A SUDDEN SUMMONS.
FOR about a fortnight or more after the departure of the pastor we had
a very quiet, pleasant time. The weather was lovely, and we made long
excursions out of doors. We gathered apples and quinces, and hunted
for herbs and flowers, for Andrew was a good deal of an herbalist (a
botanist, I think they call it now, though I am sure herbalist is
the prettier word), and he was in correspondence with some learned
gentleman in London on the subject of plants. He told me many things
about flowers that I had never known or dreamed of before, showing me
the several parts of the blossom, the leaves, and roots, by means of a
pocket magnifying-glass which he always carried about him.
He read to my mother and myself as we sat at our embroidery or
spinning, and he held endless gossips with my mother about old families
in Cornwall and Devonshire, and people and places she used to know. I
listened with great interest to these tales, for I had begun now to
look upon Tre Madoc as my future home, and any detail concerning it
was of interest to me. I was growing more and more fond of my cousin
all the time, and the image of Lord Percy had quite ceased to haunt my
imagination.
I do not think that I ever spent two happier weeks in all my life. For
one thing, I was at peace with myself. The events of the last month had
aroused my conscience and wakened the religious principles implanted
by education to new life. I laid aside the dreams of worldly pleasure
and ambition, which usually occupied so much of my time, and kept my
conscience in a state of chronic discomfort, and I really did begin to
experience some of those higher and holier joys of which poor Lucille
had spoken in that memorable conference of ours. True, we were still
under the power of our enemies—still in danger at any time of losing
liberty and life. But one becomes used to danger as to everything else,
and somehow to me the presence of my cousin seemed a protection, though
if I had been asked why, I could not have told for my life.
Andrew was very earnest with my parents to consent to our being married
immediately. He said, and with some show of reason, that he should then
have the right to protect me, whatever happened, and that the fact of
my father's daughter having married a British subject might be some
advantage to him. This, however, my father doubted. He had no idea that
the English government would quarrel with Louis on any such frivolous
pretext.
Both he and my mother were opposed to such early marriages, though they
were common enough at the time. And moreover, they wished to learn a
little more about Andrew before giving their only child wholly into his
hands. So the matter was postponed for an indefinite time.
Of course I should have acquiesced in any arrangement made by my
honored parents, and I do not think I should have found any difficulty
in doing so, for, as I have said, I liked Andrew better and better
every day. But my heart had not awaked to love in its highest sense.
I looked upon Andrew as a big brother, very nice to play with, and to
order about, but that was all. I had, besides, very high though very
indefinite notions of the duties and responsibilities of a married
woman, and dreaded assuming them, all the more because my mind was more
awakened to a sense of duty than it had ever been before. On the whole
I very much preferred to let matters remain as they were.
The feast of St. Michael occurred during Andrew's stay, and it was
to be celebrated with more pomp than usual. The new curé was very
zealous in beating up for pilgrims to the shrine, and, as we heard,
preached more than one sermon on the subject. We had had a bad
harvest that year of everything but apples, and the fishing had been
unusually unsuccessful. This the curé attributed to the anger of our
great patron, St. Michael, because his feast day had been neglected
of late, owing—so he said, though I don't think it was true—to the
influence of the heretics who were allowed to defile the holy soil of
La Manche with their presence; and he threatened the people with still
severer judgments unless the great archangel were appeased by a grand
pilgrimage, and by the purification of the holy soil before mentioned.
"St. Michael must have been rather astonished at the acts attributed to
him, if he happened to be anywhere in the neighborhood," said Andrew;
but my father shook his head.
"It is no laughing matter," said he. "We have lived in great peace with
our Roman Catholic neighbors, under the rule of the last curé, who was
a kindhearted old man, much fonder of his garden and orchard than of
his breviary; but this new priest is of a different type. He is doing
his best to arouse the fanaticism of the peasants, and especially of
the lower and more debased class. I do not believe he would hesitate to
hold out, as an inducement, the plunder of the tower."
"Would he dare do that?" asked Andrew.
"It has been done in a hundred instances," answered my father. "It is
no lower motive than that of relieving a man of the payment of his
honest debts, on condition of his returning to the bosom of the church,
and that has been done by a public edict."
"And this is the king who must not be resisted, because, forsooth, he
is the Lord's anointed!" said Andrew, with that peculiar flash of his
gray eye, like sunlight reflected from bright armor, that I had learned
to know so well.
"The king is governed by his counsellors," said my father.
"As to that," answered Andrew, "he does not seem to be very much
governed by his counsellors in the matter of his building and gambling
expenses, and—some other things," catching a warning glance from my
mother. "I thought he made a boast that he was the state. As to his
being deceived, why does he not find out for himself? Things are no
better in Paris than here. How can he be ignorant of what happens under
his very nose?"
"Very easily, my son. A good many things happen under the very nose
of His Majesty King Charles of England which do not seem to make much
impression on his mind," said my father, a little testily. He had
his full share of that unreasoning loyalty—unreasonable, too, as I
think—which possessed all France, Protestant and Catholic, at that
time. "We have all heard how the king was engaged the night that the
Dutch sailed up the river. You cannot propose him as a model, nephew!"
"I never said he was," answered Andrew dryly, and then the conversation
stopped.
The next morning I went out very early into the lane to look for a pair
of scissors which I had dropped the day before, when I was joined by my
cousin.
"Vevette," said he, "is there no place from which we can view this
procession in safety? I have a great curiosity about it."
"Oh, yes, we can do so from the top of the rock at the end of our lane,
if you like," I answered. "But we must make haste thither, for they
will soon be on their way."
I was all the more ready for the adventure as I hoped to obtain a
glimpse of Lucille.
We were soon safely hidden among the tall bushes and wild vines which
covered the top of the rock, but not too soon, for we were hardly
settled before the head of the procession appeared in sight. It had
been joined by pilgrims from all parts of Normandy, and looked like a
little army. The cross-bearer came first, as usual, then a company of
priests, loudly chanting as they walked, then banners without number,
and I know not what devices besides of images and angels and what not.
Then came a company of women, headed by the nuns from the hospital,
each leading by the hand one of the new converts, as they were called,
in bitter derision.
The poor little Luchon was there, pale and thin as a shadow. Her wasted
hand held a rosary like the rest, but it drooped listlessly by her
side. Either the sad-faced nun who led her by the other hand did not
think it worth while to have a public contest with her, or she had
tried and failed, for she did not interfere with the child, and, I even
fancied, looked at her with an eye of pity.
Lucille was one of the last. I saw in a moment that she was at least no
happier than she had been at home, for the dark shade was on her face
which I knew so well. However, she was telling her beads as diligently
as the best of them. As she passed the foot of the rock she looked up.
I had ventured a little nearer the edge than was quite prudent, and our
eyes met for a moment. She made me a warning sign, and then a bitter
smile curled her lips, and she pressed to them with fervor the crucifix
attached to her rosary. Her companion looked up also, but saw nothing,
as I had shrunk back from my dangerous position. That was the last time
I saw my old playmate for many a long day, though I heard from her once
or twice, as I have reason to remember.
There were more banners and more pilgrims, but I saw none of them.
I had retreated to the back of the cliff and thrown myself down on
the moss in a fit of bitter weeping. I had loved Lucille dearly,
despite our many quarrels, and I believe she loved me as much as her
self-absorbed nature would let her love any one. Hers was an asking
love, always thinking more of what it was to get than of what it had to
give.
Andrew was so absorbed in the spectacle that he did not miss me till
all were past, and when he came to find me, he was frightened at my
agitation. It was some time before I could even be got to move or
speak. Andrew brought me water in a little drinking-cup he always
carried, fanned me, and soothed me with the greatest tenderness, and at
last I was able to tell him the story.
"Then that was the girl who looked up," said he. "I thought there was
something peculiar about her. She does not look very happy with her new
friends. I wonder what they will do with her?"
"Make a nun of her, if they can squeeze her dowry out of Father Simon,
or perhaps marry her up to some one," I answered. "Julienne's sister
says the Le Febres are very angry with Pierre for marrying his old
sweetheart Isabeau, when he might have waited and taken Lucille and her
farm."
"But the farm is her father's, and will descend to her brother, won't
it?" asked Andrew in surprise. "Did you not tell me she had a brother
who was expected home?"
"Yes, my foster-brother, David. You will like him, I am sure. But he
is of the Religion, like his father, and if Lucille should marry a
Catholic, * the law would find some way of handing the farm over to
him, though David is honest and industrious, and Pierre is a bit of a
reprobate. I hope David will come; I should like you to see him."
* I do not like to use Catholic in this sense, but we were in a
manner forced to it at that time.—G. C.
"Pierre may be a bit of a reprobate, but he is a good bit of a man as
well," said Andrew. "I saw him give that great hulking Antoine Michaud
a blow that knocked him flat because he insulted that poor old woman
whose grandchildren were taken away from her."
(I forgot to mention that poor old Gran'mère Luchon had been allowed
to return to her cottage, being, I suppose, too small game to be worth
the bagging, or perhaps with the hope of catching some one else by her
means.)
"He knows how to sail a boat, too," continued Andrew. "I went out with
him yesterday, and I never saw a boat better handled, though it is a
horrid old tub, too. Such a fellow ought to be a soldier or sailor.
Many a man has made a good record on shipboard who would never do
anything for himself."
"I hope he will be good to poor Isabeau," said I. "But come, Andrew, we
must go home."
We had been sitting all this time on the top of the rock, in the very
place where Lucille had cleared a spot for her spindle. As we rose, we
both cast a glance over the landscape.
"There is going to be a storm," said I. "See how the sea-birds are all
flying to shore, and how the fog is beginning to creep in from the sea.
I am glad I am not going to cross the Grèves this day. Some one is sure
to go astray and be lost."
"Drowned by the tide?" asked Andrew.
"Yes, or more likely sucked under by the quicksands, which extend
themselves very much at times. There is hardly ever a great pilgrimage
but some one is lost. Come, we must be going. My mother will wonder
where we are."
The storm I had predicted came on later in the day, just in time to
catch many of the returning pilgrims, and several were drowned, among
them, as we heard, the poor little Luchon and the nun who had her in
charge.
"One cannot be sorry for the child," remarked my father when he heard
the news. "She has escaped a great deal."
"Nor for her companion either, if there be any truth in looks," said
Andrew. "I never saw a sadder, more hopeless face. Did you not notice
it, Vevette?"
"I did," I answered. "I noticed, too, that she looked compassionately
on the poor child, and did not try to force her to tell her beads, like
some of the others."
"This storm is an unlucky thing for us," said my mother. "I can see
well how it will be used to excite the people more and more against
us. Armand, when shall we leave this place, and put our children and
ourselves in safety?"
"As soon as Mrs. Grace is able to travel," answered my father. "We
could not leave her behind, or take her with us at present. I trust
another month will see us in England. I would not leave my people so
long as my presence was any protection to them, but I think, as things
are now, they would be better without me."
"Could not your brother in Paris secure you a protection from the
king?" asked Andrew. "He seems to be a great courtier, and greatly in
favor."
"So great a courtier that he would not risk a frown from the king to
save my whole family from destruction," answered my father dryly.
"No, there is nothing to hope and everything to fear from attracting
the notice of any one about the king. I have looked the matter all
over, and tried to gain every light on the subject that I was able,"
continued my father gravely; "I have also asked counsel of such of our
pastors as I have been able to meet with, and my mind is made up. So
soon as Grace is able to travel we must endeavor to escape. So, my wife
and daughter, you must pack up your valuables and necessaries in the
smallest possible compass, and keep the bundles where you can lay your
hands upon them at any moment."
"But mind, the necessaries must be reduced to the lowest point,"
he added, with that sorrowful smile I had learned to know so well.
"Vevette cannot carry her story books nor her carved wheel, nor madame
her rose-bushes or her poultry, or Mrs. Grace her precious marmalade. A
very few clothes and the jewels and a little money are all we can take
with us."
These words fell coldly upon my ear and heart. I was familiar enough
with the idea of flight, but I had not realized that flight meant
leaving behind all my most cherished possessions—my beloved books, my
lute, my pet cows, all that I treasured most. I went up to my pretty
little room, and, sitting down, I wept as if my heart would break
for a while. Then I knelt down and prayed, with all sincerity and
earnestness, that I might have grace cheerfully to abandon all I had,
yea and mine own life also, if need be, for the kingdom of heaven's
sake.
And after a while, feeling comforted and strengthened, I arose and
began looking over my possessions, to see what should be taken and what
left. I do not think that in this I was foolish or even childish. It
is not seldom that very little things bring home to us the bitterness
of grief. I have seen a lady who was perfectly cool, collected,
and sweet-tempered through all the dangers of a terrible storm and
shipwreck and the miseries of dreadful sea-sickness, protracted for
weeks, break down in an agony of grief because the little dog she had
brought from France was swept overboard from the wreck an which she
might herself go down at any moment.
But poor Mrs. Grace was destined to take a longer journey than that we
proposed, and to find a refuge where neither danger nor home-sickness
can enter—where the wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at
rest. She had been for several weeks confined to her bed.
One day my father and mother, Andrew and myself set out for a long walk
over the domain. It was rather a silent and sorrowful expedition, for,
though no one said so, we all felt that it might be a last farewell. We
called at Simon Sablot's farm, and any father confided to Simon certain
weighty deposits and an important secret concerning his own affairs,
and told him where certain valuable packages would be found in case he
should be obliged to send for them.
I should say that for several nights my father and Andrew had been
busily occupied in conveying to places of safety so much of our stock
of plate as could be removed without suspicion. This was the more easy
because we used very little silver every day, the rest being secured in
a strong closet which opened from my father's room. We went through the
orchards and the little vineyard, visited the old people at the lonely
grange, walked through the chestnut wood and filled our pockets with
the nuts, which were just ripening and falling.*
* The fine chestnut-tree at the south end of the house is from one of
these nuts. I trust no one will over cut it down.—G. C.
"There is a fine harvest of chestnuts at least," said my mother,
sighing. "I hope some one will be the better for them."
My father pressed the hand that lay on his arm, but he could not trust
himself to speak. The moment was an unspeakably bitter one to him. He
had taken great pains with his estate, and had laid out much money
in improvements, not only for his own profit but still more for the
good of his tenants. Every field and tree and vine, yea, every bush
and stone, was dear to his heart, and though he did not hesitate—no,
not for a moment, when he had to choose between these things and the
kingdom of heaven—yet he could not but feel the wrench when he had to
tear himself away from them. I sometimes fear, in these days when the
church and the world are so mixed together that it is rather hard to
see any division line between them, that people will utterly lose the
meaning of such places of Scripture as the tenth chapter of St. Matthew.
We had not reached the tower when Julienne came running to meet us, her
face as pale as her cap.
"Thank Heaven, you are come, madame!" said she breathlessly. "I have
sent everywhere for you. Mamselle Grace has had a swoon, and we cannot
bring her to herself."
"A swoon? How was that?" asked my mother, as we all quickened our
steps. "I thought she was feeling very well this morning."
"She was, madame; but you were no sooner out of the house than she
would make me help her up and dress her, and she has been up ever
since. She would even walk into your room, leaning on my arm, and sat
there while I dusted the furniture, though I had dusted it all not more
than an hour before," said Julienne, in an aggrieved voice. "Then she
would have her work-basket and darn a cambric ruffle of monsieur's, and
all I could say she would not lie down. I assure madame that I did my
best to persuade her."
"I doubt it not, my good Julienne; but what then?"
"Then, just as the bell rang for noon, she said she felt tired, and
would lie down. I called Marie and Annette, for I saw she looked
dreadfully ill; but we had not got her on the bed before she fainted,
and we cannot get a sign of life from her any more than if she were
dead. So I sent for madame."
We had reached the tower by that time, and any mother run up-stairs to
Mrs. Grace's room, closely followed by myself. Though I had never, to
my knowledge, seen death before, I knew, the moment I set eyes upon
Grace, what had happened. People talk of death and sleep being alike,
but I can never see the resemblance. We tried a long time and in every
way to bring back animation, but it was of no use, and we soon came to
perceive that our good faithful friend had left us forever.
I cannot describe my mother's grief on the occasion. Grace had been
her own personal attendant ever since she could remember. She had
been taken into my grandmother's nursery a little maid of nine years
old, and had been specially assigned to my mother. She had followed
her mistress to a strange land, had been with her through all her
ill-health and the loss of her many children, had been nurse, friend,
companion, and servant, all in one. I loved Grace dearly, lamented her
deeply; but the event was not to me what it was to my mother.
However, she was gone, and there was an end. The servants wept, too,
as they prepared her body for the grave. They forgot all the scoldings
she had given them, and only remembered how she had nursed them in
sickness, and the numberless kindnesses she had shown them and their
friends at home.
"I was vexed enough at her this morning," sobbed Julienne, who, as
a bit of a slattern, and especially as being guilty of the crowning
enormity of having a sweetheart, most frequently fell under the
displeasure of Mrs. Grace; "but I am sure I would dust all the
furniture of the house thrice over if it would do her any good."
"And what will madame do without her?" asked Marie. "Nobody can know
her ways like Mamselle Grace, though there are perhaps others who can
govern the household as well, or even better. I always thought she was
very wasteful of sugar and honey in preserving the fruits."
"Yes, you would like them as sour as last year's cider," retorted
Julienne. "Mamselle Grace was not a skinflint, whatever else she was."
"What will you do about the funeral?" asked Andrew of my father. "Shall
you send to Granville or Avranches for an undertaker?"
"No indeed!" answered my father. "I have given special orders to the
servants not to say a word about poor Grace's death. It would be sure
to bring down upon us a visitation. Mathew is making her a coffin now,
and we must place the body in the vault beneath the chapel, as soon
as may be—this very night, if possible. There she may perhaps rest in
peace. I would not, if I could help it, have my poor old friend's body
thrown out into a ditch like a dead dog."
"They would not dare to do it," said Andrew, aghast.
"They would be sure to do it," was my father's answer. "Things have
not improved since the Duke of Guise kicked the dead face of brave old
Coligny. If it were only the dead who were warred upon, it would not be
so much matter."
"And yet somehow an insult to the dead seems baser and more cowardly
than one offered to the living," said Andrew thoughtfully. "Many a rude
fellow who would knock a man down as soon as look at him, as we say,
would be horrified at any rough treatment of a corpse. Why is it?"
"Partly, perhaps, from superstition, but more from an idea that the
dead are helpless to defend themselves," answered my father. "If a
man have any manhood in him, his heart will be touched by the plea of
helplessness. It is only when men are turned into demons by war or
cruelty or lust that they will disregard the plea of helplessness."
That very night at midnight, the corpse of our good old friend was
conveyed down to the vault, beneath the ruined chapel, and built into
one of the niches of the wall with some of the rough stones which
lay loose about the floor. I had never been in the vault before,
and my father cautioned me to beware how I stepped. The floor was
of the natural rock, rough and uneven, and in some places were deep
cracks from which issued a solemn roaring sound, now loud, now faint
and almost dying away. By one of the niches I have mentioned which
surrounded the vault, and which were like small chambers hewn in the
rock, was placed a little pile of building materials. In this chamber
was placed the body of our good old friend.
My father read from my mother's prayer-book the funeral service of the
Church of England, so solemn, touching, and comforting. Then the vault
was built up with stones taken from the floor, and carefully daubed
with mould and slime, to look as much like the rest of the wall as
possible. It was a dreary funeral enough, but not so sad as was many
another in these sad days, when many a dutiful child had to look on and
see the body of a father or mother dragged away on a hurdle and cast
into a bog or buried in a dunghill.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]