CHAPTER IX.

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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