IN JERSEY.
I SLEPT till afternoon, and when I waked I could not at first tell
where I was, everything about me was so utterly different from anything
I had been used to. My bed was surrounded by light curtains of blue
and white checked linen, and through these at the foot I could see
that the hangings of the latticed window were of the same. The bed was
covered with a white spread worked with a curious pattern in colored
crewels. Everything was very quiet, but I could hear the distant hum of
a spinning-wheel, and the singing of a robin outside my window.
I lay quietly a long time, half asleep and dreaming, half bewildered,
feeling as if I had died and wakened into a new world, of which all I
knew was that it was safe and friendly. At last I raised myself, put
aside the curtain, and looked out.
The room was small, very little larger than the one I had inhabited—oh,
how long ago—but it was very different. The window was not a mere slit
almost lost in the thickness of the wall, but a peaceful lattice, broad
and low, into which, late as it was, looked a cluster of noisette
roses. The floor was of boards instead of tiles, and covered here
and there with rugs, evidently of home construction. A little table
stood at the head of the bed, on which were placed a bright brass
candlestick, a Bible and prayer-book, and a little cup of flowers, and
a shelf on the wall held a slender row of volumes. On an arm-chair near
the bed was laid a change of clean linen, and beside it a mourning
frock.
The sight of that black frock brought back to my mind all that had
passed in the last twenty-four hours. I had been through so much, and
the need of action had been so instant, that I had had no time, as it
were, to feel what I had lost, but now it came upon me in one moment.
My father was dead—murdered by the very man whom he had saved from the
effects of what he believed to be a false accusation. His body lay
unburied at this moment, a prey to wild animals or more savage men. My
mother and myself were exiles in a strange land, never again to see the
home where I had grown-up, and where I had lived so happily, in spite
of uncertainty and danger.
"Oh, if my father were but here, I would not care for anything else!" I
sobbed, and covering my head I wept till I was exhausted, and once more
I fell asleep.
I was waked by some one who came very softly into the room bearing a
shaded light, and I started up in alarm.
"What has happened?" I asked, only half awake. "Have I been asleep? Has
not my father come home?"
"It is I, my love—Cousin Marianne," said the new-comer in a soft,
ladylike voice. "Do not be frightened. All is safe. Your mother is
awake, and I thought perhaps you would like to rise and take some
refreshment with her."
"Is it very late?" I asked, still bewildered. "Has neither my father
nor Andrew come back?"
"Recollect yourself, dear child," said my cousin, setting down her
light and coming to the bedside. "Do you not remember what has
happened?"
"Oh, yes, I remember!" said I, and my tears flowed again.
My cousin sat down on the bedside, laid my head on her shoulder, and
wept with me for a while. Then she began gently to soothe and hush me,
and by degrees I grew composed, so that when she again proposed to me
to try to rise, I was quite ready to comply. She assisted me to dress,
but looked a little displeased when she saw the black gown.
"That was thoughtless of Katherine," said she. "We are wearing mourning
ourselves, but she might have got out a colored frock for to-day."
"It does not signify," said I. "I must put on black, of course. How is
my mother, madame?"
"She seems well in health, and very quiet and composed," was the
answer; "but I have persuaded her to remain in her room, for I am sure
she must need rest after the events of yesterday and last night."
"Yesterday!" I exclaimed. "Is it possible that it was only yesterday
morning that I saw my father and Andrew set out from our gate to go to
Avranches?"
"So I understand from Andrew," was the reply. "I dare say it seems an
age to you. My love, how curly your hair is."
"It curls worse than usual because it has been wet," said I, almost
laughing at the odd transition. "Maman says it is real Corbet hair."
"Yes, you are like your mother's family, all but the complexion. Here
is a fresh cap for you. They say that in London young ladies do not
wear caps, but I cannot think that a modest custom. There, now, you
look like an English maiden, and a very sweet one," said the dear old
lady, kissing me, and then holding me off and regarding me with great
satisfaction, much as if I had been a doll she had just dressed.
"Now I will let you go in to your mother, as I dare say she would
rather see you alone just at first. The next door to this on the right
hand, remember. I will go down and send up your supper presently, and
you must try to make dear mamma eat something."
And Cousin Marianne glided away with that peculiar swift, short step
of hers, which never seemed to make any noise even on a tiled flour. I
never saw any one else move in the same way or get over so much ground
in the same time.
It was with a feeling of awe that I opened my mother's door. She was
up and dressed, and lay back in a great chair, with her little worn
prayer-book in her hand. I now remembered seeing her slip it into her
bosom when we changed our dresses in such a hurry. She held out her
arms to me, and I fell into them weeping; but she did not weep, and I
never saw her shed a tear but once afterward.
Seeing how calm she was, I tried to quiet myself, and succeeded.
Then she read to me that prayer in the Litany which begins, "O God,
Merciful Father," and then for a while we were silent.
"Do you feel quite well, my Vevette?" she asked at last.
"Yes, dear maman, only tired," I answered truly; for though my head
was a little inclined to be giddy, and I had an odd feeling of
bewilderment, as though I were some one beside myself, I had no pain.
"Why do you ask?"
"Your eyes are heavy, and your cheeks more flushed than usual; that is
all."
"And you, maman?"
"I am quite well, my love, only weary, as you say. Have you seen any of
the family?"
"No, maman; only that kind, gentle old lady. She called herself my
Cousin Marianne. Who is she?"
"She is your cousin, as she said—the sister of Mr. George Corbet, the
rector of this parish, and whose household she has governed since
his wife died. A better woman never lived, nor one on whom advancing
years made less impression. We have fallen among kind friends in our
exile, my Vevette, and we must take care to show that we appreciate
their kindness. You will find your cousins' ways quite different from
anything you have been used to; but do not fall into the common error
of thinking that therefore those ways must be wrong. Even if they
should laugh at you, take it in good part and laugh with them."
"I do not feel as if I should ever have the heart to laugh again," said
I, sighing.
"Ah, my dear one, you are young, and youth is elastic. Your father
would not wish to have all your life wrapped in gloom because he hath
been so early and so easily removed to his eternal rest. But oh, my
child, if you are ever tempted to sin against your own soul by denying
your religion, remember it was for that your father laid down his life."
"I will never deny my religion!" said I almost indignantly.
"I trust not; but no one knows how he may be tempted. There are other
inducements besides that of escaping persecution. The smiles of the
world are far more dangerous to natures like yours than its frowns,
and more than one of our religion has given up to blandishments and to
ambition what he would never have yielded to the rack. Your father was
attacked on this side many a time, with promises of high command, of
court favor, and kingly grace, but he never yielded an inch—no, not,
as I believe, in his inmost thoughts. Remember it, my Vevette, and let
his example be, next to your duty to Heaven, the guiding light of your
life."
The entrance of Cousin Marianne, followed by a neat maid bearing a
tray of good things, interrupted our conversation. With that gentle,
noiseless quickness, which was one of her characteristics, she spread a
little table with a clean white cloth and arranged thereon the tempting
dishes she had caused to be prepared. She also set out two cups and
saucers of delicate china-ware—such as David had once brought to my
mother from Dieppe.
A signal dismissed the maid, who, however, presently returned carrying
a small silver coffee-pot—the first one I had ever seen; for though
coffee had come into quite common use in London and Paris, it had not
yet penetrated to Normandy.
"I have made you a small pot of coffee, cousin," said she. "My
brother learned to like it in London, and though I do not approve
of its constant use, yet tempered with cream it is refreshing and
wholesome when one is weak or tired. Now I shall leave you to wait upon
yourselves, and do try to eat. It will be hard, I dare say, but you
will be the better for it."
"Why does Cousin Marianne make one think of poor Grace?" said I. "She
is not in the least like her."
"It is the Cornish accent," said my mother. "Grace always retained it,
and so does our cousin, though she has lived so long abroad. But, my
child, you do not eat a mouthful. Are you not hungry?"
"I thought I was," I answered; "but somehow I do not wish to eat now
the food is before me. But I like the coffee," I added, sipping it with
great satisfaction. "Do you not think it is good, maman?"
"Very pleasant indeed. I have tasted it before when it was a new thing
even in London; but you must not drink much of it without eating, or
it will keep you awake. Take one of these saffron-cakes. They are like
Mrs. Grace's."
I tried to eat to please my mother, but with all my efforts I did
not succeed very well. Whether owing to the coffee or because I had
slept so much during the day, I cannot say, but I passed great part
of the night lying broad awake and going over and over again, even to
the minutest circumstance, the events of my life. They seemed to pass
before me in endless succession, from the very earliest things I could
remember in Jeanne Sablot's cottage, and that without any volition
of my own, so that it was as if some one unfolded before me a set of
pictures, and I lay and looked at them.
When at last I fell asleep, it was to be tormented by poor Lucille's
messenger, the bluebottle fly, which kept buzzing round my head,
saying something which I could not understand, though it was of the
last importance that I should do so. Then I was being built up by my
father and Andrew in one of the niches in the sepulchral vault, while I
struggled in vain to tell them that I was not dead. Oh, how glad I was
to wake at last and see the cheerful sun just darting his first beams
into my casement!
I abandoned the attempt to sleep, and rising I dressed myself quickly
and softly, for I was possessed by an overmastering desire to get
into the open air. I slipped down the stairs, admiring the beautiful
neatness of the house, the brightness of the glass and the furniture,
and the general air of comfort. The door of a sort of little parlor
was open, and I peeped in. The walls were hung with brown hollands
worked prettily in colored wools with leafy and flowery designs, and
an unfinished piece of the same kind of embroidery in a great swinging
frame stood by a window. There was an old-fashioned East Country
cabinet, such as I had never seen at that time, a good many books,
or what looked a good many to me, a lute and a pair of virginals—an
instrument I had never beheld before, with a pile of music-books.
A sash door opened from this room to a terrace, and seeing that it was
only fastened by an inside latch, I ventured to open it and step out.
The house stood somewhat high upon the hill-side, overlooking first
a sloping grass-plot and flower-garden, where late blossoms still
lingered, which had faded on the mainland long ago. Below was an odd
pretty little old church, all surrounded by a green graveyard full of
mouldering stones. Beyond were the sands of the bay, over which the
tides were coming up in that peculiar boiling, swirling fashion which
belongs to tides about the islands, and still beyond were wooded abrupt
slopes.
On the top of these, I could see a single farm-house, from whose
chimney rose a tall, thin column of blue smoke touched into a rosy
glory at the top by the rays of the low sun. Nobody seemed to be
stirring. Two or three fishing-boats were anchored off shore, and a
few skiffs were drawn up on the beach. A very distant church bell was
ringing and a few birds pecking and chirping about the hedges; but
these sounds, with the rush of the advancing tide, seemed only to
render the stillness more tranquil.
I stood and gazed like one entranced, till I heard steps approaching,
and looking about I saw Andrew for the first time since we landed at
the little quay, where Le Febre's boat was still lying. I could not
speak, but I held out my hand. He pressed it warmly and long, and we
stood in silence, looking over the scene.
"You are up early," said I at last.
"I saw you from my window, and came to join you," he answered, and then
asked, in a tone of concern, "Are you quite well, Vevette?"
"Yes, of course!" I answered pettishly. "I can't think why every one
should ask me whether I am well."
"Because you do not look so," he answered. "But that is no wonder,
considering—" and then he broke off and was silent again.
"How beautiful everything is, and how peaceful!" said I at last. "Do
you know it seems so strange to me to think that we are safe. I can
hardly believe it."
"It is hard to believe it, even to me, to whom safety comes natural,"
he answered. "I can scarcely think that yonder is a Protestant church,
where all the village will presently assemble to worship, and that my
cousin will preach, and say just what he pleases about the mass or
anything else."
"Is my cousin the minister?" I asked.
"Yes, the rector, as we call him here. It is but a poor cure, but Mr.
Corbet has property of his own. Have you seen any of your cousins yet?"
"Only Cousin Marianne, as she bade me call her. I think she is
charming. Is she a widow?"
"No, she has never married."
"Why was that?" I asked, surprised.
"Because she did not choose, I fancy," replied Andrew, smiling. "In
England, my cousin, women do not have to choose between a husband and
the cloister. I have known more than one lady who has never married,
but lived to be a blessing to all about her. Others, I am sorry to say,
waste their time in miserable frivolity—in cards and dancing and dress."
"A woman who would live like that when single would most likely do the
same if she were married," said I sagely. "And then her family would
have to suffer. But I must go back to the house. Maman will wake and
miss me."
"And here comes Eleanor to call us," said Andrew. "Dear good Eleanor.
She is not as bright as the rest, but I am sure you will like her."
Eleanor came forward, and shook hands with me cordially enough. She
was pretty and fresh-colored, but I noticed in a moment that her
cap was awry, and her fresh lawn apron already creased and tumbled.
Nevertheless, I took a fancy to her in a moment.
"Do you know whether my mother is up?" I asked, after we had exchanged
some commonplace remarks.
"I think she is. I heard her moving," she said, and then asked
abruptly, "Don't you want to carry her some flowers? I would have
gathered them, but I thought you would like to do it yourself. There
are plenty of late violets and rosebuds in the garden."
I was pleased with the idea, and with the odd kind of consideration it
showed. We collected quite a nosegay, which I carried to my mother's
room. I had acted as her maid and attendant of late, though I am sure I
but poorly supplied the loss of poor Grace, and I was surprised to find
her up and dressed.
"Oh, maman, I ought not to have stayed so long," said I; "but the
morning is so beautiful, and I longed so to breathe the fresh air—"
And then I stopped, and had much ado not to burst out crying again as
I observed that my mother had put on a black dress and a long mourning
veil after the fashion of widows in England. I checked myself, however,
and put into her hand the flowers Eleanor had helped me to gather.
"Thank you, my love. They are very charming," said my mother, who loved
flowers with a kind of passion. "But I fear you have been making too
free with your cousin's garden."
"Oh, no, maman; Eleanor showed me where to gather them. It was her
thought in the first place. See what beautiful rosebuds, for so late
in the year. We have none such in Normandy. But I suppose our poor
flower-garden is all trampled into the earth," I added, and then seeing
that my mother's lips turned white, and that she grasped the back of
the chair for support, I sprang forward, exclaiming, "Oh, dear maman, I
beg your pardon. I did not mean to hurt you."
"There is no fault to be pardoned, my child," said my mother,
recovering herself as by a great effort, and kissing me; "but, Vevette,
I must be selfish enough for the present to ask you not to speak of—"
Her lips turned pale again, and she seated herself in the chair.
I bathed her face with some sweet waters which stood on the
toilette-table, and she was soon herself, nor did she again allude to
the subject.
When she was quite recovered, we said our morning prayers together, and
read the Psalms for the day, as we had been used to do at home. We had
but just finished, when Cousin Marianne tapped at the door, which I
opened.
"So you are both up; and I hear—my dear, what shall I call you?" said
she, with one of her abrupt transitions. "That name of Genevieve does
not suit an English girl, to my thinking."
"Call her Vevette," said my mother. "It is the name she has always gone
by. Or you may call her by her first name, Agnes, if you like."
"Oh, my dear, Agnes is an unlucky name—at least for Cornish folks.
Vevette answers nicely, though it does sound a little like a cat," she
added reflectively. "However, it does not matter; and I am sure such
a nice cat as that of yours is a credit to any family. Why, no sooner
did it see me cutting some cold meat than it sat up upon its hind legs,
and spread out one paw exactly like a Christian. But, my dear Margaret,
will you join us at breakfast and family prayers? Do just as you
please."
"We will come certainly," said my mother.
And leaning upon my arm, she descended to the parlor below—not the
one I had been in before—where we found the whole family assembled,
including my Cousin George, who came forward to meet us.
Of all men that ever I saw, Cousin George came the nearest to my idea
of a clergyman, at least in appearance and manners. He was a tall,
slender man, with curling hair as white as snow. His face had that
hale, healthful red, like that of a winter apple, which is so beautiful
in old age, and shone with a benignancy and purity that I cannot
describe. It was the light within shining out which did so illumine his
countenance, for a sweeter, more godly, and withal more kind and genial
soul never inhabited a mortal tenement. There was nothing of the sour
ascetic about Cousin George, though he could fast at proper times, and
was self-denying by habit; but he loved to see and to promote innocent
enjoyment. If ever any man fulfilled the command to rejoice with those
that rejoiced, and weep with those that wept, he did, and he was
equally at home at the bridal or in the house of mourning.
My other cousins all rose when we came in, and remained standing while
their father greeted my mother with a tenderly spoken blessing, and led
her to a seat by his side. They looked at us with a sort of reverence
and awe, as young folks of any feeling are apt to do upon those who
have just come through any great danger or affliction. There were five
of them—three girls, and two little boys much younger. I found out
afterward that the birth of these two twin boys cost the life of their
mother.
As soon as we were seated, my Cousin George read the tenth chapter of
St. Matthew. Then all together sang a version of the twenty-third Psalm:
"My shepherd is the living Lord.
Nothing therefore I need;
In pastures green near pleasant streams
He setteth me to feed."
Then my cousin read prayers. Nobody who has not been placed in like
circumstances can guess how strange it seemed to me to be reading
the holy Word and singing psalms with open windows and in absolute
security. I saw the girls look at one another and smile, but by no
means unkindly, when I started nervously at a passing footstep outside.
It all added to that bewilderment which had been stealing over me all
the morning, and which seemed now and then to quite take away all
knowledge of where I was or what I was doing.
The breakfast was very nice, with abundance of cream and new milk,
fresh-laid eggs, and brown and white bread, but I could take nothing
save a glass of milk, which I had hard work to dispose of. I saw them
all look at me with concern, and again Cousin Marianne asked me whether
I were ill.
"No, madame," I answered; "I am not ill at all."
I caught a look of surprised reproof from my mother, and became aware
that I had answered pettishly.
"Indeed, I am not ill," I said more gently; "please do not think so."
I suppose it was a part of the bewilderment of my head that I somehow
felt annoyed and hurt that any one should think I was not well.
My cousins came round me after breakfast, and carried me off to the
room I had seen in the morning.
"This is our own den," said Katherine, the elder sister. "To-morrow
we will show you our books and work. The lute is Paulina's, and the
virginals are mine. Eleanor does not play or sing at all."
"But she works very nicely," put in Pauline, the second sister, while
Eleanor never spoke a word, but looked at me like a good dog, which
says with his eyes what his tongue cannot utter; "and she can tell
tales better than any of us when she is in the mood. Can you tell
tales, Cousin Vevette?"
"I do not know, I am sure," I said. "I love to hear and read them. But
what is that?" I asked, with a start, as the near church bell swung
round and then rang out loudly. "Is it an alarm?"
"That is the church bell," said Paulina, with a little laugh. "How you
start at everything. I noticed it when my father was reading."
"If you had been through what she has, you would start too," said
Eleanor, speaking for the first time. "Can't you understand that, Paul?
Will you go to church, cousin?"
"I don't believe she ought to go," said Katherine; "she looks so tired
and overwrought."
"I would much rather go, if maman is willing," said I.
There was some demur among the elders, but it was finally settled that
I might do as I pleased, and I presently found myself walking with my
cousins through a shady lane which led from the rectory to the church.
Once inside the gates, we found ourselves amid a throng of people, all
well-dressed and comfortable-looking, and, as it seemed, all talking
together in an odd kind of patois which was not English, and not any
French that I was used to. However, by a little attention I understood
the tongue well enough, and I found it not so very different from the
Norman French spoken in La Manche.
There were a good many English people in church, and some whom I
guessed to be French exiles, like ourselves. I saw Pierre Le Febre
seated along with a decent-looking family of fisher-folks, and as I
glanced at him from time to time, I saw him listening with the greatest
attention and an air of profound amazement, not to say alarm, which
made me smile. The prayers and sermon were in the language of the
island, but, as Katherine told me, the afternoon service was always in
English.
I was still listening, as I thought, to my cousin's sermon, when to my
great amazement, I found myself in my little blue and white bed. It was
toward evening, as I guessed by the light. My mother was bending over
me, and Cousin Marianne with a strange gentleman were standing on the
other side of the bed.
"There is a great improvement, madame," the stranger said in English.
"I think I may say that with care there is nothing more to fear. But
I cannot too strongly recommend absolute quiet and silence for the
present."
"What does it mean, maman?" I said, finding my voice somehow very hard
to get at, and very thin and tremulous when found. "I thought I was in
church. Have I been ill?"
"Yes, my love. You were taken ill in church, and were brought home. Do
not talk now. By and by you will understand all about it. Let me give
you a little food and refresh your pillow, and then perhaps you will
fall asleep again."
"I should like something to eat," said I. "I feel hungry, though I
could not eat this morning."
My mother smiled sadly, and I saw Cousin Marianne suddenly turn away
to the window almost as if she was crying. I wondered vaguely what she
was crying about, but it did not disturb me. I took the cup of broth my
mother held to my lips, and presently fell asleep again.
I lay in this state of childish weakness for many days and weeks,
coming gradually to understand that I had been ill some time, though I
had no notion how long the time was.
The girls flitted in and out, and Eleanor often sat by me hours at
a time, working away at her plain white seam. I liked to have her
with me best of all. She never put on airs of bustle and authority
like Katherine, who seemed to think that the only way to take care
of a sick person was never to let that person do or have anything
she wanted. Neither did she lean against the bed, or pat the floor
with her foot, or talk of half a dozen things in a minute, like good
little Paulina, who thought I needed to be enlivened and diverted. She
just sat quietly, with her sewing, where I could see her without any
trouble, and was always ready to wait on me and to save me the trouble
of speaking by anticipating my wants. My mother said of her that she
had the precious nursing talent, which is one of the best gifts ever
bestowed on man or woman.
I lay quietly in my bed, as I said, very little troubled as to the
lapse of time or anything else, taking what was given me, perfectly
content so long as I had my mother or Eleanor by me. I learned
afterward that this long-continued passiveness of mine was a source of
great alarm to my friends, who feared that my mind was irretrievably
injured by what I had gone through. However, such was not the case.
The bow had been terribly strained, but not cracked, and by and by, it
recovered its elasticity.
One morning I woke feeling much stronger, and very decidedly interested
about what I was going to have to eat. The curtain was undrawn from the
casement, and I raised myself on my elbow and looked out. Lo, the great
willow was hung with catkins, and the hedgerow was budding. What did it
mean?
My mother was resting, half asleep, in the great chair, but roused
herself and came to the bedside as I moved.
"Maman, what time of year is it?" I asked.
Her lips moved, and I was sure she said "Thank God!"
Then she answered gently—
"It is spring, my Vevette; the last of March."
"March!" I repeated wonderingly. "I thought it had been December. And
what, then, has become of Christmas?"
"It has gone where all other Christmases have gone before it, no
doubt," answered my mother, smiling. "It passed while you were so ill
that I dared not leave you for a moment, and all the congregation on
that day prayed for you. Do you not recollect anything of your illness?"
"No," I answered. "The last I recollect clearly was being in church
listening to the sermon, and then waking in my room and hearing some
one say I was better. But that was some days ago, was it not?"
"Some weeks," said my mother. "But do not talk any more now. Here comes
our good Eleanor, with your breakfast. The dear child has been like an
own daughter to me."
"I remember Eleanor," said I, taking her plump hand in my thin one and
kissing it. "She has been here a good many times. But what are these
flowers? Violets? They really are violets and primroses."
"I thought you would like them," said Eleanor; "but don't let your
broth get cold while you look at them."
And she would have fed me, but I took the spoon and helped myself.
From this time, my recovery was rapid. I was soon able to sit up by the
window, and then to walk about the room, and at last, I got down-stairs
and out of doors. Every one was very kind to me, and T had only one
trouble, over which I used to cry in secret sometimes. I had a ravenous
appetite, and though I had half a dozen meals a day, they would not
give me half as much as I wanted to eat.
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