, bruising herself
and spraining her ankle very badly.
We dared not send for a surgeon. There was an old man at Avranches
who was very skilful, and with whom we had always been on good terms,
though he was a Roman Catholic; but he had lately taken a young
assistant (or rather had been given one, for we all believed the young
man had been placed as a spy over the old one), and should it be known
that we had a sick person in the house, we were in danger of being
invaded by the priests, striving to force or coax the sick person into
a recantation.
Happily my father had a pretty good practical knowledge of surgery, and
both my mother and Mrs. Grace herself were strong in the virtues and
uses of herbs and simples.
Mrs. Grace was presently put to bed and her ankle bandaged. She was
in great pain, but the pain was little or nothing compared to the
worry of helplessness, housekeeping cares, and the necessity of being
waited upon instead of waiting upon others. Truth to say, she was but a
troublesome charge.
My dear mother, who had borne this same cross of helplessness for many
a year, preached patience in her gentle way.
Mrs. Grace assented to all she said, called herself a miserable,
rebellious sinner, and the next minute fretted more than ever: over
that careless Marie, who would be sure to burn the marmalade, or that
stupid coward of a Julienne, who would not venture up to the top of
the tower to bring in the drying fruit lest she should see the white
chevalier. For after a long season of absence—for what ghostly purpose,
who should say?—the white chevalier had again been seen walking on the
battlements of the round tower, or passing the window of his wretched
and guilty wife's apartment.
"Do not trouble yourself about the marmalade, my poor Grace," said my
mother, with a somewhat woeful smile. "Who knows whether we shall be
alive to eat it, or whether all our stores may not fall into the hands
of our enemies?"
"I should like to spice the marmalade for them!" exclaimed Grace, quite
overcome by the idea of her dainties being devoured by the Papisties,
as she always called them.
"And as to the tower," continued my mother, "I think myself the maids
may as well keep away from it. If the white chevalier and his wife
should really have been seen, it is just as well not to run any risks."
"But whom then will you trust?" asked Grace, with a startled look.
My mother put to her lips a fresh rose she had brought in her hand, and
glanced at me, and Grace said no more. I was not annoyed, as Lucille
would have been, for I had become accustomed to such hints; and with
a passing wonder as to whether my mother really believed in the white
chevalier, I plunged into my dear "Arcadia," and forgot all earthly
cares in the somewhat long-winded trials of the virtuous Parthenia. But
I was destined to hear more of the matter.
That very evening, about an hour before sunset, my father asked me to
walk with him. This was a great honor, for in my youth, children were
by no means so familiar with their parents as they are now. Whether the
change be for the better or no depends upon the parents a good deal.
We walked out by the lane, across a field, and through the loaded
orchard bending with golden and ruddy fruit, some of which was already
gathered for the cider-mill. The low sun shone under the branches,
and turned the heaps of apples to heaps of gold and rubies. It was
very still, but the tide was high, and came in over the distant sands
with a hollow roar, which my father said portended a storm. He spoke
little till we reached a little heathy eminence crowned with one of the
monuments of ancient date so common in Normandy and Brittany. From this
point we had a view for a long distance around, and nobody could come
near us without being observed. My father sat down on one of the fallen
stones, and motioned me to sit beside him.
"My daughter," said he, taking my hand in his with a certain solemnity,
"you are now almost a woman, and old enough to be admitted into the
knowledge of your father's secrets. But such knowledge is full of
danger. Are you brave, my child? Are you a worthy descendant of those
valiant Provençal and Vaudois women who hazarded their lives for the
faith? Consider, my Vevette! Suppose you were required to go into the
upper floor of the old tower, even to the ladies' bower, at night;
would you be afraid to do it? Consider, and give me an answer."
All my better self rose up at this appeal. I considered a moment, and
then answered firmly—
"I might be afraid, but I would do it, if it were my duty."
"There spoke a true Corbet woman!" said my father, smiling kindly on me
and pressing the hand which he held. "'MY DUTY!' Let that be your motto,
as it is that of your mother's house, and you will not go far wrong.
Now listen while I impart to you a weighty secret. But let us first
make sure that there are no eavesdroppers."
My father raised himself from the fallen stone and looked all around,
but no one was in sight, and the sparse heath and short grass could not
hide anything so large as a child of a year old. He even parted the
brambles and wild vines and looked inside the monument (which was one
of those made of three upright stones with a slab laid over the top),
but found nothing worse than a pair of young owls and their mother,
which were terribly disconcerted by his scrutiny, and hissed and
snapped valiantly.
Meantime I waited with anxious curiosity, though I had a guess of what
was coming.
"I have certain intelligence," said he, speaking in a low voice, "that
one of our best and oldest pastors, Monsieur Bertheau, who has, at the
risk of his life, visited and comforted many of our afflicted brethren
in Charenton and elsewhere, is now flying from his enemies, and will
arrive at this place some time to-night. He must be lodged in the old
tower till the period of spring tides, when I shall hope to procure a
passage for him to Jersey, or to England itself. Grace, who has usually
taken charge of such fugitives, is now disabled. I must be away this
night, and your mother is unable to do what is needful; besides that,
her absence from her room might excite suspicion. Mathew grows old and
forgetful, and I dare not trust any of the other servants. Dare you,
my daughter, undertake to meet this venerable man in the ruins of the
chapel to-night, and lead him by the secret passage to the room at the
top of the tower, which has been prepared for him?"
"Yes, my father," I answered; "but how shall I know the way?"
"I will give you directions which will lead you to the entrance of the
passage. Turn to your right after that, and you cannot miss your way.
When the good man is in safety, you can come directly to your mother's
room by another passage, which I will also indicate to you. But, my
child, I must not conceal from you that there is danger in this trust.
Should you be discovered by any of our enemies in giving help to this
good old man, your life or your liberty must be the forfeit."
"I know it, my father," I answered; "but if it is my duty, I can do it.
Besides, there is danger anyhow."
"That is true, my child. He that saveth his life is as like to lose it
as he that layeth it down for the Lord's sake and the Gospels."
Then my father broke down, clasped me in his arms, and wept over me in
the way that is so terrible to see in a strong man.
"My child, my Marguerite's only child! My treasure! And must I lay down
thy young life also? Oh, Lord, how long, how long!"
Presently, however, he composed himself, and laying his hand on my
head, he most solemnly dedicated me to God and his service, as the most
precious thing he had to give. That dedication has never ceased to
affect my life, even when I have strayed the farthest.
We returned home slowly, after my father had given me the most minute
directions for finding the secret passage, and I had repeated them
after him so as to imprint them on my memory, for I dared not write
down even the least hint of them lest the paper should fall into the
hands of our enemies.
I told my father that I would look into the chapel, and be sure that I
understood what he had said.
"No one will think anything of it," I added. "I am always wandering
about the place, and I often go to the chapel and sit in the old
stalls."
"Very well, child. I trust thy discretion. Only come in before it is
dark, lest the poor mother should be needlessly alarmed. And one thing
more, my Vevette: let not a hint escape thee to the Sablots; not that I
would not trust the father and mother with any secret, but I confess I
mistrust Lucille after what you have told us about her."
"You don't think she would betray us?" I asked, startled.
"I cannot tell. If she has indeed been tampered with, she may not be
able to help herself. At all events, the fewer people are in a secret
the better."
When we returned to the tower I slipped away and entered the old
chapel. It was of considerable extent—quite a church, in fact, though
I suppose no service had been said there for perhaps a hundred years.
The altar of wonderfully carved oak was still in its place, though all
its ornaments and images had been removed or destroyed. The altarpiece
which was painted on the wall still remained, and though faded and
stained was still beautiful.
My father once told me that it had been painted by some great Spanish
artist. The Virgin and her Babe were the central figures. She had a
sad, grieved expression in her dark eyes, and I had a fancy that she
was mourning over the use that had been made of her name. Certainly I
think that gentle, lowly woman could hardly be happy in heaven itself
if she knew how she was treated here on earth.
The chancel was surrounded by a row of carved niches or stalls with
seats in them. I counted them from the left hand side of the altar,
and putting my hand under the seat of the fourth I found and slightly
pressed the button my father had told me of. It moved in my fingers,
but I dared not open it.
"I suppose it was by this secret way that they brought the wife of
the white chevalier when they buried her alive in the vault below," I
thought.
And then, as a sound behind me made me turn with a thrill, I almost
expected to see the poor murdered lady's ghost arise before me.
But it was only one of our numerous family of cats which had chosen
this place for her young progeny.
If I had seen the ghost, however, I do not believe I should have
blanched: I was too highly wrought up by enthusiasm and the kind of
nervous excitement which has always served me in place of courage. I
ascended the rickety stairs into the music loft, touched the yellow
keys of the useless organ, and leaning over the ledge, tried to
think how the place must have looked when it was full of kneeling
worshippers. Then, being warned by the deepening shadows of the
lateness of the hour, I went into the house to my supper.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]