CONCLUSION.
THE next day I went with Mrs. Folsom to carry some additional comforts,
in the shape of linen and so on, to my old companions. I found them all
comfortably housed in a new tavern, which, though not quite finished,
was clean and cheerful. Mother Mary would not see us at all, but Sister
Margaret came to us, and was very grateful for what we brought.
"Every one has been very good," said she. "I did not know that heretics
could be so kind. They used to tell us that the English settlers
murdered every Catholic, and especially every nun that fell into their
hands; but the people here have treated us like true Christians. They
have even sent us an interpreter. They say the French vessel will set
sail in about a week. Oh, Vevette, how we shall miss you!"
"Dear sister, I wish I could help take care of you; but you know it is
impossible," I said.
"Yes, I know; but—" in a frightened whisper. "Ah, Vevette, take good
care of yourself. The mother says the French king will have you back if
he goes to war for you."
"I am not alarmed," I answered. "The French king has his hands too full
to care or concern himself for such an insignificant person as I am.
But who is that?" I added, starting as a plainly dressed woman looked
into the room and withdrew again.
"That is our interpreter," answered Sister Margaret. "She is a
heretic—more is the pity—but she is very good and useful."
"I beseech you, sister, make some excuse to call her hither," said I,
all of a tremble. "I am sure I know her."
The sister called her, and held her a moment in some conversation while
I looked at her. No, I was not mistaken.
"Lucille!" said I.
She turned, looked at me a moment with wide eyes of wonder, and then
dropped in a dead faint at my feet. I had her in my arms in a moment.
"It is my foster-sister," said I to Mrs. Folsom. "I thought she was
dead."
I almost thought so again before we brought her to; but she revived at
last, and knew me. Poor thing, she was sadly changed. Her black hair
was quite gray, and her face looked fifty years old. She went home
with us, and after a while was composed enough to tell us her story.
She said she had become horribly sick of the convent life, and having
fallen into disgrace with her Superior, she determined to make her
escape. For this purpose, she feigned stupidity almost to idiocy, and
having thus thrown her watchers off their guard, she made her escape;
putting on some clothes she found thrown aside, and disposing of her
own garments in the way they were found. She had made her way by one
means and another to Dieppe, where she fell in with a captain's wife,
who was in sore straits for want of a servant. With her, she took
service, and came to the new settlements, where she had lived ever
since. With what joy she received the news of her parents' welfare, I
leave to be guessed.
I have little more to tell in order to complete this long history.
Mother Mary took her departure after a fortnight's delay, during which
she received a great deal of kindness from the good people, and had
more than one sharp theological duel. She did not, however, carry away
all her flock.
Louisonne and two other girls were missing at the hour of departure,
and could nowhere be found, and she was forced to embark without them.
The next day they crept out of their concealment, a good deal scared
and ashamed. They were received with kindness, however, and taken to
service in decent families, and all three turned out very well.
The next ship to England carried news of us to our friends, but we
ourselves remained in New England. Andrew had a mind to see the country
now he had come thither, and he thought, moreover, that it would be as
safe for me to remain at a good distance till the storm, if storm there
were, should blow over. The tale could not fail to reach the ears of
King Louis and his ministers, and as our own King Charles was (I say
it to our shame) absolutely under his thumb, we knew not what demands
might be made.
So after travelling about a while, we bought a house and farm not very
far from Hampton. Here we lived for six years, very happy and content;
and here one day I had a great fright.
Sitting in my parlor with my youngest babe in my arms, Lucille, who
made it her home with us, came in to tell me that three or four Indians
were asking for food. This was no uncommon occurrence, and I bade her
supply their wants and set them down to eat; but seeing that she was
disturbed (for she had never overcome her fear of the natives) I went
to attend to them myself. I have a tolerably quick eye and a quick ear
for languages, and I discovered at once that these were none of our
ordinary peaceable Neponsets, with whom we were on the best of terms,
but strangers.
Moreover, I was sure that one of them was a white man. I supplied them
with food, and then, slipping into the next room, where I could see all
their faces in a mirror without being myself seen, I saw the supposed
white man make the sign of the cross, and in the action, I recognized
my old confessor, Father Martien.
My blood ran cold for a moment. It was well-known that the Jesuits of
Canada constantly set on their Indian allies to rob, burn, and murder
all along our settlements; but it was seldom that they came as far as
our place. No doubt these were spies sent out to see the nakedness of
the land. Woe to me if I fell into their hands.
I stepped to the door and sent a black boy for my husband, who was not
far-away. He came, and I told him my convictions.
"Tut!" said he. "I dare say they are harmless enough."
"Look and listen for yourself," said I.
He did so, and was obliged to confess that there was cause for my
alarm. They finished their meal, and went away peaceably enough, but I
shall never forget the look Father Martien bestowed on me in parting.
They were no sooner gone, than my husband sent to rouse the neighbors,
and the little settlement was put into a state of defence, and we kept
a strict watch, which was all we could do that night. The next morning
scouts were sent out, and it was found that quite a large war party had
been in the neighborhood, but had decamped, probably in consequence of
seeing us so well prepared for them. I have heard nothing of Father
Martien since, though I am sure I had a glimpse of him once in London.
We remained in New England for six years, and then returned to
Cornwall. My husband's mother was growing infirm, and longed to see her
son and his children. Mr. Treverthy's brother was dead, and it became
needful for him to live upon his own estate. So we sold our farm for a
good price, and went back to our old home, a sober married couple with
three promising children.
My aunt Amy received me with open arms, and I never had any trouble
with her, save to keep her from quite spoiling my children's tempers
with indulgence and their digestion with gingerbread.
We had the happiness of restoring Lucille to her parents, who received
her like one returned from the grave. David had already settled in
Penzance as a carpenter, and taken a modest Cornish maid to wife. He
is an old man now, quite rich, and a person of great importance in the
town; but wealth has not spoiled him in the least. Lucille hath never
married, and still lives with me, a most valued helper and friend.
Jeanne and Simon survived to a good old age.
Of poor Betty, as I can say no good, I will say nothing.
My uncle Charles married a rich old woman from the city—a widow—who
has led him a sad life, and seems likely to outlive him after all. I
saw her once, and thought if there were anything in the doctrine of
penance, her husband was in a fair way to expiate all his offences.
Her name was Felicia, but the felicity was all in the name. She would
neither be happy herself nor let any one else be so, if she could help
it.
I never saw Monsieur de Fayrolles again. He perished in a duel, under
very disgraceful circumstances, some years after I left him, and there
was no one remaining to bear that dishonored name. His wife, after
leading life for a time, suddenly turned devotee, retired to a convent,
and gave all her jewels to the shrine of Our Lady of something or
other—whatever image was most in fashion at the time. I suppose the
pearl necklace my lady gave me was among them.
Susanne came to London, set up as a milliner and hair-dresser, and did
very well. I never forgot her kindness to me, and was glad to be able
to return it.
Lord and Lady Stanton lived to a good old age. Lewis caused them a good
deal of uneasiness for a time by running rather wild, and absolutely
refusing to marry in his father's life-time. I believe my lord would
have been very glad if his son had married his ward when he wished
it—not that I ever wanted him. However, Lewis did take a wife at
last, and that a wife of the Religion—a pretty, gentle, scared little
Provençal—who I fear he will not keep very long.
Theo and her husband have had little trouble except that she has no
children. She is a blessing to every one who comes in contact with her,
as Mrs. Barnard is the reverse.
Margaret hath at this moment twenty children and grandchildren, and is
as proud of the last as if it had been the first.
Rosamond divides her time among us, happy and making happy wherever she
goes.
And now I bring this long memoir of my young days to a close. I have
written it at the instance of my husband and for the benefit of my
children, in accordance with a kind of custom which hath obtained in
our family for several generations. As to the moral, if any be needed,
it may be read in two or three places of Holy Scripture, which I will
copy here.
"A double-minded man is unstable in all his ways."—St. James 1:8.
"If any man love the world, the love of the Father is not
in him."—1 St. John 2:15.
"Ye cannot serve God and mammon."—St. Matt. 6:24.
AGNES GENEVIEVE CORBET née d'ANTIN.
[Illustration: ENDE.]
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