CHAPTER X.

TO ENGLAND.

AS I said, my strength increased every day, so that I was soon able to walk about the garden and to take some long rides upon my cousin's gentle old pony, accompanied by Andrew and sometimes by Eleanor, to whom I still clung, though I was on the best of terms with the other girls.

We sat together in the brown parlor, as it was called, with our work or our music. Katherine taught me to play the virginals and also the organ, on which she was no contemptible performer. I never saw a girl who could do so many different things so well; but she had some faults, one of which was that she did not know how to help. Whatever was going on, she always wished to take the whole command, whether the scheme was her own or another person's. Paulina could give advice as to one's embroidery, modestly point out what she believed to be improvements, and after all, be content that you should take your own way. But Kate always had some greatly better plan or pattern of her own, and was inclined to be offended, if one did not adopt it.

I observed that the little boys, though they were fond of Katherine, yet came to Paulina with their little manufactures of kites, etc., as well as with their lessons, and to Eleanor with their bruises, cut fingers, and little difficulties of all sorts. In return for their instructions, I taught the girls to do English cut work, to work lace, and to knit, of which accomplishments they were quite ignorant.

Cousin Marianne was in and out, up-stairs and down, looking well to the ways of her household, keeping every part of the family in place and working smoothly, by using oil or a rasp, as the case might require. I never saw any one who better fulfilled the part of the wise woman of King Lemuel, except that she had no husband to be known in the gates (I always wondered what kind of woman King Lemuel married, after all his mother's instructions. I dare say she was some shiftless, helpless beauty, who could not mend her own hose, and did not know wheat from barley).

I must not forget to say that Pierre Le Febre returned to La Manche, having been well rewarded for his great services, which money alone would never pay for. He was not afraid to go back, as he had a plausible story enough to tell of contrary winds and the breaking of his boat, which was indeed a good deal damaged. But it seems he did not find himself comfortable. He fell under suspicion, notwithstanding all his precautions, and he was not well treated by his own family, who never forgave his marrying poor Isabeau.

So one night, he loaded his most valued possessions into his boat, along with his wife and child, and ran over to Jersey. He was hospitably received, on account of the great service he had done to my cousin's family, and he settled down into a respectable, steady father of a family, and became, for one in his station, quite a rich man. All this Eleanor wrote me long afterward.

Andrew had always said that poor Le Febre had the making of a man in him, and the event showed he was right.

It was a delightful novelty to have comrades of my own age to work and play with, for, except poor Lucille, I had never had any girl friend.

As the spring came on, as my strength increased and the island became more beautiful with every passing day, I grew more and more content, and should have been well pleased to make Jersey my home as long as I lived.

But my mother's health, which seemed so well to have borne the strain of that terrible night and the fatigues of my long illness, now began to fail. She had feverish nights and a slight cough, which made Cousin Marianne look grave whenever she heard it; and she became restlessly anxious to go home, as she said—to see once more the house where she was born, and the places where she had wandered when a child.

"It may be an idle fancy," said she one day to Cousin Marianne; "but since I cannot share my husband's grave, I should like to lie beside my father and mother."

"You must not give up life for a bad business," said Cousin Marianne. "Wish and try to live for your daughter's sake."

"I should strive to live, if striving would do any good," said maman; "but my life is in better hands than mine. As to wishes, I believe I have none, unless it be this one—to see Cornwall once more."

"I should urge you to stay longer, if I did not believe that your native air might do you good. I have some longings for a sight of that same Cornish home myself," she added, with a little gentle sadness in her voice. "It comes to me in my dreams at times, but I can never leave my cousin till one of the girls is old enough to govern the family, and by that time I fancy, I shall be ready for a better home even than the old house at Tre Madoc."

Andrew, too, was anxious to depart. His ship was to sail in June, and he wished to see us in safety, and to spend a little time with his mother and sisters before setting out on his long voyage to the Indies, whither his ship was bound.

So at last, it was settled that we were to sail for England with the first good opportunity, spend a few days in London, to dispose of my mother's jewels to advantage, and then go by sea to Plymouth, from whence the land journey would be but short.

An opportunity was not long delayed, for a good merchant-ship, with whose captain Andrew was well acquainted, touched at the island, and as the accommodations were better than any we could have hoped for, we got ready and embarked without delay.

I gave my white cat Blanchon to Eleanor. I grieved to part with him, for he seemed a link to my lost home, but I should not have known how to dispose of him in London, and Eleanor had grown very fond of him; so I was glad to do something for her in return for all her goodness to me. So Blanchon was left behind.

I parted from my cousins with many tears. They are all living still, and the two elder ones in homes of their own; but Eleanor has never married, and now governs her elder brother's house, as my cousin Marianne did her father's.

Our voyage, though somewhat rough, was prosperous, and the morning of the third day found us in lodgings which Andrew had procured for us in a good situation. It was in one of the new streets which had been built upon the ground covered by the great fire, and was therefore clean in comparison with other parts of the town. But oh, how dingy and dirty and forlorn it all seemed to me!

It is true, many of the buildings were very magnificent, and the equipages quite wonderful to my country eyes; but what did that matter, when half the time one could not see them for the fog and the smoke of the sea-coal, a kind of fuel of which I knew nothing? I well remember my dismay when, on putting my hand on the banister in going down-stairs, I found it as begrimed as a blacksmith's.

We remained in London about two weeks. My Uncle Charles, my mother's brother, was out of town with his family when we first arrived, but he soon returned, and came at once to see us, with his wife. They were a very fine lady and gentleman indeed, and dressed in the extreme of the fashion. My aunt especially was quite wonderful to behold, with her great bush of false hair, almost white, which formed an odd contrast to her dark eyes and eyebrows. Her forehead and cheeks were spotted with patches in the form of crescents, stars, and what not, and she wore the richest of brocades with heaps of silver lace. She was a very pretty woman, and very good-natured as well, though rather affected. I admired her hugely, as the first specimen of a fine lady I had ever seen. They were very kind and attentive to us, and my aunt was earnest with my mother to remain with her, instead of going down into that barbarous Cornwall, as she called it.

"Meg does not think it a barbarous desert, you see," said my uncle, with some pique in his voice, I thought. "And as you have never seen it and she has, she is perhaps the better judge."

"But such a lonely place," said my lady, with a very little pout; "no society, no gentry! I should die of megrims in a week."

"Margaret will not die of megrims, I'll engage," said my uncle; "nor my niece here. Come here, child, and let us look at you. I protest, Margaret, she is a beauty. Leave her with us, if you will not remain yourself, and we will find her a good husband."

"Vevette's market is already made," said my mother, smiling, though I could see she was annoyed. "You know it was an old family compact that she is to marry her cousin Andrew, and both the young folks are well suited therewith."

"Andrew Corbet! Why, he is not even a captain, and the estate at Tre Madoc cannot be worth more than four hundred a year all told," said my uncle. "Besides, unless he abandons his profession, the child will be a widow without any of the advantages of widowhood. There, I beg your pardon, Meg. I did not mean to hurt you."

My mother made no reply, but began to ask after other members of the family—the Stantons and Corbets of Devonshire.

"Oh, poor Walter is dead of the plague, and his young wife also! He married a girl young enough to be his daughter, and a great beauty, but neither of them lived long."

"I thought his wife was that Margaret Matou, who lived at the court with the former Lady Stanton," said my mother.

"Yes, she was his first wife, and a charming creature, I must say, though not handsome; but the second was quite different. However, she died, poor thing, and left no children, so the old house stands empty at present."

"There was a daughter, was there not?"

"Yes, she lives with Mr. Evelyn, her guardian, who is bringing her up in his strait-laced fashion."

"To be a companion to his pattern Mrs. Godolphin," said his wife, laughing.

"He might do worse," returned my uncle. "But come, sister d'Antin, make up your mind to leave your daughter with us for her education. I assure you she will have every care and advantage of masters, and we will make her a girl you shall be proud of."

My aunt seconded the invitation most kindly, but my mother was quite firm in declining it. We promised them a visit, however, to my secret delight.

When Andrew came back from the navy office, whither he had been to report himself, and heard what had passed, his brow darkened, and he said anxiously:

"You will not surely think of it, aunt. You will not leave our Vevette here to be made a fine lady of?"

"Have no fear, Andrew," answered my mother. "Nothing is farther from my thoughts than to put my child into such hands. I would almost as soon have her in the hospital with poor Lucille."

"I am sure my uncle and aunt seem very kind," said I rather indignantly, and feeling somehow vexed that Andrew should say "our Vevette," though he had often done so before. I was quite dazzled, in truth, by the splendor of these new relations, who revived in some degree my old daydreams.

"They are so in their way, but that way is not ours," said my mother; "and even were the advantages they offer greater than I think them, I do not believe my child would wish to leave her mother for their sake."

"Oh, no, no!" I cried, feeling for the moment all I said. "Not for worlds."

"That is settled, then," said my mother. "And now tell us, Andrew, where have you been?"

Andrew told us he had been to the naval office, where he had met an old friend, Mr. Samuel Pepys, with whom, knowing him to be a man of honor and wise in such matters, he had taken counsel as to the sale of my mother's jewels. He said further that Mr. Pepys believed he could find a merchant who would give good value for the said jewels, and that the gentleman proposed to bring his wife to visit us on the morrow, if it would be agreeable.

"I must warn you not to judge him by the outside, for he is a vain little fellow in some ways," said Andrew, smiling; "but he is in truth a good man, and his wife is a bright little body."

Of course my mother could say no less than that we should esteem the visit an honor, and the next morning they came. I had thought my uncle's dress wonderful fine, but it was nothing to that of Mr. Pepys, though I must say the latter was both richer in itself and better fancied. His wife was a pretty, black woman, who spoke French very nicely, and indeed it was in some sort her native tongue. Mr. Pepys bought some of my mother's lesser jewels himself, especially a diamond in a clasp which his wife fancied, and promised to find a purchaser for the rest—a promise which he fulfilled to our great advantage.

His conversation was an odd mixture of worldly shrewdness and an almost childlike simplicity, but I observed with approval that he did not load his discourse with oaths as my uncle, and even his wife, had done. On the whole, I liked our new friends very well, and when he proposed to carry me out and show me something of the parks and the city, I looked to my mother rather anxiously for her approval. She made no objection; so Mr. Pepys came by and by with his coach (which I fancy he had not possessed a great while, he seemed so proud of it), and took us into the park, and there showed us many great lords and ladies, pointing out to us, with a kind of awful reverence, my Lady Castlemaine, and some other person of the same stamp. I saw my mother flush as with indignation as she said, half to herself:

"And it is in such a world as this that they would have me leave my child to be brought up!"

"You must not think, madame, that all the ladies about the court are like these," said Mr. Pepys. "There are many who bring up their families in all virtue and godly living, like my good Lady Sandwich and others I could name. But I am quite of your mind as to Mrs. Genevieve, and if I were so happy as to be blessed with a daughter, she should, if possible, grow up in the country. His Majesty is a most noble prince—Heaven bless him, with all my heart!—but his example in some things hath done our young people little good."

It seemed that the merchant to whom we hoped to dispose of our jewels was out of town, but as he was to return in a few days, Andrew advised us to wait for him. Meantime, at their earnest entreaty, we spent a few days with my uncle and aunt.

My mother indeed passed much of her time in her own apartment, which, as her widowhood was so recent, no one could decently object to; but I went out several times with my aunt to the park, and even to Whitehall, where I saw the king and queen, and many great people besides. It seemed that the king had heard something of our story; at all events, he noticed me, and asking who I was, I was informally presented to him. There was less formality about the court at that time than ever has been before or since. He spoke kindly to me—for he was always kind when it cost him nothing—asked after my mother, and made me a compliment on my good looks. I noticed after this, that my aunt was rather in a hurry to get me away, and she never took me thither again.

But the mischief was done. All my old daydreams of wealth and ambition waked to life again, and I began to indulge them more and more. My conscience did not let me fall into my old courses without warning me, it is true; but I began to disregard its teachings, and to repine at the strict manner in which I had been brought up. I had grown very handsome since my illness, and I was quite aware of the fact—as what girl is not? And when I was away from my mother's side and in my aunt's drawing-room, I received many flourishing compliments, such as were then in fashion, from the gallants who visited her.

I soon began to compare my good Andrew with these fine gentlemen, not at all to his advantage, and I wished, if it were my fate to marry him, that he had a more genteel figure, and knew better how to set himself off. My aunt and uncle did not scruple to say before me that it was a shame I should so sacrificed—sent down to the country to be brought up by a set of Puritans, and married to another, without any chance to raise myself by a good match, as I might easily do.

"'Tis a poor thing for Andrew, too," I heard my uncle say one day; "he ought to marry some rich merchant's daughter, and renew his estate."

"Why do you not tell him so?" asked my aunt. "There is Mrs. Mary Bakewell, who would jump at the chance of making herself a lady with her thousands. Truly, she is plain enough, and something the elder, but she is a good creature after all. Why not propose it to him?"

"I did," replied my uncle, laughing; "and you should have seen him. He treated me to a real Cornish thunder-gust."

"Why, what did he say?" asked my aunt, while I listened with all my ears, as we say.

"He said he would rather travel the country with an ass and panniers, selling sand to the old wives, than sell his manhood for a fortune. I said the lady was a good lady, and well nurtured, and he answered:

"'So much the worse,' and then added, 'You mean kindly, I dare say, and I thank you, but I am old-fashioned enough to desire to love my wife.'"

"He is a rustic, without doubt," returned my lady, with a little touch of sarcasm in her voice. "I think you may as well let matters stand as they are, Charles. You will gain nothing by meddling, and 'tis but a thankless office, educating of other people's children."

"I believe you may be right," said my uncle, "and yet I confess I should like to keep the girl."

My aunt made no reply, and the conversation was dropped. I must say I looked on Andrew with a good deal more favor after this. It was something to have a servant (that was the fine phrase at that time) who had refused a great match for my sake.

Our visit at my uncle's was cut rather short from two circumstances, I fancy. One was that he was displeased my mother should have taken Mr. Pepys' advice about selling her jewels. My lady herself had a fancy for these same jewels, and would have bought them on credit, which we could ill afford. Besides which my mother told Andrew and me that it was not well to have money transactions between near relatives.

"They are sure to lead to misunderstanding and coldness, if not to open rupture," said she. "Moreover, from what I have seen, I believe my brother to be already embarrassed with debts."

"I know it for a fact," said Andrew; "and I believe you have done wisely. Mr. Bakewell is now returned, and is ready to treat with you for the jewels at any time."

"Then we will finish the affair as soon as may be, that we may turn our faces homeward," replied my mother. "I long for the sight of green trees and running streams, and, above all, for a cup of cold water from St. Monica's well. I can see it now, bubbling up under the ruined arch," she added musingly, with that far-away look which had lately come to her eyes. "Some day, Andrew, you must restore that arch."

"I will," said Andrew, with a certain solemnity, and they were both silent a moment. Then he added, more cheerfully, "Then I will tell the good woman at our lodgings that you will return to-morrow."

"This afternoon," said my mother; and so it was settled.

I believe another reason why my mother was willing to cut her visit short was that she saw the influence my aunt and her way were beginning to have upon me. I shall never forget how she looked at me when, in some fit of impatience with my work; I gave vent to one of my aunt's modish oaths. Those of the Religion in France looked upon all such expressions with as much abhorrence as the Puritans of England or America.

"Genevieve," said she sternly, "what would your father say?"

"I did not mean anything," said I, abashed and vexed at the same time.

"And there is just the fault," returned my mother. "Against what is the commandment aimed, if not at the use of sacred names without meaning anything?"

I did not reply, of course, and I was more careful in future, but inwardly I murmured at my mother's strictness and Puritanism, as I called it. I had learned this phrase from my uncle and his friends, with whom everything serious or reverent was Puritanism.

I should have said that I went to church on Sunday with my uncle and aunt. I was quite amazed at the splendor of the church, which had recently been refitted, and delighted with the service, especially with the chanting and singing. The sermon also I thought very good, though I did not quite like the preacher's manner. But if I was pleased with the clergyman, I was horrified at the manners of the congregation. I saw the fine ladies and gentlemen bowing and curtsying to each other, whispering—nay, all but talking aloud—and passing snuff-boxes and smelling-bottles back and forth. One of the gentlemen I had seen at my aunt's the day before, bowed to me as he came in, but I looked the other way.

"What a gracey sermon—just like a Presbyterian," said my aunt, yawning, without any disguise, almost before the congregation was dismissed. "And why did you not curtsy when Mr. Butler bowed to you? Did you not see him?"

Then I made one of the great mistakes of my life. I yielded to that miserable shame of doing right, which is the undoing of so many, and answered, "I was looking another way."

"Oh, I thought perhaps it was against your principles," said my aunt, in that light tone of contempt which always stung me to the quick. "I know some of our Puritans will not acknowledge a salute in church. I don't believe my old Lady Crewe would return a bow from the king himself, if prayers had begun."

"Yes, she is true to her colors," said my uncle. "I like her the better for it too," and he sighed a little.

I heard afterward that he had been a great precisian in the days of the Protector, though, like many others of the same sort, he went to the other extreme now. Their fear of God, like mine own, was taught by the precept of men, and therefore was easily enough overthrown by the same.

"But you must have your wits about you, child," said my aunt. "'Tis a dreadfully uncivil thing not to return a salute. Mr. Butler will think you a little rustic."

I am ashamed to say that I was more troubled at the thought that Mr. Butler should think me a rustic than at the lie I had told. When I came to my mother, she asked me of the sermon, and I told her all I could remember.

"'Tis a great privilege to hear the blessed Word preached openly to all the people," said my mother, sighing a little.

"'Tis a privilege a good many do not seem to appreciate," said Andrew, who had come in as usual to see my mother; "you should see the king and countess at church, madame. The Duke of York spent the whole of sermon-time this morning talking and laughing with some painted madams or other, through the curtains of the pews. If my cousin had been the preacher, I believe he would have spoken to them before all the congregation. What can you expect when our rulers set such an example?"

"What did the king do?" I asked.

"He was more attentive to the preacher. He is not one to hurt any one's feelings by incivility, though he would not care for his going to the rack, so he did not see it."

"Hush, my son!" said my mother reprovingly. "'Tis a besetting sin of yours to speak evil of dignities."

Andrew shrugged his shoulders, but he had too much respect to answer my mother back again.

But I am going back in my story. That very afternoon we returned to our lodgings. Our friends took leave of us cordially enough, and my aunt made me several very pretty presents, especially of a pocket working equipage, containing scissors, needles, thimble, and other implements, beautifully wrought, and packed in a very small compass.

Besides these she gave me a volume of plays and poems, which last, I am ashamed to say, I did not show to my mother. My mother presented her with a handsome clasp of Turkey stones and pearls, and my uncle with a gold snuff-box, which had belonged to her husband's father, and had a picture of some reigning beauty—I forget whom—enamelled on the lid; so we all parted friends.

The next day being Sunday, we went to a French Protestant church, where the worship was carried on according to the forms used by us in our own country. There had been an attempt made in the days of Charles the First to compel the French Protestants to conform to the Church of England, but it had not been carried out in the present reign. Great numbers of the refugees did in fact conform to the church, and indeed take orders therein, not considering the differences as essential; but others preferred the ways they were used to, and these had chapels of their own. It was to one of these churches, in Threadneedle Street, that we went; and here a great surprise awaited us.

We were no sooner seated than I began to have that feeling we have all experienced, that some one was looking earnestly at me, and turning my head about I saw in the gallery Simon and Jeanne Sablot. I could hardly believe my eyes; but there they were, decent as usual, though poorly dressed enough, and sadly changed since I had seen them last. Simon's hair was white as snow, and Jeanne's ruddy cheeks were faded and sunken. They both smiled, and then Jeanne's face was buried in her hands and her frame shaken with sobs.

I had no time to direct my mother's attention to them, for the minister at that moment entered the desk and the service began. Here was no whispering, no exchange of salutes or snuff-boxes. Many of those before the preacher had but just escaped from their enemies, thankful to have their lives given them for a prey, as the prophet says; and it was to them a wonderful thing to attend upon their worship openly and in safety.

It was not the regular minister who preached, but one who had but lately escaped from the house of bondage, and was able to give us the latest account of the unhappy country we had left behind. It was a sad tale of oppressive edicts, pressing always more and more severely upon our brethren; of families desolated and scattered; of temples pulled down and congregations dispersed. There were still sadder tales to be told, of abjurations and apostasies—some forced by harshness, others brought about by bribes and cajolery. Then the preacher changed his tone and spoke of midnight assemblies, like that of ours in the cellar of the old grange; of consistories held and discipline administered in caves and lonely places of the mountains, and of our fallen brethren coming, with tears and on bended knees, imploring to be restored to that communion to which to belong meant shame, imprisonment, and death. The old man's face shone and his voice rang like a trumpet as he told of these things, stirring every heart in the assembly, even mine. I felt miserably ashamed of my late frame of mind, and resolved that I would forsake the world, and live for heaven once more.

The sermon was long, but it came to a close at last, and the Lord's Supper was administered. It was then that my mother discovered our two old friends. I feared at first that she would faint, but she recovered herself, and when they came to us after sermon, she was far calmer and more collected than they were. She invited them home to our lodgings, which were not far distant, and they spent the rest of the day with us.

"How and when did you leave home?" was naturally the first question.

"About two weeks after the house was burned, madame," answered Simon.

"It is burned, then," said my mother.

"Oh, yes, madame. The mob plundered it thoroughly and then set it on fire, and little is left but the shell. A fine gentleman came down from Paris a few days afterward. He was very angry at the destruction, and threatened all sorts of things if the plunder was not brought back, but he recovered very little. Our house was also set on fire, but owing to the rains it did not burn, and after a few days we ventured to return to it and gathered together some few things. I have a parcel for you, madame, intrusted to my care by Monsieur, which the wretches did not find. Our small store of ready money also escaped their hands. David, whom you know we were expecting, came just then, and we returned with him to Dieppe, and after a week or two, he found us a passage to England. As I said, we had a small store of ready money, but it soon melted away, and though, by Jeanne's skill in lace-making and mending and my own work with a market gardener, we have made shift to live, it has been poorly enough. But why should we complain? We are in safety, and can worship God according to our conscience."

"But David!" said I.

"He would not come, mamselle. He is in high favor with his employer, who protects him, and he says he has so many opportunities of helping others, that he will not as yet abandon his post. Besides, he cherishes a hope, though I believe it is a vain one, of rescuing Lucille."

"Why do you think it a vain one?" I asked.

"Because, mamselle, she does not wish to be rescued. She has made a profession, as they call it, and we hear she is high in favor with her superiors, and a willing instrument in their hands in coaxing or compelling the poor little children to abjure. We thought it a great mercy when she, the last of five babes, was spared to us; but now I wish she had died in the cradle, like the rest."

"She is not yet out of the reach of mercy, my poor Simon," said my mother. "We must all remember her in our prayers." She paused, and then added, with a great effort, "Do you know what became of my husband's body?"

"He rests in peace, madame," answered Sablot. "Jean La Roche and myself buried him at midnight, by the side of my own babes, in our orchard. We levelled the ground and laid back the turf, so that none should suspect."

My mother rose and left the room, making me a sign not to follow her. When she came back at the end of an hour she had evidently been weeping bitterly; but she was now quite calm. She asked many questions about our servants, our tenants, and neighbors. The maids had all escaped, in one way or other, he told us. Julienne, he thought, would conform, as her sweetheart was earnest with her to do so. Marie had gone to Charenton. Old Mathew was found dead in the orchard, but without any marks of violence, and Simon thought he had died of the shock, as he was a very old man. Of Henri, he knew nothing.

"And what will you do, my poor friends?" said my mother. "How can we help you? If I were not going to the house of another, I would take you with me."

"Oh, we shall do very well, madame," said Jeanne cheerfully. "I get a great deal of fine washing and mending, especially of lace, and if Simon could buy some turner's tools of his own, he might set up a little shop."

"I have a better plan than that," said Andrew. "My mother writes me that our old gardener is just dead, and she knows not where to find another. You shall go down to Cornwall and take his place. As for Jeanne, she can wait upon madame, and teach old Deborah to make omelettes and galette. That will be better than living in a dingy street in London, will it not?"

"May Heaven's blessing rest upon you, my son," said my mother, while my poor foster-parents could hardly speak a word, so overpowered were they with the prospect suddenly opened before them. I was as pleased as my mother, and at that moment would not have exchanged my sailor for the finest gallant about the court.

The next day the business of the jewels was finished, and so favorably for us that we were made quite independent in point of means. My mother insisted on Simon's retaining at least half of the package of gold he had brought away with him, and which he had never broken in upon in his greatest needs, and Jeanne was soon neatly dressed in English mourning. In a few days, we embarked with all our goods, which indeed were not burdensome by reason of quantity, in a ship going to Plymouth. We had a short and prosperous voyage, and after resting a day or two in Plymouth, we took horse for the far more toilsome journey into Cornwall.

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