THE VOYAGE.
THE day at last came for our embarkation. Our luggage was taken
away in the first place, but we were allowed to keep each a basket
containing a change of linen and certain other necessaries. Mother St.
Stanislaus distributed among us with a lavish hand biscuits, dried
fruit, gingerbread, and peppermint comfits, and the good Sister St.
Anne smuggled into my own basket a bottle of lavender and a flask of
a certain fragrant and spicy cordial which she had a great reputation
for making, and which was esteemed a sovereign remedy for indigestion.
There was a good deal of indigestion among the nuns of St. Ursula.
Poor dear souls! They were all very good to me, and but for the change
in my religious views and the hope I still cherished of meeting Andrew
once more, I think I could have made myself very content among them.
The mothers kissed me and made me various little presents, some of
which I have still, especially a medal containing some hairs of St.
Ursula, given me by the Superior. They are coarse hairs, and are just
the color of the tail of my chestnut mare. I think she sincerely
regretted my departure, but I don't think she was at all sorry to get
rid of Mother Mary, who was a religious all through, taking a real
delight in all sorts of mortifications, and very ready to impose them
on others; besides that, she could not for the life of her help wishing
to take the management of matters into her own hands, wherever she was.
I know she ached to reform the Ursuline Convent from top to bottom, and
it was well for the comfort of those concerned that she had not the
power to do so.
We were taken in close carriages from the convent through the city to
the place of embarkation. The ship could not be brought alongside the
wharf, and we had to embark a few at a time in the little boats. Mother
Mary, who had managed several such affairs, sent her two assistant nuns
first to receive the passengers as they came, and herself remained on
the wharf till the whole company were dispatched. Desirée and I were
among the last.
I was burning with impatience, for I saw David in the crowd and close
to me, and I longed to slip into his hand a note I had written telling
him of the fate of poor Lucille, and begging him to lose no time in
escaping to England. At last the chance mine. Poor Louisonne, who was
always doing the wrong thing at the wrong time, did the right one for
me and slipped into the water. The bustle and alarm—for the poor thing
was nearly drowned—drew Mother Mary away for a moment and gave me
the desired opportunity. David drew near, and as he brushed by me, I
put the note into his hand. Nobody saw me but a good-natured-looking
Franciscan, who only smiled and shook his head at me.
At last we were all on board and introduced to the cabin, which was to
be our lodging for at least six weeks. Oh, what a hole it was!—dirty,
ill-lighted, not half furnished.
Mother Mary was very angry, as I could see by her face; and indeed I
heard her remonstrating with the captain very energetically on the
subject; but he only shrugged his shoulders and said it was not his
fault. He had taken command of the ship only a few days before, and
that not by any good-will of his own. He added, however, that now he
was appointed to the command, he meant to exercise it, and intimated to
Mother Mary very plainly that she had better mind her own business.
She certainly had enough to mind. Half the girls were crying or in
hysterics; everything was in confusion. We were dreadfully in the way
on deck, but no one could bear the idea of going below. Mother Mary
at last restored some sort of quiet, and calling me to help her, with
the remark that I seemed to have some spirit and sense, we began to
try to put our cabin into better order. It was discouraging work, for
everything was wanting for comfort or decency; but we worked hard, and
by night we had things in better trim. The girls had had their cry out
and felt for the time in good spirits. We did not set sail till about
six in the evening, being kept by the state of the tide, but at last we
were off.
The land gradually faded from view; we lost sight of the lights in
the city, and before bedtime we were out in the open sea, and every
soul but myself was overcome with the first depressing feelings of
sea-sickness. I had a busy time enough for the next week. Every
passenger was sick, including Mother Mary herself, who was one of the
worst, though she strove against the weakness with all the force of
her strong will. But, in truth, a strong will does little for one when
one's heels are one moment higher than one's head, and the next knocked
violently on the floor, and every portable article is sliding about
trying its best to break everything else.
We had a stormy voyage from the first, though the winds were for the
most part favorable, and the passage promised to be short. But it was
wretchedly uncomfortable. The ship was ill-found and hardly seaworthy.
She was crammed with goods, which were thrust even into our cabin, thus
abridging the small room allotted to us. The water was bad, and the
sailors stole our wine; our provisions were not fit for well people,
not to say invalids, and short as our passage was, we had more than one
case of scurvy. Poor Desirée succumbed under her hardships and died
when we had been out about three weeks. I had become greatly attached
to her, but I could not weep for her death. It seemed a merciful
deliverance.
For myself, I was not as unhappy as I should have been if I had not
been so busy. The only really well person of the party, I had enough to
do in waiting on the sick. I had made friends with the cook, a great
good-natured blackamoor, by speaking to him in English, when I found
that he understood that language, and I cooked our miserable provisions
so as to make them as savory as possible, and now and then secured a
bit of something better than usual to tempt the appetite of poor Sister
Margaret, who seemed likely enough to die of exhaustion.
Going about as I did, I was often free to take out my little book and
study its contents. The more I did so, the more I recalled what I had
learned of the other Scriptures, the more I wondered how I could ever
have so far departed from the simplicity of the Gospel as to profess
the Roman Catholic religion. I never should have done so but for the
fact that my belief in all religion had been weakened by intercourse
with unbelievers, and my heart corrupted by love of pleasure and of the
world. I do not say by any means that this is true of all perverts, but
I know it was true of me.
But now arose a grave question, which indeed had troubled me before. I
felt that I must confess my faith before men; I could not go on serving
God according to the faith of my fathers and worshipping the saints at
the same time. I could not believe in and apply to the One Mediator,
amid at the same time invoke a hundred others. It may be easy for
any one who reads these lines, and who has never been in any danger,
to say what my conduct should have been. But for me, in the midst of
the conflict, it was not so easy. I well knew what would be my fate,
for the Jesuits ruled in Canada, and that with a rod of iron, and I
had seen enough of Mother Mary to guess well that she would have no
compassion for a heretic.
I thought and prayed and wept, and at last strength seemed to come to
me. I had nothing to do just now but to wait on my companions. When the
time came for help, I should have help. Sufficient unto the day was the
evil thereof.
Help did come, and, as so often happens, through trouble. We had been
out five weeks when we were overtaken by a tempest, compared to which
all we had suffered before was as a summer breeze. I do not know enough
of nautical matters to describe it. I know that for many days neither
sun nor stars appeared; that we were tossed up to the skies and then
hurled down to the abyss; that we lost sail and masts and were more
than once in imminent danger of sinking; and that when the storm
subsided at last we drifted in helpless wreck, having lost all our
boats, and having our ship so injured that the least increase in the
storm might send her to the bottom.
The captain, who had behaved like a hero, was busy in overseeing the
construction of rafts. He had ordered us all on deck, sick and well
together, in order to give us a last chance, though a slender one. We
sat huddled together, some praying, some crying, others too miserable
to do either—silent, in hopeless despair. Such was our condition when,
happening to look up, I was the very first to descry a sail, and almost
at the same moment the shout was raised by half a dozen at once. It was
a British ship, and a large one. She was rapidly coming up with us, and
our despair was changed into the certainty of succor.
It was a work of some danger to transfer so many helpless women from
one ship to the other, but it was accomplished at last, the captain and
Mother Mary being the last to leave the poor wreck. Nobody but myself
understood English, and I was called upon to interpret. The ship was
the Good Hope, trading from Bristol to New England, and now on her
way to the town of Boston, from which, according to the reckoning of
Captain Mayhew, we were but a short day's sail.
Mother Mary was quite in despair. She offered large rewards to the
captain to alter his course and sail for the St. Lawrence, but in
vain. The captain said his ship had been damaged, and was in no state
for such a voyage; that he was overdue at Boston, and that his wife
would be anxious about him. He would engage that Mother Mary and her
companions should meet with every civility and accommodation, but to
the St. Lawrence, he could not and would not go—"and that was all about
it."
There was no opportunity to argue the matter further, for poor Mother
Mary was taken very ill once more and had to be carried to the cabin
which the sailors had hastily arranged for us. The captain apologized
for its narrowness, saying that he had another small cabin which should
be ours so soon as its occupant, a gentleman passenger who had been
hurt in the storm, should give it up, adding, however, that he hoped to
set us all on dry ground before that time to-morrow.
From the moment that I set foot on the deck of the Good Hope my mind
was made up. I would tell the captain my story, throw myself on his
mercy, and entreat him to rescue me. If he refused to do so I would
contrive to effect my escape while we were in Boston. Surely in a town
full of Protestants there must be some one who would protect me.
I had very little rest that night, though Mother Mary herself, the
sickest of the party, scolded the others for their demands on me, and
at last bade me lie down and not mind them. At daylight most of my
charges were asleep, and I stole on deck to compose myself and breathe
a little fresh air. Lo! There before me lay the land, green and fair,
clothed with forest for the most part, but with here and there a
clearing. How heavenly it all looked, but I had no time for gazing.
There stood the captain, as I thought, with his back to me, looking
toward the land. There was no time like the present, and I went quickly
up to him.
"Captain Mayhew!" said I.
The stranger turned, and I saw Andrew Corbet. He looked at me with a
bewildered, half-recognizing gaze, and the thought darted into my mind
that he did not mean to know me. But it was no time for scruples or
maiden shyness. The need was too imminent.
"Andrew!" said I. "If ever you loved me or my mother, save me!"
"Vevette!" said Andrew, still wondering. "It is Vevette."
Then catching me in his arms, he left me no doubt of the state of his
heart. He never asked me whether I still loved him, and I don't think
it ever occurred to him to doubt it.
"Well!" said a voice close by. "I should say, Mr. Corbet, that you had
found some one you was kind of glad to see."
"Glad is no word," said Andrew, while I released myself, covered with
blushes. "But how came you here?"
In a very few words, I told him of what had happened. Andrew's brow
grew dark, and Captain Mayhew expressed the wish that he had that
Frenchman on board.
"Will you not contrive to save me?" I said, in conclusion. "I am a
Protestant—as much as I ever was. I cannot go to Canada. I only ask a
safe asylum. They said I was a French subject because my father was
French."
"Plague the French!" said Captain Mayhew. "They shan't keep you. Yes,
we'll save you somehow. Never fear. But how?"
He considered a moment, and then his thin, clever face broke into a
smile, and he turned to Andrew:
"You say this young lady was promised to you, with the consent of her
parents?"
"Yes," answered Andrew. "We might have been married before this but for
my own hardness and pig-headed jealousies."
"You were not to blame," said I. "The fault has been all mine."
"Reckon you'll have time to settle that," said the captain. "Well,
since all that is so, and you like the young lady and she likes you,
why, it appears to me that the best way will be to call the good
minister who came over with us, and let him marry you on the spot. Then
the lady will be the wife of a British subject, which will make her one
herself, I take it; and if old King Lewy don't like it, let him come
over himself and see about it."
"It would be much the best way, Vevette," said Andrew, turning to me.
"It would give me the right to protect you."
I faltered something, I know not what.
"The long and the short of it is, we will have a wedding on the spot,"
said the captain. "As to the banns and all that, we can settle it
afterward. But we had better be in a hurry, for we are getting into
smooth water, and your Mother Mary will be astir presently, making a
fuss. Just call Mr. Norton, and tell him to make haste, will you?" he
said to the steward. "Or, maybe we had better go into my cabin. Mr.
Norton is a regular Church of England minister," he explained to me
as he assisted me down the companion-way. "He's going out to see his
folks, but he don't calculate to settle."
A few words put Mr. Norton in possession of the story. The first mate
was called in as an additional witness, and in half an hour, I returned
to the cabin the lawful wife of Andrew Corbet of Tre Madoc.
I had not been away an hour, but how the world was changed to me!
"Where have you been, and what kept you so long?" asked Mother Mary as
I brought her some coffee which the steward had provided.
"I have been on deck for air, and the captain kept me to answer some
questions," I answered. And then, to hide my confusion, I added, "We
are in full sight of land, reverend mother. The captain says we shall
be at Boston by afternoon."
"Oh that it were Quebec instead of that heretical Boston!" sighed
Mother Mary. "Is the captain quite obdurate still?"
"Yes, reverend mother; but he says he is sure. We shall receive every
kindness from the people. Will you try to get up? The ship does not
roll much now."
I assisted her, and my companions, who were overjoyed when they heard
we were in sight of land, though it was a land of heretics. A land
of cannibals would have been welcome to the poor souls just then. We
were soon all on deck, I keeping by Mother Mary's side as usual, for
it had been settled that I should say nothing till the time came for
disembarkation.
It came very soon. The anchor rattled down into Boston harbor about
three o'clock. We were at once boarded by the harbor-master and another
gentleman of goodly presence, who, it seems, was a magistrate. He
looked with surprise at the unusual passengers, and Captain Mayhew
explained to them the state of the case. The gentleman, who could
speak French fluently, turned to Mother Mary, and with much politeness
assured her of every consideration. There was a French ship in the bay,
which would doubtless take her and her companions to their destination.
Meantime a house on shore should be placed at her disposal and
furnished with every comfort.
Madame, hearing of the French ship, declined to go on shore, saying
that she should prefer going at once to the ship, whereat three or four
of the girls burst out crying with disappointment. Mr. Folsom suggested
that the ship would not be prepared for our reception, and that at
least they must give the captain notice; but Mother Mary was obstinate.
She would remain where she was rather than set foot on heretic ground.
This, however, was shown to be impossible, and at last she consented
to go on shore, provided she could have a house to herself, which Mr.
Folsom promised. Then, turning to Andrew, he asked if he were ready to
accompany him.
"I am quite ready, if my wife is," replied Andrew, and at a signal from
him, I left Mother Mary's side and went to him, placing my arm within
his. There was an exclamation of horror from the nuns.
"Vevette, what does this mean?" exclaimed Mother Mary. "Wicked,
shameless girl, what are you doing?"
"Good words, madame," said Andrew in French. "This lady was long
ago betrothed to me by the consent of all our parents. We have been
separated a long time by the force of circumstances; but having come
together again, we resolved to put it out of any human power to
separate us, and so we were married this morning by the Reverend Mr.
Norton, a Church of England minister, who is on board, as Captain
Mayhew can certify."
The captain bowed. "Oh, yes, he is a regular minister," said he. "I
know him and all his folks. It is all right, Mr. Folsom. Tell the lady
so."
The lady was told so, but she refused to listen. With her most majestic
air she commanded me to return to her side.
"No, madame," I answered; "I thank you for all your kindness, but my
place is with my husband."
"Wretched, deluded child! Know you not that a marriage by a heretic
minister is no marriage, and is in itself a crime?"
"In France, madame, no doubt; but we are not in France. This is an
English colony, and governed by English laws."
"But a heretic," said Mother Mary; "a blasphemer of our holy religion!"
"A heretic according to your thinking, but no blasphemer, madame," said
Andrew. "My wife is herself a Protestant, as her fathers have been
before her."
"It is true," said I; "I have been deluded for a time; but I have seen
my error. I am of the Reformed, heart and soul; or rather," remembering
our old family boast, "I am a Waldensian—of that people who never
corrupted the faith, and so needed no reformation."
"And all this time you have been pretending to be a good Catholic,"
said Mother Mary. "What a wolf in sheep's clothing have I been
entertaining among my lambs!"
"No, madame," I answered; "I confess that my judgment was warped
for a time by passion and self-interest, and the stress of a great
disappointment, and in that frame I made a profession of your religion.
But it is long since my faith began to waver, and since I have been on
shipboard it hath been confirmed in the old way by thought, prayer, and
study of the Word of God. I was no willing emigrant, but was betrayed
into my present position by the treachery of those who professed, for
motives of gain, to be my friends. I think it neither wrong nor shame
to leave that position for the protection of the man to whom my father
himself gave me."
Mother Mary was about to reply, when, glancing around, she saw all the
girls listening with open mouth and exchanging significant glances with
one another. So she cut the matter short.
"It is well," said she; "I wash my hands of you. Child of wicked
parents, you have followed in their steps! Go, then, with your
paramour, and remember that the vengeance of Heaven dogs your steps! As
to me and mine, we will not set foot on this wicked shore. I demand to
be taken to the French ship immediately, without a moment's delay."
"Madame," said Andrew, bowing, "I trust I shall not forget that I am a
gentleman, and that I am speaking to a woman who has been kind to my
wife, and who is old enough to be my mother."
I saw Mother Mary wince a little at this.
"Come, Vevette, Mr. Folsom's boat waits for us."
I would have taken a kind leave of my companions, but Mother Mary would
not allow it, fearing, I suppose, that marriage might be catching. We
descended into Mr. Folsom's boat, and were soon at the shore.
We walked up through the green lane—oh, how delicious seemed the firm
ground and the grass to my feet!—till we came to Mr. Folsom's house,
which was not the rude erection I expected to see, but a handsome
square mansion, partly of stone, and with a pretty garden beside it.
I am told that Boston hath grown to be quite a fine city. It was even
then a pretty town, with neat houses and some good shops and a very
decent church, which they called a meeting-house, for the most part.
For they say that the name church belongs to the faithful who assemble
there, and not to the place. 'Tis a matter of small moment—just one
of those inconsequent things which people hold to with the most
persistence. In my grandmother's time Archbishop Laud would have
deposed a worthy minister because he did not believe in St. George.
However, I shall never get to Mr. Folsom's house at this rate.
Mistress Folsom came to the door to meet us, having been advertised by
a special messenger. She was a comely lady, richly but plainly dressed
in a somewhat bygone fashion. Her two pretty daughters stood behind
her, as sweet and prim as two pink daisies. She made me welcome with
a motherly kiss, and listened with great amaze and interest while my
husband made her acquainted with the outline of our history.
"'Tis like something in a romance," said she. "But you must be very
weary, and hungry too. We will have supper ready directly. Sweetheart,
would you not like to change your dress?"
I explained to her that I had no changes, all my luggage having been
lost in the wreck, except my basket, which Sister St. Stanislaus had
given me, and which I had clung to through all. Without more ado, she
carried me to a plain but pretty and comfortable chamber, and sent her
two daughters hither and thither for clean linen, a gown, and other
necessaries. Then they left me to myself; but presently a black wench
came up with a great can of hot water and an armful of towels. I do
not remember in my life any bodily sensation more delicious than that
clean, well-laundered linen.
When I was dressed, I took up a Bible which lay upon my toilette-table
and read the one hundred and third Psalm, and then said my prayers,
and having thus a little composed myself, I went down-stairs. A most
bountiful supper was provided for us, and we sat down, waited upon by
a black servant. I had no notion of so much style and ceremony in this
remote corner of the world; but I soon found that there were other
colonists who kept up much more state than Mr. and Mrs. Folsom.
After supper, Andrew and I were left to ourselves in the parlor, and it
may be guessed we did not want subjects for talk. I told him my whole
story, concealing nothing.
"You see what sort of wife you have taken in your haste," said I, in
conclusion. "All these things are much worse than aiding and abetting
poor Betty, even if I had done so, which I never did."
"Ah, Vevette! Don't taunt me with my folly and obstinacy," said Andrew,
covering his face. "It was just that which threw you into the hands of
your enemies."
"My enemies would have had no power, if I had but kept them at arm's
length," said I. "It was not your fault that I did not accept Theo's
invitation instead of going with Madame de Fayrolles; but the truth was
that, when I heard you were going to be married to the Jamaica lady, I
thought only of getting out of England before you came into it."
"So it was that piece of folly that drove you away," said Andrew. "I
wish you could see the Jamaica lady, Vevette. She was indeed very kind
to me when I lay ill at her father's house; but she is fifty years old
at least, and about as handsome as old Deborah. Dear soul! She gave
me a string of beautiful pearls for you, and when I heard you were
married, I threw them into the sea."
"That was very wasteful; you might have given them to the poor," I
returned. "But who told you I was married?"
"Nobody said you were actually married; but when I went to Stanton
Court, to obtain news of you on my return, I found my lord fuming over
a letter he had just received, saying that you were to be married on
the morrow to some Frenchman—I don't remember his name—of great wealth
and consequence."
"Monsieur de Luynes," said I. "They did try to make me marry him
afterward, but I had not heard of him at that time. He was a good old
man, and very kind to me."
"That was the name," continued Andrew. "My lord swore you should not
touch a penny till you were twenty-one, whatever happened. But how came
you to write yourself that you were going to be married?"
"I did not," I answered.
"It was a forgery then. There was a note in your handwriting, and
signed with your name. I thought the hand looked a little Frenchified,
but the signature was yours to a hair. Only for that I should have
gone to Paris to find you; but I thought if you were well married,
and with your own consent, I would not be a makebate between you and
your husband. So I even turned the old place over to Margaret and her
husband to care for, gathered together my prize-money, and what else I
could, and came hither intending to turn settler. I was knocked down
and hurt in the storm, which was the reason I did not see you upon your
coming aboard. I was thinking on you when you came and spoke to me, and
for a moment I thought it was your ghost."
"Ghosts don't come at that time of day," said I. "And so Margaret is
married?"
"Yes, and well married as I could desire—to Mr. Treverthy, son of our
good old knight. 'Tis an excellent marriage in every way."
"And your mother?"
"My mother lives with Margaret, and so does Rosamond for the present.
Betty and her husband are in London, where he had some small office."
Our conversation was interrupted by the return of Mr. Folsom.
"And do you know what has kept me abroad so late?" said he, seeming
much amused. "Even taking order for the accommodation of your French
madame and her flock of lambs. I have them all safely and comfortably
housed in the new tavern, and have sent for a French woman who can
speak English to interpret for them."
"What! Did she come on shore after all?" I asked.
"She had no choice. The captain of the French ship positively refused
to receive her, till his ship should be made ready for sea. So, as she
could not well sleep in an open boat, she was at length prevailed upon
to hear reason. I have been half over the town gathering beds and other
needful comforts for them, and I have left the poor things at last
happy over a hot supper."
"I am glad they are comfortable. They have had a hard time of it. I
don't know how they will bear to go to sea again."
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