THE LONELY GRANGE.
THAT evening my father came home, bringing with him my English cousin,
Andrew Corbet, whom I had never seen, and whom he had been expecting
for some days. He had come over in the train of the English ambassador,
and therefore was to some extent a sacred person, though the name of
Englishman was not at that time considered in Europe as it came to be
afterward. Charles the Second was but a subsidized vassal of Louis the
Fourteenth, as every one knew.
It remained for the ungracious, silent little Dutchman, who came
afterward, to raise England once more to her proper place among the
nations. I may as well say here, not to make an unnecessary mystery,
that Andrew Corbet was my destined husband, that arrangement having
been made when we were both children. Such family arrangements were and
are still common in France, where a girl's widest liberty is only a
liberty of refusal, and a demoiselle would no more expect to choose her
husband, than to choose her parents.
In England there has always been more opportunity for choice—an
opportunity which has so greatly increased since I can remember, that
it is hard to see where it is going to end. I must say that, though I
would never force a young person's inclinations, yet I do think the
parents should have something to say as to their children's settlement.
However, a person of discretion will find ways of managing such matters
and preventing uncomfortable entanglements.
I suppose I was not intended to know of this affair quite so soon, but
it came out through Mrs. Grace's fussy anxiety that I should appear
well in the eyes of my intended bridegroom; and, being once out, why,
there was an end, as my mother said. I was not looking my best, by any
means. Fourteen is not usually a beautiful age, and I was no exception
to the general rule. I was naturally dark—"a true black Corby," my
father said—and inclined to paleness, and my appearance was not at
all improved by the dark lines under my eyes, caused by the grief and
fatigue of the last few days.
However, this same grief and care had a good effect in one way. They
had brought my better nature uppermost for the time, and banished
those daydreams, which were my bane, so that I was much less awkward
and self-conscious than I should otherwise have been. I was of course
curious to see my future bridegroom, but I cannot say that I remember
feeling any particular flutter or agitation on the occasion. I was too
young for that, and I had had no opportunity to form any other fancy.
In this country, it would have been thought improper if not dangerous
for me to associate so freely with a handsome young working-man like
David Sablot, but I can safely say that such an idea never entered
any one's head. The distinction of rank is very much more severely
marked in France than here, and was much more so at that time than now;
and besides, David was my foster-brother, and as such no more to be
considered in any lover-like light than an own brother would have been.
Andrew's only rival was a certain Lord Percy, a creature of my own
imagination, who figured largely in that visionary world which I
inhabited at times—an impossible creature, compounded of King Arthur,
Sir Galahad, and some of the fine gentlemen I had come across in my
stolen readings—who was to rescue me from unheard-of dangers, and
endure unheard-of hardships in my behalf, though I never quite made up
my mind whether he was to die at my feet or carry me off in triumph to
his ancestral halls.
Andrew, certainly, was not the least like this hero of mine. He was
handsome in a certain way, but that way was not mine. He was short, for
one thing, and broad-shouldered, with a large nose, large gray eyes
with dilating pupils, so that his eyes usually passed for black; and
his hair and beard were so black as to be almost blue, and crisped like
my own.
No, he was not at all like Lord Percy; but, after all, I liked his
looks. Andrew had been about the world a good deal for a man of his
years, having been on two or three long sea-voyages, and he was by no
means as awkward as young men of that age are apt to be.
He saluted my mother and myself with considerable grace, I thought, and
made himself at home in our house, with just enough and not too much
freedom. On the whole I liked him very well. Oh, how I longed to tell
Lucille about him; and I shed some bitter tears at the thought that I
should never confide in her again.
My father's first inquiry, after he was assured of our health and
safety, was for the pastor, and he praised the courage and presence of
mind I had shown.
"We must not keep the old man here," he said. "The tide will be
favorable for his escape by the day after to-morrow, and an English
ship will be waiting for him off the shore. But first I would fain have
one more celebration of the Holy Supper with some of our poor friends.
Heaven knows when we shall have another chance. But what is this I hear
about the Sablots?"
My mother repeated the story. My father listened with the greatest
interest, and when it was finished, turning to me he asked, with
anxiety, whether I were quite sure I had not been seen by the priest.
"Quite sure," said I. "I was hidden on the top of the rock, but I saw
it all."
My father sighed. "The net is drawn closer and closer," said he. "Ah,
my Marguerite, were you and the little one but in safety!"
"But I do not understand," said Andrew, speaking almost for the first
time. "I see that this girl has become a Papist; but need that separate
her entirely from her family? It would be a grief to them, of course;
but could they not go their way, and let her go hers? Surely, they
might at least give the poor thing a home."
"You do not understand, indeed, my poor Andrew," said my father,
smiling sadly.
And he explained the matter in a few choice words. Andrew's brow
darkened, and he struck his hand on the table.
"And there are thousands upon thousands of you Protestants in France,
able men, and many of you gentlemen used to arms, and yet you suffer
such tyranny!" said he. "Why do you not rise upon your oppressors, and
at least have a fight for your lives?"
"Hush, hush, my son," said my father. "Would you have us rise in
rebellion against our king—the Lord's anointed!"
"The king is a man like another man, when all is done," said my cousin
sturdily; "and has a joint in his neck, as the old Scotchman said. I
have been in America, my cousin, where our colonies are growing, and
where they seem to do fairly well at a pretty good distance from any
king. As to such a man as this Louis being the Lord's anointed, any one
may believe that who likes. I don't; or, if he is, he is such an one as
Saul or Rehoboam."
"Some of our people talk as you do," said my father, while I looked at
my cousin's firm lips and sparkling eyes with great approval; "but we
are too much divided among ourselves on the subject to make any plan of
resistance possible."
"Then I would flee to some better place," said Andrew. "Come over to
Cornwall and set up your tent. There is a fine estate to be bought,
not far from Tre Madoc. Some of the lands have mines upon them, which
my father believes could be worked to advantage, and you could give
employment to many of your oppressed countrymen. Why not go thither at
once?"
"And leave my poor people?"
"The people are not in so much danger as you are," answered Andrew. "It
is the high tree that falls in the storm. Think of my aunt and cousin
here, condemned to such things as you have told me of, or left desolate
by your loss. Surely you should consider them as well as your tenants."
Andrew spoke with great warmth, yet with due modesty, and I liked him
better and better every moment. My mother and I both looked at my
father.
"Here are two pairs of eyes pleading with you," said my father. "I
must say that your plan is a most tempting one, if it could be carried
out, and we are in a better position to make such an escape than many
others, being so near the sea, and having a good deal of wealth laid
by in jewels against a day of need. But, my son, let me most earnestly
impress upon your mind the great need of caution in speech even among
ourselves. Though all of our household are faithful, so far as I know,
yet they are always liable to be tampered with, and we are never safe
from spies and eavesdroppers. Such a speech as yours about the king, if
reported, would be our utter ruin. Let me beg you, for all our sakes,
to be careful."
I saw Andrew clinch his hand and set his teeth hard at the idea of such
care being needful; and indeed it was a new care for him. Times were
not very good in England just then, but they were far better than with
us.
We separated, to prepare for supper. I dressed myself in my very best,
to do honor to my cousin's arrival, though I was quite conscious, when
I looked into my little mirror, that I did not look nearly so well in
my fine damask gown and lace cap as I did in the gray-blue homespun
which was my ordinary morning wear. Grace would sit up in bed to
arrange my cap and lace my stays herself, and she drew them so tight. I
could hardly breathe.
The next morning I was sent down to Father Simon's cottage with a
weighty message—no less important than this: that there would be a
celebration of the Holy Supper, as we always called it, that very
night, in the vaults under the lonely grange, which stood in a hollow
of our domain. Simon was to send word to certain of the faithful at
Sartilly and Granville.
Andrew, who had already as it were taken possession of me, would go
with me, and though Mrs. Grace demurred at such a freedom, he had
his way. He always has had a great knack of getting his own way,
partly, I think, because he goes on that way so quietly, without ever
contradicting any one.
I did not go by the lane this time, but through the orchard, over the
heathy knoll, where my father and myself had had such an important
conversation, and down the little ravine which the stream had made in
its passage to the sea.
It was a somewhat scrambling walk, and I liked it all the better for
that. My ostensible errand was a search for fresh eggs, so I carried my
little straw basket on my arm. I had a password in which to communicate
my errand, and, meeting one of the old men who was to be summoned, I
used it.
"Jean Martin, my father bids me ask you if the old grange will do to
store the apples in?"
The old man's face lighted up, and he took off his hat.
"When should they be stored, mademoiselle?" he asked.
"To-morrow at high noon," was the answer.
"It is as safe a place as any. Thank your honored father and yourself.
I will be there."
"What does that mean?" asked Andrew, as we went on. "Why should that
old fellow be so wonderfully pleased at being asked about a place to
store the apples?"
"Hush!" said I, speaking English, which I now did quite perfectly. "You
must learn not to talk so loud."
"I am like to lose the use of my tongue altogether, if I stay long in
this country," said he discontentedly. "Well, cousin, I will squeak
like a rere-mouse, if that will content you. But what does it mean?"
I explained the matter, taking care to speak in English, and in a low
tone.
"So that was it," said he, in a tone of wonder mixed with compassion.
"And will the old man really leave his bed at midnight, and risk not
only the rheumatism but his life, on such an errand as that?"
"Yes, indeed, and his wife also, though she is very infirm," said I.
"We of the Religion are used to such risks."
"I wonder what one of the farmers in our parish at Tre Madoc would say
to such an invitation?" was Andrew's comment. "But what if you should
be discovered?"
"Then we should be shot down like wolves, or carried away no one knows
where. Such things happen every day."
"And in our free country, where every one can worship, the pastor has
often hard work to gather a dozen people to the communion," remarked
Andrew. "Truly, if Papist France deserves a judgment for suppressing
the truth, I know not but England deserves as much for neglecting it."
"Are people there, then, so careless of duties?" I asked.
"Many of them are. The court sets the worst example, and those of the
gentry who frequent it are not slow to follow. And though there are in
London itself and scattered all through the land faithful and earnest
preachers of the Word, there are also far too many who think of the
church only as a means of getting a living at a very easy rate. And yet
I dare say a great many of these easy-going pastors, if it came to the
pinch, would wake up and show that they could die for their faith, if
need were. Only they would not die as easily as people seem to do over
here," he added. "They would have a fight for it first."
"Our pastors do not think it right to fight," said I, a little vexed.
"I know they do not, and there is where I differ from them," said he.
"Is this the farm where we are going? What an odd, pretty place! And
what splendid old apple-trees!"
"Yes, Father Simon is very proud of his apples, poor man. The place
does not look like itself," I added, with a sigh, as I missed Lucille
from the bench before the door, where she would have been sitting
with her distaff at this hour. We found Mother Jeanne going about her
household work as usual, but in a sad, spiritless way, quite unlike her
ordinary bustling fashion. Her face brightened, however, when she heard
my errand, and she called in Simon to hear it also. To him I gave, in
addition to the questions about storing the apples, a commission about
cider-casks, to be executed at Sartilly.
"It is well," said he; "I shall attend to the matter. Our Master has
not quite forgotten us, thou seest, my Jeanne, since he sends us such
help and comfort by the way."
"Did you think he had, Father Simon?" I asked.
"Not so, Mamselle, but one's faith droops at times; and when one is
weary and faint with the heat of the day, it is a wonderful comfort to
come on a clear well of living water. Tell your honored father that I
will attend to the matter."
"And about the eggs?" I asked.
"I have a few for madame, and Marie Duclas has some, I know."
"Who is this fine chevalier, my child?" asked Jeanne, as I followed her
to the well-known outhouse where the hens' nests were. "Is he one of
your English cousins?"
It was with some pride that I informed my foster-mother of Andrew's
relation to myself. Jeanne was much affected. She clasped me in her
arms and wept over me, calling me by every endearing name in her
vocabulary, now lamenting that I should go so far-away, and then
rejoicing that I should be in safety.
"But, ah, my lamb, my precious one, do not set thy heart too strongly
upon thy young bridegroom. Remember what times of shaking and
separation these are, when the desire of one's eyes may be taken away
with a stroke at any time. Ah, my poor daughter—my Lucille, my youngest
lamb! Tell me, my Vevette, dost thou think I was ever unjust or unkind
to her?"
"No, indeed!" I answered, with honest indignation, for my heart burned
within me every time I thought of Lucille's cruel note of farewell.
"Nobody ever had a better home or kinder friends. I imagine she will
find out before many days what she has lost."
"I fear she will not be happy," said Jeanne, wiping her eyes. "I had
lost so many before she came, and she was so delicate in her childhood,
that I was always more careful of her than of David, who never gave me
an hour's anxiety since he was born, except on that unlucky day when he
went to see the procession."
"I do not believe poor Lucille will be very happy anywhere—not unless
she changes her disposition," said I. "It seems to me that a jealous
person will always find something to torment him. But though I knew she
was discontented, I never could have believed she would take such a
step. Poor Lucille!"
"It is some comfort to speak of her," said Jeanne. "The father never
mentions her name except in prayer. He feels the disgrace most deeply.
I must tell you, my child, that that poor reprobate Pierre Le Febre
came here yesterday, and most earnestly disclaimed having any hand in
or knowledge of Lucille's decision. He confessed that he loved her, and
would gladly have married her, and then he broke down and wept, saying
that he should have felt her death less. He had been a bad man, but he
had some human feeling left. Simon led him into the orchard and had a
long talk with him, and this morning they met, and Pierre told him that
he had gone with poor Isabeau before the priest and made her his wife.
So some good has come out of the evil."
By this time Jeanne had set out some refreshment for us, of which we
partook, not to seem ungracious. Andrew had been over the farm with
Father Simon, and though his French was not the most fluent in the
world, and Simon's was deeply flavored with patois, they seemed to get
on together very well. I think two such manly, honest hearts could not
fail to understand each other, though they had not a word in common.
Andrew could not say enough in praise of the grand Norman horses and
the beautiful little cows, but he turned up his nose at the buckwheat,
and thought that a great deal more might be made of the land. We
visited Lebrun's and one other farm, where we were received with the
same welcome. Everywhere we heard comments on poor Lucille's conduct.
"The poor Jeanne was too easy with her. She indulged her far too much,"
said Marie Lebrun. "She took all the hardest and most unpleasant work
on herself, to spare Lucille, and leave her time for her needlework
and her fine spinning. If she had had to work as hard as my girls, she
would not have had so much time to indulge her foolish fancies."
"Ah, Marie, it is easy to condemn," remarked her sister Marthe, who had
never married, and was held in great respect among us for her piety
and good works. "If Jeanne had taken the opposite course, people would
have said it was because the child was so oppressed that she left her
father's house. It is easy to say what might have been. A parent may do
her best, and yet the child may go wrong."
"I am not so sure of that," said Marie, with some complacency. "'Train
up a child in the way he should go,' you know."
"'My beloved had a vineyard in a very fruitful hill,'" quoted Marthe;
"'and he fenced it, and gathered out the stones thereof, and planted
it with the choicest vine, and built a tower in the midst thereof, and
also made a wine-press therein; and he looked that it should bring
forth grapes, and it brought forth wild grapes.' If the great Lord
of the vineyard met with such a disappointment, shall we blame the
under-gardeners when the vintage does not answer our expectations?"
"Ah, my Marie, after all, that others can do for us; we must each build
our lives for ourselves. We cannot cast off the responsibility on any
one else."
I have many a time thought of these words of the good Marthe, when I
have heard parents blamed for the faults of their grown-up children.
Poor Marthe! She was one of the victims of the times, and died in
prison.
As we walked homeward, Andrew and I fell into conversation about our
future prospects. He told me of his house at Tre Madoc, which was,
however, his mother's as long as she lived; of the increased wealth
which had come to them from the working of a mine on his estate; and
described to me the old house and its surroundings till I could almost
see it.
Then he asked me frankly, in his sailor fashion, whether I liked him,
and whether I thought I could be happy with him; to which I answered,
with equal frankness:
"I do not see why I should not, cousin—that is, if your mother will be
kind to me."
"You need not fear that," answered Andrew. "She is kindness itself, and
my sisters are good merry girls. But about myself."
"I like you very much," I answered, with true Norman bluntness, "and I
am glad you came here. I wish you were going to stay. It is as nice as
having an own brother."
To my surprise Andrew did not seem at all pleased with this remark of
mine. He colored, muttered something between his teeth about brothers
which did not sound very complimentary, and was rather silent during
the rest of our walk.
Afterward, from something I caught, I fancy he had been speaking of the
matter to my mother, for I heard her say:
"You are too precipitate, my son. Think how young the child is, and how
carefully she has been brought up. You must trust to time and your own
merits for the growth of a warmer feeling."
Andrew has since told me that he loved me from the very first time he
heard me speak. How long and steadfastly that love endured, through
evil and good report, hoping against hope, triumphing over danger and
distance, it must be mine to tell, though the story is not much to mine
own credit.
That night about eleven o'clock, after all the younger servants had
gone to bed, my mother and myself, with the pastor, wrapped in our long
black cloaks, stole forth in the darkness. My father and Andrew had
gone away on horseback early in the afternoon, ostensibly to Avranches,
but we knew we should find them waiting for us at the appointed place.
We dared not take a lantern lest it should betray us, but found our
way, by the stars and the cold diffused light of an aurora, to the
little rocky dell in the midst of the fields where stood the lonely
grange. It was a great rambling stone building, very old, but strong
still. Nobody knew when or for what purpose it had been first erected,
but my father believed it to be of great antiquity. It was not much
used at present, save for a storehouse for grain and cider, but the old
Luchons lived in two tolerably comfortable rooms on the ground floor of
the old tower.
The walk had been long and rough for us all, and especially for my
mother, and we were not sorry to see the tower standing dark against
the sky, and to meet the challenge of our outposts; for at all our
meetings we had our sentinels and our pass-words.
My father and Andrew were on the lookout for us, and Andrew nearly
crushed my hand off in the fervor of his joy at finding me safe.
We passed though the old Luchons' kitchen into the great room or hall
which occupied the center of the building, and which was crowded
with empty casks and sheaves of grain. Threading our way amid these
obstructions, which would have appeared impenetrable to any one not in
the secret, we descended a flight of stairs to the vault, where most
of our brethren were assembled. A rude platform was built up at one
end, before which stood a small table covered with a white cloth. The
congregation consisted of several of the neighboring farmers and some
of the poorer laborers with their wives, and now and then a grown-up
son or daughter, and a few tradespeople and fishermen from Granville,
who had run a double danger to break the bread of life once more.
The only gentry beside ourselves were the Le Roys, from near Sartilly,
who had brought their child for baptism. Not one of the family is alive
now. Of that little company, more than half witnessed for their faith
on the scaffold or under the muskets of their enemies. I suppose so
many of the Religion could not now be gathered in all Normandy.
It was touching to see the joy of the poor people at having a pastor
once more. Many of them had seen Monsieur Bertheau before. These
crowded round him, and happy was the man or woman who could obtain a
grasp of his hand or a word from his lips. But there was little time to
be spent in friendly greetings. The congregation took their places, and
the service began.
When I shut my eyes, how vividly the whole scene comes before me—the
rough vault, but dimly lighted by a few wax torches; the earnest, calm
face and silver hair of the pastor; the solemn, attentive congregation,
the old people occupying the front rank, that their dull ears might
not lose a word; Monsieur and Madame Le Roy, with their beautiful babe
wrapped in a white cashmere shawl. I can smell the scent of the apples
and the hay mingled with the earthy, mouldy smell of the vault, and
hear the melodious voice, trembling a little with age, as the old man
read:
"I will not leave you comfortless: I will come to you."
"If the world hate you, ye know that it hated me before it hated you."
I think no one can fully understand these words who has not heard them
under circumstances of danger, or at least of sorrow. Andrew was deeply
affected by them; and when the little lily-white babe was brought
forward for baptism, he put down his head and almost sobbed aloud.
My father had been somewhat unwilling to have him run the risk of
attending the meeting, but he had insisted, and he told me afterward,
and has often told me since, that he would not have missed it for
anything.
I know that the service was greatly blessed to my own heart, and for
a long time afterward, I was quite a different creature—I may say,
indeed, for all my life, since, though for a time choked by the thorns
of this world, the seed sown that night always remained, and at last,
as I hope, has borne some fruit to the sower.
Our meeting was not to pass off without an alarm. The pastor had just
finished distributing the bread and wine when one of the lookouts came
down to say that he had heard a distant sound like the galloping of
horses, which drew nearer every moment. All were at once on the alert.
The lights were extinguished below, and also in the kitchen above.
Another great cellar opened from the one we were in, and here, since
there was no time to get away, we hid ourselves, waiting in breathless
suspense, but calm and collected, for whatever might be coming. The
very youngest children never uttered a cry or whimper, and the only
sound heard was a whispered prayer or encouragement passed from one to
another.
But oh how welcome was the voice which announced that the alarm was a
false one! A herd of young horses had broken from their pasture and
rushed abroad over the fields, scared, perhaps, by some stray wolf.
It was thought best to break up our gathering at once, and exchanging
short but earnest farewells, we all reached our homes in safety.
Several of the old people, worn-out by the fatigue and agitation, died
within a short time, and the sweet babe only survived its baptism for
a few weeks. Happy child to be taken in its innocence from the evil to
come.
The next night the pastor left us. He went out in a fishing-boat,
hoping to meet an English ship which was expected off the coast, but
the ship was detained by contrary winds. A sudden storm came up, and
the boat was capsized. With him were two sailors, sons of a widow in
the little village from which he embarked. One perished; the other was
picked up and carried to Jersey, where he lay long ill of a fever. But
he recovered at last, and it was from him we heard the story.
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