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 TKI: < iir.v.u.ii.irs DATCIITER.
 
 THE 
 
 CHEVALIER'S DAUGHTER 
 
 BEING ONE OF THE 
 
 STANTON CORBET CHRONICLES 
 
 BY 
 LUCY ELLEN GUERNSEY 
 
 AUTHOR OF "LADY BETTY'S GOVERNESS," " LADY ROSAMOND'S BOOK," "WINI- 
 FRED " "THE LANGHAM REVELS," ETC. 
 
 NEW YORK : 
 THOMAS 
 
 2 AND 3 BIBLE HOUSE
 
 Copyright. 1880, 
 Bv THOMAS WHITTAKBH. 

 
 DEDICATION. 
 
 / began this book with tlie intention of inscribing it to my 
 own and my mother's tried and faithful friend, AARON ERICSON 
 JSsq. / runt dedicate it to his revered memory. 
 
 LUCY ELLEN GUERNSEY. 
 
 2061850
 
 CO:N 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 TAGB 
 
 Early Recollections, . . 9 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 The Tour D'Antin, 28 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 Youthful Days, 48 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 Trust and Distrust 63 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 Guests at the Tour 89 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 The Lonely Grange, . . 107 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 A Sudden Summons, 127 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 Flight, 145 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 In Jersey, 168 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 To England, 189 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 Tre Madoc, 212
 
 vi CONTEXTS. 
 
 CHAPTEH XII. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Mischief, ... 230 
 
 CHAPTKU XIII. 
 The Book, . . . 259 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 A Wedding, 2 81 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 Stantoun Court, .... 819 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 London S 44 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 My New Friends, . . 363 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 A Great Step 370 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 Another Change, .... 39? 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 "You shall have no Choice," . . 414 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 The Convent, .432 
 
 CHAPTER XXIL 
 The Voyage .440 
 
 CHAPTER XXIIL 
 Conclusion, - 4 60
 
 N OTE 
 
 HESE memoirs were written by my re- 
 spected grandmother when she was quite 
 an old lady. I well remember as a child 
 seeing her writing upon them, my grand- 
 father sitting near, and she now and then suspend- 
 ing her pen to talk over some incident with him. 
 Matters have not improved in France since her 
 time, but 'tis said that the young dauphin is quite a 
 different man from his father, and if he ever comes 
 to the throne an effort will be made in behalf of 
 toleration for the persecuted Protestants. I hope 
 so, I am sure. But to return to the memoir. 
 
 After my grandparents' deaths, which took place 
 within a week of each other, the papers were mis- 
 laid, and I only found them by accident in an inner 
 cupboard of a curious old carved cabinet (I suspect 
 the very one described in these pages), which my 
 younger brother tooj?: a_ fancy to repair. I have
 
 cS 
 
 Note. 
 
 amused the leisure afforded me by a tedious 
 sprained ankle in arranging and transcribing these 
 papers, which seem to me both interesting and 
 
 profitable. 
 
 ROSAMOND GENEVIEVE CORBET. 
 
 Tre Madoc Court, May 1st, 1740.
 
 VEVETTE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 EARLY RECOLLECTIONS. 
 
 WAS born in the year of grace 1660, at 
 the Tour D'Antin, a chateau'not very far 
 from the little village of Sartilly in Nor- 
 mandy. My father was the Chevalier 
 D'Antin, a younger son of the Provencal family of 
 De Fayrolles. My mother was an English lady, 
 daughter of a very ancient Devonshire family. Her 
 name was Margaret Corbet, and the branch of that 
 tribe to which she belonged had settled in Cornwall. 
 I remember her as a very beautiful woman, with 
 crispy waved blonde hair and a clear white skin more 
 like alabaster than marble, and no tinge of color in 
 her cheeks. I never saw any other person so pale 
 as she, though her lips were always red. She had 
 beautiful gray eyes, with long black lashes, and 
 clearly defined arched eyebrows meeting above her 
 nose, which gave a very serious and even solemn 
 expression to her face. This expression accordea
 
 io The Chevaliers Daughter. 
 
 well with her character, which was grave and 
 thoughtful and very deeply religious. I never saw 
 any person whose faith was so much like sight as 
 hers. Nevertheless, she could smile very sweetly, 
 and even laugh merrily at times, but not very 
 often. For a shadow hung over our house from my 
 earliest years the same shadow which darkened so 
 many other French families at that time. 
 
 My father was a pleasant, lively, kind-hearted 
 gentleman, who worshipped his beautiful wife, and 
 treated her as if she were indeed some fragile statue 
 of alabaster which might be broken by rough usage. 
 
 He was. as I have said, a younger son. H?a 
 elder brother lived far away in Provence at least 
 his grand chateau was there ; but he and his wife 
 spent most of their time at court, where they both 
 held offices about the king and queen. By some 
 family arrangement which I never understood, our 
 own Tour d'Antin came to my father, thus putting 
 him in a much more comfortable position than that 
 of most younger brothers, as there was a large and 
 productive domain and certain houses at Granville 
 which brought good rents. Besides, there were 
 dues of fowls and so forth from the tenants and 
 small farmers. Indeed, my father, with his simple 
 country tastes, was far richer than his elder brother, 
 and that though my father's purse was always open 
 to the poor, especially those of our own household 
 of faith. 
 
 The Tour d'Antin was a large building of red- 
 dish stone, partly fortress, partly chateau. I sus-
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter. 1 1 
 
 pect it had some time been a convent also, for 
 there was a paved court surrounded by a cloister, 
 and a small Gothic chapel which was a good deal di- 
 lapidated, and never used in my time. The fortress 
 part of the house was very old. It consisted of a 
 square and a round tower, connected by a kind of 
 gallery. The walls were immensely thick, and so 
 covered with lichens and wall plants that one could 
 hardly tell what they were made of. In the square 
 tower my mother had her own private apartment, 
 consisting of a parlor and an anteroom, and an 
 oratory, or closet, as we should call it in England, 
 the last being formed partly in the thickness of the 
 wall, partly by a projecting turret. It seemed an 
 odd choice, as the new part of the house was so 
 light and cheerful, but there was a reason for this 
 choice which I came to understand afterward. The 
 rooms communicated by a gallery with the newer 
 part of the house, where was a saloon, my father's 
 special study and business room, and various lodging 
 rooms. This same gallery, as I have said, led to 
 the oldest part of the chateau the round tower, 
 which was somewhat ruinous, and where nobody 
 lived but the bats and owls, and, if the servants 
 were to be credited, the ghosts of a certain cheva- 
 lier and his unhappy wife, about whom there was a 
 terribly tragical legend. There was a steep stone 
 staircase leading to the top of the round tower, from 
 whence one could see a very little bit of the sea and 
 the great monastery and fortress of St. Michael. 
 There was no view of the sea from any other part
 
 1 2 The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 of the house, which lay in a sort of dell or depres- 
 sion quite sheltered from the winds, but from the 
 hill behind us one could see the whole extent of the 
 sands which lay between Grauville and the Mont St. 
 Michel, and the mount itself, a glorious vision in a 
 clear bright day, and a gloomy sight when it low- 
 ered huge and dark through the mists of Novem- 
 ber. We young ones used to look at it with sensa- 
 tions of awe, for we knew that inside those high 
 frowning walls, shut deep from light and air, were 
 horrible dungeons, in which some of " the Beligion" 
 had perished in lingering misery, and others might, 
 for all we knew, be pining there still. Formerly, 
 we were told, the pinnacle of the fortress was 
 crowned by a mighty gilded angel, an image of the 
 patron saint of the place, but it did not exist in my 
 day. The wide expanse of sand of which I have 
 spoken was and is called the Greve, and was no less 
 an object of terror to us than the fortress itself. It 
 is a dreary and desolate plain, abounding in shifting 
 and fathomless quicksands, which stretch on every 
 hand and often change their places, so that the 
 most experienced guide cannot be sure of safety. 
 Not a year passes without many victims being swal- 
 lowed up by the Greve, and these accidents are 
 especially frequent about the time of the feast of 
 St. Michael, on the 29th of September, when crowds 
 of pilgrims flock to the mount from all over France. 
 On the eve of All Souls' Day -that is, on the 2d of 
 November as all good Catholics in La Manche be- 
 lieve, there rises from the sands a thick mist, and
 
 The Chevaliers Daughter. 13 
 
 this mist is made up of the souls of those unfortu- 
 nates pilgrims, fishermen, and smugglers who 
 have from time to time found a horrible and living 
 grave in its treacherous depths, and who, having 
 died without the sacraments, are in at least a ques- 
 tionable position. 
 
 To the south and south-east of the Tour d'Antin 
 lay wide apple orchards, laden with fruit in good 
 years, and seldom failing altogether in bad ones. 
 There was also a small vineyard, but we made no 
 wine, for Normandy is not a wine country. The 
 very children in arms drink cider as English chil- 
 dren drink milk, and it does not seem to hurt them. 
 "We had a garden for herbs and vegetables mostly 
 salads, carrots, and various kinds of pulse. Pota- 
 toes, which are growing very common in England 
 now, and were cultivated to some extent even then, 
 were unknown in France till long afterward, and 
 are not in use at present except as a rare luxury. 
 My mother had a flower-garden very small, and 
 carefully tended by her own hands. At the end of 
 our garden stood a small unpretending stone build- 
 ing, not the least like a church, which was never- 
 theless the only place of worship of the Protestants 
 for some miles around. For the domain D'Antin 
 was a kind of Protestant colony in the midst of 
 Catholics. All our own tenants were of ' ' the Re- 
 ligion," and there were a few of the same way of 
 thinking, both in Granville and Sartilly, who came 
 to the " Temple," as it was called, on the rare occa- 
 sions when we had a visit from a pastor. On such
 
 14 The Chevaliers Daughter. 
 
 occasions we had sometimes as many as fifty wor- 
 shippers. When I recall the aspect of that little 
 congregation, with their solemn earnest faces, their 
 blue eyes fixed on the preacher, the old men and 
 women with their heads bent forward not to lose a 
 word, the very children in arms hushed and silent, 
 and then look round on our English congregation, 
 with half the men asleep, the old clerk nodding 
 in his desk, or droning out the Amens, as my 
 naughty Walter says, like a dumbledore under a 
 hat when I contrast the two I sometimes wonder 
 whether a little persecution would not be good for 
 the church on this side of the water. It seems a 
 poor way of praising the Lord for all his benefits to 
 go to sleep over them. 
 
 As I have said, the domain D'Antin was a kind 
 of Protestant colony in the midst of Roman Catho- 
 lics only we did not use the word Protestant at 
 that time. We were among ourselves u the Re- 
 formed," or " the Religion ;" among our enemies 
 the " Heretics," " the religion pretended to be re- 
 formed," and so forth. Our family had belonged 
 to this party ever since there had been any " Re- 
 formed " in France, and even before. For our 
 ancestors had come into Provence from among the 
 Vaudois, of whom it was and is the boast that they 
 had never accepted the Romish corruptions of the 
 true Gospel, and therefore needed no reformation. 
 For some hundreds of years after their emigration 
 these people had lived in peace with their neighbors. 
 They had found Provence a wilderness, all but aban-
 
 The Chevaliers Daughter. 15 
 
 doned to the wolves. They made it a smiling 
 garden. Vineyards and olive orchards, fruit and 
 grain sprung up where they trod. They were con- 
 sidered as odd people, eccentric, perhaps a little mad, 
 who would not swear nor drink to excess, nor sing 
 indecent songs, nor frequent companies where such 
 things were done ; but then they were quiet and 
 peaceable, full of compassion for those who needed 
 help, paying dues to State and Church without a 
 murmur, and if they did not attend mass or confes- 
 sion, the quiet old parish cures winked with both 
 eyes, for the most part, or contented themselves with 
 mild admonitions to such as came in their way. 
 
 But in the year 1540 all this was changed, and a 
 tempest fell on the peaceable inhabitants of Pro- 
 vence a tempest as unexpected by most of them as 
 a thunderbolt out of a clear sky. The preaching of 
 the true Gospel, which was begun about the year 
 1521 by Farel and Le Fevre, spread like wildfire 
 all over the kingdom. Crowds attended everywhere 
 on the ministrations of the reformed preachers, and 
 in many places the parish priests were left to say 
 mass to the bare walls. It seemed at first as if 
 France would soon break away from Rome, as Ger- 
 many had done. But the fair dawn was soon over- 
 clouded. Persecution arose because of the word, 
 and many were offended and returned to their 
 former observances. The Yaudois settlers in Pro- 
 vence were the greatest sufferers. They were true 
 to the faith of their forefathers, and no menaces 
 could shake them. Two of their villages ]\leri ndol
 
 1 6 The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 and Cabrieres were burned to the ground. In the 
 former only one person was left alive- -a poor idiot 
 who had given to a soldier two crowns for a ransom. 
 The commander of the expedition, D'Oppide, gave 
 the soldier two crowns from his own purse, and 
 then caused the poor idiot to be bound to a tree and 
 shot. The men of Cabrieres being promised their 
 lives and the lives of their families, laid down their 
 arms, and were cut in pieces on the spot. Women 
 and children were burned in their houses, others fled 
 to the mountains and woods to perish of want and 
 cold, and the name of Vaudois was almost extin- 
 guished in Provence.* Almost, but not altogether. 
 A hidden seed still remained among the poor and 
 lowly, and some great houses still openly professed 
 their faith and protected their immediate dependants. 
 Among these was the family to which my grandfa- 
 ther belonged. Through all the troubles and wars of 
 the League through the fearful days of St. Barthol- 
 omew, when France ran blood from one end to the 
 other the family of my ancestors kept their heads 
 above the flood without ever denying their faith. 
 It remained for my uncle, the head of our family, 
 to sully our noble name by real or pretended con- 
 version, in order to curry court favor from Louis 
 XIV. He has left no descendant to perpetuate his 
 shame. That branch of the family is extinct, the 
 last son being killed in a disgraceful duel. 
 
 * All these details and man}' more may he found in Felice's 
 " Histoires des Protestants en France," and in many Catholic 
 writers as welL
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter. i 7 
 
 It was before this disgrace fell upon us that my 
 father, in consequence of the family arrangement I 
 have spoken of, took possession of the domain in 
 Normandy. He was not a very young man when, 
 in a visit he made to Jersey, he met and married 
 my mother, who had also gone thither on a visit. 
 We could see the island of Jersey on a clear day, 
 like a blue cloud on the horizon, and used to look 
 at it with great interest as a part of England, which 
 we pictured to ourselves as a land of all sorts of 
 marvels. 
 
 From the time of the execution of the Edict of 
 Nantes in 1598 to the death of Henry IY., those of 
 the Religion in France enjoyed a good degree of 
 peace, and their temples (which they were not 
 allowed even then to call churches) multiplied all 
 over the land ; but the Bearnois, as the people loved 
 to call him, was hardly cold in his grave before his 
 successor began his attempts to undo what his great 
 progenitor had done, and from that time to the final 
 revocation of our great charter in 1685, every year 
 nay, almost every month brought down new 
 persecutions, new edicts on the heads of the " so- 
 called Reformed." These edicts were such as 
 touched the honor, the safety, the very life of every 
 Protestant. I shall have to speak very largely of 
 these edicts as I proceed, for some of them had a 
 direct effect on my own destiny. 
 
 I have given a description of the Tour d'Antin 
 as my birthplace, but in truth my earliest recollec- 
 tions are of a very different dwelling. For a long
 
 1 8 The Chevaliers Daughter. 
 
 time after my birth my mother was in very delicate 
 health and quite unable to nurse me herself, so I 
 was given over to the care of a former servant of 
 our family named Jeanne Sablot, who had lately 
 lost a young infant. Jeanne took me home to he*r 
 own house, and I only saw my dear mother at inter- 
 vals of a month or two till I was ten years old. 
 Jeanne had two children of her own, David and 
 Lucille, both older than 1, and my sworn friends 
 and protectors on all occasions. Jeanne's parents 
 hud come from Provence, and she was like an 
 Italian, both in looks and ways. Her husband, 
 Simon Sablot, was a tall, blue-eyed, fair-haired Nor- 
 man, somewhat heavy and slow both in mind and 
 \vays, a devout Christian man, respected even by 
 liis Koman Catholic neighbors for his just dealings 
 and generous hand. But indeed we all lived in 
 peace in those days. Catholics and Protestants 
 were neighborly together in the exchange of good 
 offices. Even the old cure did not hesitate to ex- 
 change a kindly greeting with one of his heretical 
 parishioners, or to accept a seat and a drink of 
 sparkling cider m his dwelling. The great wave 
 of persecution which was sweeping over France had 
 hardly reached our obscure harbor, though we began 
 to hear its roar at a distance. 
 
 The old farm-house in which my foster-parents 
 lived was roomy enough and very fairly neat, 
 though the walls and beams were black as ebony, 
 and varnished with the smoke of wood fires. I can 
 see at this moment the row of polished brass pans
 
 The Chevaliers Daughter. 19 
 
 shining like gold in the firelight, the tall drinking- 
 glasses on the shelf, the oddly carved cabinet with 
 bright steel hinges, which Jeanne called a 
 " bahut," and cherished with pride because it had 
 come down from her Vaudois ancestors, and the 
 round brass jar used for milking, and into whose 
 narrow neck it required some skill to direct the 
 stream from the udder aright. I can see my foster- 
 father seated in his great chair in the chimney 
 corner, and my good nurse baking on the griddle 
 cakes of sarrasin, which the English call buck- 
 wheat. These cakes were very good when they 
 came hot and crisp from the griddle ; but it was 
 and is the custom to bake up a huge pile of them, 
 enough sometimes to last several weeks, and it can- 
 not be denied that toward the end one needed to 
 be very hungry to relish them. We had corn bread 
 also, for Simon cultivated one of the best of the 
 small farms into which the domain was divided ; 
 but we ate it as a great treat, as English children 
 eat plum-cake. We lived somewhat more luxuri- 
 ously than most of our neighbors, for Jeanne had 
 been cook at the great house like her mother 
 before her. and Simon was wont to boast that his 
 wife could dress him a dish of eggs in as many 
 different ways as there are days in a month. Still 
 we lived very plainly, and I fared like the rest. I 
 learned to read from Jeanne, who was a good 
 scholar and spoke very pure French, and she also 
 taught me to sew, to spin, and to knit, for the Nor- 
 man women are famous knitters. Besides these
 
 2O The Chevaliers Daughter. 
 
 lessons, which were my tasks and strictly exacted, I 
 learned to milk and clmrn, to make hay and plant 
 beans, and, in short, to do all that Lucille did. We 
 all had our daily tasks of Scripture to learn by 
 heart, according to the admirable custom of the 
 French reformers, and we also learned and sang 
 Clement Marot's hymns and psalms. I have still 
 in my possession an old French Bible with these 
 psalms bound in the same volume. The index is 
 curious : certain psalms are distinguished as "To 
 be sung when the church is under affliction an d op- 
 pression ; when one is prevented from the exercise 
 of worship ; when one is forced to the combat ; to 
 be sung on the scaffold." Such are some of its 
 divisions very significant, certainly. On Sundays 
 we learned" the Catechism, and the " Noble Lesson'"' 
 which had come to us from cur Yaudois ancestors, 
 read the stories in the Bible, and took quiet walks 
 in the fields and lanes. Our Roman Catholic neigh- 
 bors used to assemble after mass on the village 
 green for dancing and other sports, but none of the 
 Reformed were ever seen at these gatherings. 
 
 Once, when David was about fourteen, he ran 
 away from home and went to Granville to see the 
 great procession on the feast of St. Michael, which 
 fell that year on a Sunday. Lucille did not know 
 where he had gone, but I did, for he had told me 
 his intention, and I had vainly tried to dissuade 
 him. I did not mean to tell, but I was forced to 
 do so. I shall never forget the horror of his 
 mother nor the stern anger of his father.
 
 The Chevalier's Daughter. 21 
 
 " The boy is lost to us lost forever !" I heard 
 Jeanne say to her husband. 
 
 " No, no, ma bonne !" answered Simon sooth- 
 ingly ; " the boy has done wrong, no doubt, but he 
 will return he will repent all will be well." 
 
 ' ' Ah, you do not know !' ' returned Jeanne in a 
 shrill accent of horror. u There are monks at 
 Granville missionaries. He will be betrayed into 
 some rash act of worship a reverence to the image 
 an entry into the church. They will call it an 
 act of catholicity they will take him away he 
 will never return to us. Or if he should refuse 
 them, they will accuse him of blaspheming the 
 Yirgin and St. Michael." Jeanne threw herself 
 down in her seat and covered her eyes, and Simon's 
 calm face was clouded with grave anxiety ; but he 
 spoke in the same reassuring tone. 
 
 " Little mother, you are borrowing trouble. Is 
 not our Lord at Granville as well as here, and can 
 he not take care of our son ? I trust he will be be- 
 trayed into no rashness, though the idle curiosity of 
 a child has taken him in the way of danger. ' ' 
 
 " But, Father Simon, will God take care of 
 David now that he has been a naughty boy ?" I 
 ventured to ask. 
 
 Simon smiled. 
 
 " Ah, my little one, what would become of the 
 best of us if God did not take better care of us than 
 we do of ourselves. Nevertheless, to run into need- 
 less danger is a sin of presumption. There are daii-
 
 22 The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 gers enough hanging over our heads, let us be as 
 careful as we may. ' ' 
 
 I had lived, so to speak, in an atmosphere of dan- 
 ger all my life, but I think I now realized it for the 
 first time. 
 
 " What do you mean by an act of catholicity ?" 
 \ asked. " Is it anything wicked ?" 
 
 Simon and his wife looked at each other, and then 
 my foster-father put out his hand and drew me to 
 his side. 
 
 " Listen to me, little Vevette !" said he, laying 
 his hand on my head and turning my face toward 
 his. "It is hard to sadden thy young life with 
 such a shadow, but it is needful. Yes, the shadow 
 of the cross, which God hath laid on his church, 
 falls also on the little ones. Attend, my child ! 
 Thou must never, never," he repeated, with some 
 sternness in his voice, " on any pretext, or on any 
 persuasion, no matter from whom it comes, enter a 
 church or bow thy head to any image, or kiss any 
 image or picture, or make the sign of the cross, or 
 sing any hymns so called, or canticle to the Virgin 
 or the saints. If thou dost any such thing the 
 priests will perhaps come and take thee away from 
 thy parents to shut thee up in a convent, where thou 
 wilt never more see one of thy friends, and from 
 which thou wilt never escape with life except by re- 
 nouncing thy God and thy religion !" 
 
 " I will never renounce my religion !" I cried 
 with vehemence. " My uncle did so, and my 
 father says he has disgraced his ancient name."
 
 The Chevaliers Daughter. 25 
 
 " Alas, poor man, if that were all !" said Simon. 
 " But now wilt thou remember these things, my 
 child?" 
 
 ' ' I will try, ' ' said I humbly ; for I remembered 
 that only yesterday I had been humming the air of 
 a hymn to the Virgin which had struck my fancy. 
 " But oh, Father Simon, do you think they will 
 take David away and shut him up in the monastery 
 yonder ?" 
 
 " I trust not," said Simon, and then he added, 
 with vehemence, ' ' I would rather he were sunk be- 
 fore my eyes in the deepest sands of the Greve. ' ' 
 
 " I think Vevette is as bad as David," said 
 Lucie, who had not before spoken. " She knew 
 he was going, and she did not prevent him. If ./ 
 had knoAvn, I should have told mother directly. " 
 
 " Yes, thou art only too ready to tell," reph'ed 
 her mother. " Take care that no one has to tell of 
 thee." 
 
 ' ' And remember that spiritual pride is as great 
 a sin as disobedience, and goes before a fall as often, 
 my Loulou, " added her father. 
 
 " I did not know what to do," said I. " Mother 
 Jeanne does not like to have us tell tales ;" which 
 was true. 
 
 " Thine was an error in judgment, my little one. 
 I am not angry with yon, my children. Another 
 time you will both be wiser, and David also I trust. 
 Now run up to the top of the hill and see if you can 
 see him." 
 
 We went out together, but not hand in hand as
 
 24 The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 usual. A drizzling rain was falling, but we were 
 too hardy to mind that. Our sabots or wooden shoes 
 were impervious to wet, and our thick homespun 
 frocks almost as much so. No sooner were we out 
 of hearing of the elders than Loulou overwhelmed 
 me with a torrent of reproaches mingled with tears. 
 
 ; ' It is you you, Vevette, who have sent my 
 brother away," she cried. " You knew he was 
 going, and you did not try to stop him." 
 
 "That is not true," said I calmly I was as 
 angry as herself, but it was always a way of mine 
 that the more excited I was the quieter I grew 
 " I said everything I could." 
 
 ' Yes, you said everything ; why did not you 
 do something. If he had told me but no ! 
 Everything is for Yevette, forsooth, because she is 
 a demoiselle. His poor sister is nothing and no- 
 body. You try every way to separate him from 
 me, and make him despise me. I wish " but a 
 burst of angry sobs choked her voice. 
 
 ' Yes, I know what you wish, and you shall have 
 your wish," said I, for I was now at a white heat. 
 
 Loulon began to be scared, and, as usual, as I 
 grew angry she began to cool down. 
 
 ' Well, I think you ought to have told, but to 
 be sure you are only a little girl," she added con- 
 descendingly. " As father says, when you are 
 older you will know better." 
 
 This put the climax. Nobody likes to be called 
 " only a little girl." I did not gay a word, but I 
 turned and walked away from her. I had had a
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter. 25 
 
 glimpse of a figure coming up the hollow lane, and 
 I was determined to meet David before his sister 
 did. 
 
 " Vevette, where are you going ?" called Loulou. 
 " Come back ; you will be wet through." I paid 
 no attention to her, but, quickening my steps, I 
 passed a turn in the lane, and as I did so David 
 caught me in his arms. 
 
 " Yevette ! what are you doing here, and what 
 makes you so pale ? Is your heart beating again ?" 
 For I was subject to palpitations which, though 
 probably not dangerous, were alarming. " Here, 
 sit down a moment. What frightened you ?" 
 
 " You you did," I gasped, as soon as I could 
 speak. " I thought they would carry you off that 
 we should never see you again." 
 
 ' ' Was that all ? There was no danger, " said 
 David, with an odd little smile. " I did not go 
 near them." 
 
 " Did not go near them !" repeated Lucille, 
 who had now come up with us. " "Why not ?" 
 
 " I did not think it right," answered David 
 manfully. " 1 meant to go when I set out, but 
 Yevette's words kept ringing in my ears : ' It is 
 mean and cowardly to pain thy mother's heart just 
 for a pleasure. ' So 1 turned aside and went to sit 
 a while with Jean Laroche, who is laid up still with 
 his sprained ankle." 
 
 " Then you never went near the procession at all 
 you never saw it," said Lucille, in a tone of dis- 
 appointment, as David shook his head. " 1
 
 26 The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 <5 
 
 thought you would at least have something to tell 
 us. What are you laughing at, mademoiselle, if I 
 may be so bold as to ask ?" 
 
 "At you, "I answered with perfect frankness. 
 *' At first you are enraged enough to kill me because 
 1 did not keep David from going, and now you are 
 vexed at him because he did not go." 
 
 " But you did keep me, and I should have come 
 home at once, only the poor Mother Laroche asked 
 me so earnestly to come in and amuse Jean a little. 
 But I must hurry home. Come, girls." 
 
 Lucille and I did not go into the house, but into 
 the granary, which was one of our places of retire- 
 ment. I took up an old psalm-book and began 
 turning over the leaves. Lucille stood looking out 
 of the door. At last she spoke. 
 
 " So you did hinder him, after all ?" 
 
 " Yes, what a pity !" I answered mischievously. 
 " Else he might have something to tell us. But I 
 am only a little girl, you know. When 1 am older 
 I shall know better. But there, we won't quarrel," 
 I added. I could afford to be magnanimous, seeing 
 how decidedly I had the best of it. "It is worse 
 to be cross on Sunday than to go to see processions. 
 Come, let us kiss and be friends." 
 
 Lucille yielded, but not very graciously. In 
 fact, she was always rather jealous of me. She 
 eaid I set her father and mother up against her, 
 which certainly was not true, and that David liked 
 me the best, which might have been the case, for 
 she was always lecturing him and assuming airs of
 
 The Chevaliers Daughter. 27 
 
 superiority, which irritated him, good-tempered 
 as he was. I do not think she was very sorry when 
 it was decided that I should leave the cottage and 
 go home for good. 
 
 I have dwelt more lengthily on this childish 
 affair because it was the first thing which made me 
 at all sensible of the atmosphere of constant danger 
 and persecution in which we lived even then.
 
 CHAPTER n. 
 THE TODB D'ANTIN. 
 
 HE very next day I was sent for to go and 
 see my mother. Jeanne accompanied 
 me, and had a long private conference, 
 from which she returned bathed in tears. 
 I anxiously asked the cause of her grief. 
 
 " The good Jeanne is grieved to part with thee, 
 my little one," said my mother kindly. " Thy 
 parents wish thee henceforth to live at home with 
 them." 
 
 I did not know whether to be pleased or 
 grieved at this news. 1 adored my beautiful pale 
 mother, but it was with a kind of awful reverence 
 something, I suppose, like that a nun feels 
 toward an image of the Virgin ; but I had never 
 learned to be at all free with her. Could I ever 
 lay my head in her silken lap when it ached, as it 
 often did, or could I prattle to her as freely of all 
 my joys and sorrows as I did to Mother Jeanne > 
 Other images also arose before my eyes images 
 of lessons and tasks and the awful dignity I should 
 have to maintain when I was Mademoiselle Gene-
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter. 29 
 
 vieve instead of only little Vevette. To offset 
 these I had my room a room all to myself a bed 
 with worked hangings, and a carved cabinet. Then 
 there were lessons on the lute and in singing, which 
 I had always wished for. On the whole, however, 
 the grief predominated, and I burst into tears. 
 
 " Fie then !" said Jeanne, quite shocked at my 
 want of breeding, though she had been sobbing 
 herself a moment before. "Is it thus, made- 
 moiselle, that you receive the condescension of 
 madarae your mother ? What will she think of 
 your bringing up ?" 
 
 " Madame could think but ill of her child did 
 she show no feeling at parting with her nurse," said 
 my mother kindly. " But cheer up, my little 
 daughter ; I hope you will be happy here. We 
 will often visit our good friend. Come, do not 
 show to your father a face bathed in tears. ' ' 
 
 I wiped my eyes, kissed my mother's hand, 
 which she held out to me, and managed to say, 
 " Thank you, madame !" in a manner not quite 
 unintelligible. Then Jeanne humbly preferred her 
 request. Might I return to the farm for one day 
 to partake of a farewell feast which she had it in 
 mind to prepare ? My mother smiled and con- 
 sented, and I returned to the farm feeling that I 
 had had a reprieve. 
 
 The feast was a grand affair, though the company 
 was small, consisting only of our own family and 
 Father Simon's father and mother very old people 
 who lived in a cottage down near the sea-shore.
 
 30 The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 Father Simon picked out his reddest apples and the 
 finest clusters of raisins and nuts. Mother Jeanne 
 made the most delicious galettes and cream soup 
 thickened with chestnuts, and spread her whitest 
 and finest cloth. The old people were the only per- 
 sons of the company who thoroughly enjoyed them- 
 selves. Old Sablot chirped like a cricket, and told 
 old stories of the wars of the League and of Henry 
 of Navarre, and his wife commended the soup and 
 cakes, the eggs and custards, and imparted choice 
 secrets in cookery to her daughter-in-law, who re- 
 ceived them with all due deference, though she 
 often said that no Korman woman ever learned to 
 cook. But she was always a most dutiful daughter 
 to the old people, and had quite won their hearts, 
 though they had been somewhat opposed to Simon's 
 marriage in the first place. 
 
 We children were very silent, as indeed became 
 us in presence of our elders ; and though we were 
 helped to everything good on the table we had not 
 much appetite, and stole out, as soon as we were dis- 
 missed by a nod from the mother, to hide ourselves 
 in the granary. Here we had a playhouse and some 
 dolls of our own making, though we that is, 
 Lucille and I were rather ashamed of playing 
 with them. David had also a work-bench with 
 tools and a turning-lathe, which had been his 
 grandfather's. The old man had given them to 
 him on his ladt birthday, and David had learned to 
 use them very cleverly. We did not speak for a 
 moment or two, and then David observed,
 
 Tke Chevalier s Daughter. 3 i 
 
 " How dusty it is here ! To-morrow we must 
 iweep out all the chips and shavings, and make the 
 place tidy." 
 
 " To-morrow I shall not be here," said I sor- 
 rowfully. 
 
 " I suppose David and I can make the place 
 neat for ourselves if you are not here," said Lucille, 
 taking me up rather sharply. 
 
 " Lucille !" said her brother reproachfully ; 
 and then turning to me, ' ' But you will come and 
 see us very often." 
 
 u If I can," said I; ''but I suppose I shall 
 have a great many lessons to do now. ' ' 
 
 " Of course you will," said Lucille ; " you will 
 have to learn to play the lute and to write and 
 work embroidery, and a hundred other things. 
 You will be a great lady, and we cannot expect 
 you to come and visit us. David ought to know 
 better than to think of such a thing. " 
 
 " Lucille, you are too bad to say such things !" I 
 cried passionately ; "to spoil our last day so. I 
 believe you are glad I am going away." 
 
 "I am not either," she answered indignantly ; 
 " I am as sorry as David, only I don't want to be 
 left out in the cold while you two pity and pet one 
 another." 
 
 " Children, children !" said a voice which made 
 us all start. We looked toward the door, and there 
 stood the cure of the parish, Father Francois. 
 He was old and fat. and somewhat too fond of eat- 
 ing and drinking ; bnt he was a kind old man, and
 
 32 The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 lived in peace with every one, Reformed or Roman- 
 ist. "What then !" he was wont to say; "they 
 are all my sheep, though some of them will persist 
 in going astray. It is not for me to throw stones at 
 them or set the dogs on them. Let me rather win 
 them back by kindness." 
 
 " Children I" said he gravely, "are you quar- 
 relling?" 
 
 " No, monsieur," answered David, taking ofl 
 his hat to the priest, while Lucille and I drew to- 
 gether and clasped hands, forgetting our difference 
 in fear of we knew not what. The old man ob- 
 served the movement, and said, in a tone of some 
 emotion, 
 
 " But what, my little girls ; are you afraid of 
 me?" 
 
 " No," answered David ; " Monsieur has al- 
 ways been kind, but he must know " 
 
 " I know, I know !" said the priest, as David 
 paused ; * ' but fear nothing from me. I shall not 
 harm you. But, oh, my children, if you would 
 but return to the bosom of our Holy Mother ! 
 Xow, tell me, my son just as a friend, you know 
 why will you not invoke the mediation of the 
 blessed saints ?" 
 
 " Because, monsieur, it is contrary to the Holy 
 Scriptures," answered David respectfully. 
 
 " But the example of the holy saints of old, my 
 son the teachings of the earliest church con- 
 sider !" 
 
 " Monsieur," replied David, " as to the earliest
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter. 33 
 
 teachings of the church, I suppose they are to be 
 found in the Gospels, and I read there that when 
 certain women would have brought their children 
 to our dear Lord, the disciples, instead of interced- 
 ing for them, forbade them." 
 
 u Oh, the Scriptures always the Scriptures !" 
 said the priest, pettishly enough. 
 
 " They are the words of God, monsieur !" 
 
 " True, my child, but you may see by their effects 
 that they are not fit for every one to read. And 
 yet I don't know how it is," he added musingly ; 
 " they certainly are the words of God, and meant 
 to do people good, but no sooner do they begin to 
 study than they become heretics." 
 
 The old cure ruminated a moment over this 
 riddle, and then, apparently giving it up as hope- 
 less, he took a large pinch of snuff and smiled be- 
 nignly upon David. 
 
 " Ah, well, my son, I did not come to argue, 
 but to ask a favor in the interest of charity. My 
 poor sister, who is dying in a decline, as you know, 
 has a fancy for some fresh eggs, and there are 
 none to be had. But I know your mother has un- 
 common skill in the management of poultry, and 
 I thought perhaps she might help me to one or 
 two." 
 
 " That 1 am sure she will," said David. " If 
 monsieur will walk into the house and sit down I 
 am quite certain 1 can find two or three eggs quite 
 new laid." 
 
 Father Simon looked surprised as the old priist
 
 34 The Chevaliers Daughter. 
 
 entered, but made him courteously welcome, and 
 Mother Jeanne directed Lucille to put up a jug of 
 cream and a small jar of marmalade for the invalid. 
 The cure thanked her, accepted a glass of cider, 
 and offered his snuff-box to old Sablot. 
 
 "Tut, tut ! don't be afraid, man," said he as 
 the other hesitated. " That is not an act of catho- 
 licity, as they call it !" and he muttered some- 
 thing under his breath which did not sound like a 
 blessing. 
 
 " Monsieur need not wonder that we are timid," 
 remarked Father Simon. 
 
 "No, no, it is no wonder ; and from all I hear 
 I fear that times are not likely to be easier for you, 
 my poor Sablot. Have you been to Sartilly of 
 late?" 
 
 "No, monsieur, I have little to take me that way. " 
 
 " It is as well. Take care if you do go. It is 
 said there are wolves about, or likely to be ; and 
 you know that she-wolves carry off children at 
 times. Many thanks to you, Jeanne," he added, 
 rising and taking the little basket which my foster- 
 mother had prepared ; " my blessing be upon 
 you ! An old man's blessing can do no harm, you 
 know. Farewell !" 
 
 He closed the door, and for a moment the party 
 sat looking at each other in silence. 
 
 " "Wliat does he mean ?" asked Jeanne at last. 
 
 " He means to give UK a warning, the poor, kind 
 old man," said Simon. " I doubt not he made hii 
 errand on purpose, 11
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter. 35 
 
 " Why did he not speak more plainly then ?" said 
 Jeanne in some impatience. u Of what use is such 
 a warning as that ?" 
 
 ' ' I suppose he dared not. Remember, my 
 Jeanne, in what a difficult place he stands. He 
 lias risked the displeasure of his superiors already 
 by not giving information." 
 
 " But what can he mean by wolves on the road 
 to Sartilly ?" asked Jeanne. 
 
 " That we must find out, and meantime we must 
 be doubly on our guard. ' ' 
 
 " They are all alike all wolves alike !" said the 
 old man, in his thin voice. " Some are in their 
 own skin, some in sheep's clothing ; some are like 
 the loup-garou,* and speak with the voice of a 
 man ; and they are the worst of all." 
 
 " I do not think the cure looks much like a 
 wolf, ' ' I ventured to say ; for I had been rather 
 taken with the old man's ways. " He is too fat. 
 "Wolves are always thin, and they howl and snarl." 
 
 ' ' Ah, mademoiselle ! but remember the loup- 
 garou can take any form or any voice he pleases," 
 said the old man. 
 
 " Is there really a loup-garou ?" asked David ; 
 " I thought it was only an idle tale." 
 
 " An- idle tale indeed ! "What is the world com- 
 ing to ? Did not my grandfather know one a 
 man who used to turn himself into a wolf and 
 scour the country at night, followed by his pack, 
 
 * What the Germans call the wehr-wolf t a creature com- 
 pounded of brute and human.
 
 36 The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 and devouring all in his way, but especially women 
 and children. They caught him at last, and he was 
 burned at Sartilly, protesting his innocence all the 
 time." 
 
 " Perhaps he was innocent," said David. 
 
 " Thou shouldst not answer thy grandfather, 
 David," said his mother mildly ; " that is rude. " 
 
 "No, no; he meant no harm," said the old 
 man. " Let it pass. You women are always find- 
 ing fault with a boy. But as to the loup-garou. 
 However, we will tell no more tales to scare made- 
 moiselle. It is well, at all events, to remember 
 that the good Lord is above all. But it was good 
 snuff the poor priest had." 
 
 I inwardly resolved that I would try to procure 
 some snuff for the old man, and that I would bribe 
 him with it to tell me more tales of the loup-garou, 
 about which I was very curious. I knew there 
 was no use in asking Mother Jeanne, for she never 
 would tell me frightful stories. Indeed, the Re- 
 formed were not nearly as much under the influ- 
 ence of superstition as their neighbors of the other 
 faith. To the last every corner had its goblins. 
 In this dell the " Washers" were to be seen by the 
 unwary night traveller, and he who acceded to their 
 courteous request to assist them in wringing a gar- 
 ment had his own heart's blood wrung out, and be- 
 came a pale spectre himself. If he escaped these 
 ghostly laundresses, there were the dancers on the 
 field above, who were equally dangerous, and 
 another female demon who allured young men into
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter. 37 
 
 lonely places and there murdered and devoured 
 them. Our country neighbors here in Cornwall are 
 bad enough, with their piskys, and fairies, and wish- 
 hounds, and what not, but they are not so bad as 
 the people in Normandy and Brittany. 
 
 That night Lucille and I slept together for the 
 last time. Her jealousy was quite overcome for 
 the time, and we promised that we would always be 
 good friends, and built many castles in the air on 
 the basis of that future friendship. She was a girl 
 of strong character in some respects, and of great 
 talents, but she had one fault which made her and 
 those about her very uncomfortable at times, and 
 which came near working her utter ruin. It is not 
 likely that she will ever see these memoirs, but if 
 she should do so she would not be hurt by them. 
 The tires of affliction which she has passed through 
 have burned up the dross of her character, and little 
 is left but pure gold. 
 
 The next morning we went up to the chateau, 
 and Jeanne took leave of me with many tears. 
 Father Simon had prayed especially and earnestly 
 for me at our morning devotions, and had solemnly 
 given me his blessing. David had shaken hands 
 with me, and then run away to hide his feelings. 
 It was a sorrowful parting on both sides, and when 
 I had a last sight of Jeanne turning at the bend of 
 the path to wave her hand to me, I felt more like 
 an exile in a strange land than a child coming home 
 to its father's house. So I thought then, knowing 
 nothing of an exile's woes.
 
 38 The Chevaliers Daughter. 
 
 " Now, my child,'' said my mother, coming into 
 my little room, where I had shut myself up to 
 weep, " let these tears be dried. They are natural, 
 but even natural grief must not be indulged too far. 
 Bathe these eyes and flushed cheeks, arrange your 
 dress, and come to me in my room in half an hour/' 
 
 My mother spoke gently and kindly, but with 
 decision, and there was that about her which made 
 her least word a law. Besides, I believe, to say the 
 truth, I was rather tired of my grief, and quite will- 
 ing to be consoled, and to indulge my curiosity as 
 to my new home. So I bathed my eyes as I had 
 been bidden, smoothed my hair, which never would 
 stay under my cap properly, but was always twist- 
 ing out in rebellious little curls, and began to ex- 
 amine my room. 
 
 It was an odd Little nook, opening from my 
 mother's, as is the custom in France for young 
 ladies of good family. It occupied one of the 
 corner turrets which flanked the square tower of 
 which I have spoken. The walls were so thick 
 and the inclosed space so small that I used to com- 
 pare the room in my own mind to one of the caves 
 hollowed in the rock by the persecuted Yaudois of 
 which I had heard from Jeanne. The bed was 
 small, with heavy damask hangings and an em- 
 broidered coverlet. There was no carpet on the 
 floor, which was of some dark wood waxed to a 
 dangerous smoothness ; but a small rug was laid by 
 the side of the bed and before the little toilette- 
 table. The rest of the furniture consisted of a
 
 The C kev alter s Daughter. 39 
 
 chair and stool, and a small table on which lay a 
 Bible and two or three books in a language which 
 I did not understand, but which I took to be Eng- 
 lish. In an ordinary French family there would 
 have been a crucifix and a vase for holy water, and 
 probably an image of the Virgin as well ; but it 
 may well be guessed that no such furniture found 
 a place in our household. 
 
 Small and plain as the room was, it seemed mag- 
 nificent in my eyes, and I felt a great accession of 
 dignity in being able to call this magnificent apart- 
 ment my own. I looked out at the window a 
 very narrow one and was delighted to find that it 
 commanded a view of the high road and a very 
 little tiny bit of sea, now at ebb and showing only 
 as a shining line on the edge of the sands. In 
 short, I had not half completed the survey of my 
 new quarters before I was in the best of spirits, and 
 when my mother called me I was able to meet her 
 with a smiling face. I should have said that my 
 room was elevated half a dozen steep steps above 
 my mother's. Indeed, there were hardly two rooms 
 in the house on a level with each other. 
 
 "Why, that is well," said my mother, kissing 
 my cheek. " You are to be my companion and 
 pupil now, little daughter, and I hope that we shall 
 be very happy in each other's society." 
 
 She then made me sit down on a low seat beside 
 her own chair, and examined me as to what I had 
 learned. She heard me read, examined me in the 
 Catechism, and asked me some questions on the
 
 40 77/6' Chevaliers Daug/iter. 
 
 Gospels, to all of which I gave, I believe, satisfac- 
 tory answers. She looked at my sewing and knit- 
 ting, and praised the thread, both linen and wool, 
 with which I had taken great pains. 
 
 " That is very good thread," said she ; " but I 
 must teach you to spin on the wheel, as they do in 
 England. You shall learn English too, and then 
 we can talk together, and there are many pleasant 
 books to read in that language. You must learn to 
 write also, and to embroider." 
 
 "Is English very hard, madame ?" 1 ventured 
 to ask. 
 
 " It is called so, but I hope to make it easy to 
 you. By and by, when we have mastered the writ- 
 ing, we will have some lessons on the lute. But 
 now we must consult Mistress Grace about your 
 dress. Your father will like to see you habited like 
 a little lady." 
 
 My mother blew the silver whistle which always 
 lay beside her, and Mistress Grace entered from the 
 anteroom. She was a tall, thin personage, English 
 to the backbone. I never saw a plainer woman in 
 my life, but there was that in her face which at 
 once attracted confidence and regard. She was my 
 mother's special attendant, and ruled the household 
 as her vicegerent with great skill and firmness. 
 The servants called her Mamselle Grace, or, more 
 commonly, simply Mamselle, and treated her with 
 great respect, though they sometimes laughed at her 
 English French after her back was turned. I was 
 taught to call her Mrs. Grace, in English fashion.
 
 The Chevaliers Daughter. 41 
 
 I was greatly in awe of her at first, but I soon 
 learned to love her as well as Mother Jeanne herself. 
 
 Mrs. Grace greeted me with prim courtesy. 
 
 " We must take orders for some dresses for our 
 young lady, Grace," said my mother, speaking 
 French. " Will you see what we have for her ?" 
 
 Mrs. Grace opened an armoire, from which S!A 
 drew a quantity of stuffs and silks, and an animated 
 conversation ensued. My mother kindly allowed 
 me to choose what I liked best, and we were in the 
 full tide of discussion when there was a knock at 
 the door, and my father entered with a very dis- 
 turbed face, which brightened as he inet my 
 mother's glance. 
 
 " Heyday, what have we here ?" said he. " Has 
 Mrs. Grace taken a new doll to dress ?" 
 
 " This is our little one, Arrnand," said my 
 mother ; " I have taken her home, judging that it 
 is time to complete her education, and also for a 
 companion." 
 
 " That is well, " said he. "Come hither, my 
 little one, and see thy father." 
 
 I approached timidly, bent my knee, and kissed 
 the hand he held out to me. He laid the other on 
 my head and solemnly gave me his blessing. Then, 
 holding me off and looking at me, 
 
 " Why, 'tis a true Corbet," said he ; " the very 
 image of thy mother, dearest Margeret. " Then with 
 a sudden change of tone, ' ' I only wish she and thou 
 were safe in the dear old mother's wing, the gray 
 house at Tre Madoc. "
 
 42 7 he Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 My mother's pale cheek flushed a little. " Hav 
 anything new happened ?" she asked. 
 
 " New ? Yes ! The vultures are gathering to 
 the carcass, Margeret. We are to be left in peace 
 no longer in our quiet corner. The old convent at 
 Sartilly is opened once more with a band of nuns 
 and a black Dominican for a confessor. They call 
 it a hospital we all know what that means nowa- 
 days." 
 
 My mother threw an arm round me as if to pro- 
 tect me, and I felt it tremble. 
 
 " Then that was what the cure meant," said I, 
 struck with a sudden light. I was a quick child, 
 and the danger which was always in the background 
 sharpened the wits of all children of the Religion. 
 " That was what he meant by the wolves !" And 
 then, struck by the impropriety I had committed in 
 speaking without being addressed, I faltered, " I 
 beg your pardon, monsieur." 
 
 " There is no offence, my child ; and you must 
 not say monsieur, but my father," said he, sitting 
 down and drawing me to him. " Tell me what was 
 that about the cure and the wolves." 
 
 I repeated my story. 
 
 " You are a clear-headed little maiden," said lie, 
 " and have a quick wit. What did Simon Sahlot 
 think of the matter ?" 
 
 u He said, monsieur my father," I added, cor- 
 recting myself, " that the good man meant to give 
 us a warning, and had probably made his errand on 
 purpose."
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter. 43 
 
 * ' More likely to spy out the nakedness of the 
 land," muttered Grace, to whom all priests were 
 alike. 
 
 " Nay, my Grace, do the poor man justice," said 
 my father. " The Jesuits cannot make the whole 
 nation over into tigers, not even the priests. The 
 poor old man has grown up on our lands, as his 
 father did before him, and I believe he feels kindly 
 toward us. But I wish, oh I wish thou and the 
 little one were in safety, my Marguerite. ' ' 
 
 My mother said some words in English which I 
 did not understand, and then in French, " But what 
 shall we do, Armand, to guard against this new 
 danger?" 
 
 " We can only do as we have done in our family, 
 but I fear we must abandon our Sunday gatherings 
 for the present. The risk will be too great with 
 such neighbors to spy upon us. But we will con- 
 sult together. Run away now, my little one, and 
 explore the house, only do not go into the upper 
 rooms of the round tower. Some of the floors are 
 dangerous. However, you may go to the battle- 
 ments if you like. The stairs are safe enough." 
 
 " Only return at once when you hear the bell," 
 said my mother. " To-day shall be a holiday for 
 you ; to-morrow we will begin our lessons. But 
 first go with Grace and let her take your measure." 
 
 " Why is it so dangerous to have a hospital at 
 Sartilly ?" I ventured to a.<k Grace at a pause in her 
 operations; "I thought a hospital was a place 
 where poor pick people were taken care of."
 
 44 The CJicialicrs Daughter. 
 
 " So it is in a Christian land, mademoiselle," an- 
 swered Grace ; " there are many such in England. 
 But now and here a hospital means a place where 
 young people of the Religion are shut up away from 
 their parents and taught to worship images and say 
 prayers to the Virgin and the saints yes, pretty 
 saints some of them," she added, in English. 
 " There, I beg your pardon, mademoiselle. It is 
 not good manners to speak in a foreign tongue be- 
 fore those who do not understand it." 
 
 " Madame says she will teach me English soon," 
 I observed ; " I shall like that if it is not too hard. " 
 
 " Oh, it will not be hard to you ; you are half an 
 English woman," replied Grace. 
 
 " And will you tell me tales sometimes about 
 England, and the place where my mother lived 
 wlien she was a young lady ? I shall like so much 
 to hear them. I love to look at Jersey when we 
 can see it, because it is a part of England." 
 
 Grace's heart was quite won by this request. 
 She kissed me, and called me a pretty dear in her 
 own tongue, which phrase, of course, I did not un- 
 derstand, only I saw that it meant something kind 
 and friendly. Once released I ran all over the 
 house, peeped into the great old kitchen, where I 
 received many welcomes and blessings from the old 
 servants, and ascended to the top of the rouifcl 
 tower to gaze at the sea and at Mount St. Michael, 
 now glowing in the autumn sunshine. True to 
 the habits of implicit obedience in which I hail 
 been brought up, I did not rvi-n open thr, dour
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter. 45 
 
 which led into the upper floors of the tower, though 
 I confess to a strong temptation to do so. I ad- 
 mired the salon hung with tapestry and adorned 
 with carved furniture and various grim family pic- 
 tures. I wondered what was in the cabinets, and 
 studied the story of Judith worked in the hangings, 
 and had not half finished my survey when the bell 
 rang, and I hastened to my mother's room. 
 
 We dined in considerable state, being waited on 
 by two men-servants, while Mistress Grace stood 
 behind her lady's chair and directed their move- 
 ments. The fare, though plain enough, was dainty 
 compared to what I was accustomed to at the cot- 
 tage, and 1 should have enjoyed my dinner only for 
 a feeling of awkwardness, and a look in Mistress 
 Grace's eyes as if she were longing to pounce upon 
 me. I got pounced upon many a time after that, 
 for great stress was laid upon table etiquette in 
 those days. More than once I was sent away from 
 the table in disgrace, not so much for mistakes I 
 made as for fuming or pouting at having them cor- 
 rected. 
 
 The next day my lessons began. I had my task 
 of Scripture and the Catechism to learn, as at the 
 cottage. Great stress was laid in the families of 
 the Religion on this learning of the Scriptures, and 
 with good reason, for we were liable at any time to 
 be deprived of our Bibles, or indeed to be shut up 
 where we could not have read if we had them ; 
 but that which was stored in our minds no one could 
 take from us. I learned to write and began Eng-
 
 46 7^/ie Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 lish, and, thanks to the pains and skill of my 
 mother and the conversations I held with Mrs. 
 Grace in our working hours, I soon learned to speak 
 the language with considerable fluency, as well a.- 
 to read in two or three English books which my 
 mother possessed. 1 learned to spin on the little 
 wheel which my mother had had sent her from Eng- 
 land, and was greatly delighted when I was allowed 
 to carry down to Mother Jeanne some skeins of 
 thread of my own manufacture. 
 
 " But it is beautiful no less," said Jeanne ; 
 " and done, you say, not with spindle and distaff, but 
 with the little machine I have seen in madame's 
 boudoir. See, Lucille, my child !" 
 
 *' It is good thread, but I do not see that it is so 
 much better than ours,*' said Lucille, somewhat 
 slightingly. " And 1 do not see why one should 
 take so much pains to learn to spin in this new 
 fashion. The spindle and distaff are much better, 
 I think, because they can be carried about with one. 
 I can spin when I am going to ilie fountain for 
 water or to the pasture for the cows. Yevette can- 
 not do that with her grand wheel." 
 
 " That is true," said I, a little tub -n down : 
 " but one can accomplish so much more. My 
 mother can spin more with the wheel in an hour 
 than one can do with the distaff in half a day, and 
 I am sure the thread is more even." 
 
 " Ah, well, the method of my grandmother is 
 good enough for inc." said Lucille : u I am a Nor- 
 rnau girl, and not jn Knglili lady." And she tool;
 
 The Chevaliers Daughter. 47 
 
 up her distujf as she spoke, and began drawing out 
 her flax with a care and attention which showed she 
 was offended. 
 
 " Do you think, Memselle Yevette, thatmadame 
 would condescend to let me look at this wheel of 
 hers ?" said David. " I should like so much to see 
 it." 
 
 " Why, do you think you could make one like 
 it?" I asked. "Oh, do, David! Make one for 
 Lucille, and I will teach her to use it." 
 
 " Thank you !" said Lucille in a tone which did 
 not bespeak much gratitude ; " I have already said 
 that Norm an fashions are good enough for me." 
 And then, softening her tone as she saw how morti- 
 fied I was, " I dare say David would like to make 
 a wheel, and if he succeeded you would have one 
 of your own as well as madame." 
 
 I may as well say here that, after many efforts 
 and failures, and by the help of his uncle, who was 
 the blacksmith at Sartilly, David succeeded in con- 
 structing a very nice spinning-wheel, which he pre- 
 sented to me on my birthday. I wonder whether 
 that wheel is still in use, or whether it has been 
 thrown aside in some garret ?
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 TO UT HFUL DAYS. 
 
 MUST now pass somewhat rapidly over 
 four or five years of my life. These 
 years were spent quietly at home with 
 my dear father and mother at the Tour 
 d'Antin. I was my mother's constant companion, 
 and she instructed me herself in all that she thought 
 it desirable for me to know, which was much more 
 than was considered necessary for demoiselles in 
 general. I learned to read and write both English 
 and Italian, and I read many books in the former 
 language which my mother had brought from home, 
 or which had been sent to her from England since 
 her marriage. These books would hardly have 
 passed any French custom-house, for a very sharp 
 'ookout was kept at these places for heretical pub- 
 lications ; but there were two or three vessels sail ing 
 from small ports on the coast, and commanded by 
 persons of the Religion, by means of which, at rare 
 intervals, my mother used to receive a package or 
 letter from her friends in England. 
 
 Thus she become possessed of a copy of that most 
 excellent book, k ' The Whole Duty of Man," which
 
 The Chevalier s DaugJiter. 49 
 
 F read till I knew it almost bj heart ; " The Practice 
 of Piety," Mr. Taylor's "Holy Living and 
 Dying," and other excellent religious Looks of 
 which that age, dissolute as it was, produced a great 
 many. Sometimes my mother received other books 
 and pamphlets, which she would not allow me even 
 to look at, and many of which she burned with her 
 own hands. These were plays and stories written 
 by such authors as were in favor at the court of 
 King Charles II. 
 
 The greatest disgrace I ever fell into with my 
 parents came from stealing one of these books, and 
 hiding myself away in the old tower to read it. It 
 was a very witty play, and I was at first delighted 
 with it, but my conscience soon made me aware 
 that it was a wicked book ; for, though of course I 
 did not half understand it, I could see how profane it 
 was, and how lightly and wickedly the most sacred 
 name was used. My mother missed the book when 
 she came to put away the contents of the package, 
 and asked me whether I had seen it. 
 
 " No, maman," I answered ; but I was not used 
 to lying, and my face betrayed me. 1 was forced to 
 confess and bring back the book. My mother's 
 stern anger was all the more dreadful to me that 
 she was usually so gentle. She would hear of no 
 excuse or palliation. 
 
 "You have deceived me!" said she; "my 
 daughter, whom I trusted, has hed to me. To 
 gain a few moments of guilty pleasure she has dis- 
 obeyed her mother, and shamefully lied to conceal
 
 5<3 The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 her disobedience. I want no words. I must quiet 
 my own spirit before I talk with yon. Go to your 
 own room, and remain till you have permission to 
 leave it. Think what you have done, and ask par- 
 don of Him whom you have offended, and who ab- 
 hors a lie." 
 
 I did as I was bid, but in no humble spirit. On 
 the contrary, my heart was full of wrath and rebel- 
 lion. In my own mind I accused my mother of 
 harsh unkindness in making, as I said to myself, 
 such a fuss about such a little matter. Always in- 
 clined to be hard and stubborn under reproof, I was 
 determined to justify myself in my own eyes. I 
 said to myself that I was unjustly treated, that there 
 was no such harm in reading a story-book, and so 
 forth, and I set myself to remember all I possibly 
 could of the play, and to form in my own mind an 
 image of the gay world which it described. Oh, if 
 I could only live in a great city in London or 
 Paris instead of such a lonely old place as the Tour 
 d'Antin ! But by degrees my conscience made it- 
 self heard. I remembered how kind and good my 
 mother had always been to me : how she had laid 
 aside her own employments to amuse me that I 
 might not feel the want of companions of my own 
 age ; in short, when my mother came to me at bed- 
 tiine I was as penitent and humble as she could de- 
 sire. She forgave me, and talked to me very 
 kindly of my fault. 
 
 " Never, never, read a bad book, my child," she 
 said. " You thereby do yourself an incalculable
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter. 51 
 
 injury. We have not the power of forgetting any- 
 thing. However deeply our impressions may be 
 covered by others, they are still in existence, and 
 likely to be revived at any time. No man can 
 touch pitch and not be defiled, and no one can read 
 and take pleasure in a bad book without being led 
 into sin. You become like what your mind dwells 
 upon. 'As a man thinketh, so is he.' Thus by 
 thinking of and meditating upon the deeds of good 
 men, and more especially those of our dear Lord, 
 we are made like them, and are changed into the 
 same image. This caution in reading is especially 
 needful to you, my Yevette, as you are by nature 
 facile and easily impressed." 
 
 " But, maman, why does my uncle send such 
 books ?' ' I ventured to ask. 
 
 My mother sighed. 
 
 " Your uncle, my love, does not think of such 
 things as I do. He lives in the gay world of the 
 court, where these things which your father and I 
 consider all-important are but little regarded, or, if 
 thought of at all, are considered as subjects for 
 mockery. ' ' 
 
 " But, marnan, I thought all English people were 
 of the Religion. I thought they used the beautiful 
 prayers in your prayer-book." 
 
 My mother sighed again. 
 
 " That is true, my child, but it is possible to hold 
 the truth in unrighteousness. Here, where to be of 
 the Religion is to put one' s neck into the halter, 
 there is no temptation to the careless and dissolute
 
 52 The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 to join our numbers. Tet even here, under the 
 very cross of persecution, the church is far from 
 perfect. But we will talk more another time." 
 
 I was so penitent and so humbled in my own 
 eyes that I made no objection when my mother de- 
 prived me of my two grand sources of amusement 
 the " Arcadia" of Sir Philip Sidney, and Mr. Ed-J 
 mund Spenser's " Fairy Queen" telling me that 
 she should not let me have them again for a month. 
 I am somewhat inclined to doubt the wisdom of 
 this measure. I know it threw me back upon my- 
 self for amusement in the hours when I was de- 
 prived of my mother's society, and left me more 
 time to meditate, or rather, I should say, to dream 
 of that gay fairy-land to which the volume of plays 
 had introduced me. However, I had them back 
 again at the end of a fortnight, and with them a 
 new book a great quarto volume of voyages and 
 travels, with several historical pieces, collected by 
 Mr. Ilackluyt, formerly a preacher to Queen Eliza- 
 beth. This gave a new turn to my thoughts. I 
 rejoiced in the destruction of the great Armada, and 
 wept while I exulted over the glorious death of Sir 
 Richard Greville, and travelled to the Indies and 
 the sew World and dreamed over their marvels. 
 When I went, as I did now and then, to visit my 
 old friends at the farm, I entertained David with 
 these talcs by the hour together, and even Lucille 
 forgot her jealousy to listen. What castles hi the 
 air we built on the margins of those great rivers, 
 and what colonies we planted in those unknown
 
 The Chevalier s DaugJtter. 53 
 
 lands colonies where those of the Religion were to 
 find a peaceful refuge, and from which all the evils 
 incident to humanity were to be excluded ! They 
 were harmless dreams at the least, and* served to 
 amuse us for many a long hour. I have seen some 
 of these colonies since then, and have learned that 
 wherever man goes his three great foes the 
 world, the flesh, and the devil go also. 
 
 Our new neighbors at the hospital of St. Jacques 
 St. James indeed ! I should like to hear what he 
 would have said to them gave us little trouble for 
 some time. Indeed, they had troubles enough of 
 their own. They were hardly settled in their new 
 abode before a dreadful pestilential fever broke out 
 among them, and several of the nuns died, while 
 others were so reduced that there were not enough 
 of well to tend the sick. The French country 
 people have a great dread of infection, so that no- 
 body would go near them ; and I don't know but 
 they would have starved only that my father him- 
 self on one or two occasions carried them provisions, 
 wine, and comforts for the sick. There was great 
 talk about the sickness, and those of the Religion did 
 not hesitate to ascribe it to the pestiferous air of the 
 cellars and vaults, which were known to be very ex- 
 tensive, arid in which several persons had died after 
 iong confinement. 
 
 " It is the avenging ghost of poor Denise Am- 
 blot, who perished there with her infant," said old 
 Marie, our cook. 
 
 "Not so, my Marie," answered my mother;
 
 54 The Chevalier's Daughter. 
 
 " Denise has long been in paradise, if indeed she 
 did perish as reported, and is happily in better em- 
 ployments than avenging herself on these poor 
 creatures. Yet it may well be that the bad air of 
 the vaults so long used as prisons may have poisoned 
 those living over them." 
 
 After the fever came a fire, which broke out mys- 
 teriously and consumed all the fuel and provisions 
 which the nuns had laid up for winter ; and, to crown 
 all, a sort of reservoir or pond, supposed by some 
 to be artificial, which supplied a stream running 
 through the convent grounds, burst its barriers one 
 night after a heavy storm of rain. The muddy 
 torrent, bearing everything before it trees, walls, 
 and even the very rocks in its course swept through 
 the garden and washed away the soil itself, besides 
 filling the church with mud and debris half way up 
 to the roof. Whether the hand of man had any- 
 thing to do with these disasters 1 do not know, but 
 it is not impossible. At any rate, the two or three 
 nuns who were left returned to Avranches, from 
 whence they had come, and the place was again 
 abandoned to the owls and other doleful creatures 
 which haunt deserted buildings. 
 
 Meantime all over France the tide of persecution 
 was rising and spreading, carrying ruin arid devas- 
 tation far and wide. There was no more any safety 
 for those of the Religion. From all sides came the 
 story of terror, of bereavement, of oppression, of 
 flight. Every day brought new infringements of the 
 edict, new encroachments on our rights and liberties.
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter. 55 
 
 The very sick and dying nay, they more than any 
 others were objects of attack. Every physician 
 was ordered, on pain of a heavy fine at the least, to 
 give notice to the mayor and the priest of the 
 parish whenever he was called upon to visit one of 
 the Religion. Then the sick man was besieged with 
 arguments, with threats, and horrible representations 
 of the present and the future, if he yielded, which 
 was seldom the case, his conversion was trumpeted 
 as a triumph of the faith. If he persevered, as 
 ninety-nine out of a hundred did, he was left to 
 perish without help or medicine, and his dead body 
 was cast out like a dog's in the next ditch. It was 
 at the peril of life that a mother repeated to her 
 dying child, or a child to its parent, a few comfort- 
 ing texts of Scripture 'Or a hymn. The alms col- 
 lected among the Reformed for the solace of their 
 own poor were seized upon and used for the main- 
 tenance of the so-called hospitals, which were sim- 
 ply prisons where young people and women were 
 shut up, and every effort made, both by threats and 
 cajolery, to induce them ' ' to return to the bosom of 
 their tender and gentle mother the Church" that 
 was the favorite phrase. A few gave way and were 
 set at liberty, but of these the most part sooner or 
 later recanted their recantations, with bitter tears of 
 penitence and shame. 
 
 But those mothers and fathers who knew that 
 their dead were dead, and entered into the rest of 
 their Lord, were happy in comparison with others, 
 whose sons were in the galleys chained to the oar
 
 56 The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 with the vilest of the vile, with felons and mur- 
 derers, sleeping on their benches if at sea, driven by 
 the lash like brute cattle to pestiferous dungeons if 
 on land, and liable at any time to be condemned to 
 perpetual imprisonment or shot down and cast to 
 the waves. And even these had not the worst of 
 it. There were hundreds of mothers who were en- 
 tirely in the dark as to the fate of their daughters. 
 The convents all over the land were filled with such 
 girls, seduced from their homes on any or no pre- 
 text, and dragged away, never to be seen again. 
 Whether they recanted and were made nuns, 
 whether they remained firm and suffered life-long 
 imprisonment and a horrible death, their fate was 
 equally unknown to their friends. In some of the 
 convents, no doubt, were conscientious women, who 
 did their duty according to their lights, and were as 
 kind to their prisoners as circumstances permitted ; 
 but there were others who sought to augment their 
 treasure of good works and win heaven, as they say, 
 by exercising every severity, and trampling upon 
 any natural feelings of compassion which might 
 arise in their breasts. Worse still, many convents 
 were known to be schools of worldliness and vice, 
 where the most dissolute manners prevailed. This 
 was notably the case with the rich houses near Paris, 
 where the superiors were often appointed by the 
 king's mistress for the time being, and the convent 
 was a resort for the gay young gentlemen of the 
 court. 
 
 But it was upon the pastors that the vials of wrath
 
 The Chevalier's Daughter. 57 
 
 were most lavishly poured out. Some, whose flocks 
 were already scattered, escaped to foreign lands, 
 but many remained behind to comfort their afflicted 
 brethren. These were never for one moment in 
 security. They journeyed from place to place in 
 all soils of disguises ; they slept in dens and caves of 
 the earth, or under the open sky ; holding a mid- 
 night meeting here, comforting a dying person or a 
 bereaved parent there ; now celebrating the Lord's 
 Supper, in some lonely grange or barn, to those of 
 the faithful who had risked everything to break 
 together the bread of life once more ; now baptiz- 
 ing a babe, perhaps by the bedside of its dying 
 mother, or uniting some loving and faithful pair of 
 lovers who wished to meet the evils of life to- 
 gether.* Hunted down like wild beasts, they were 
 condemned, if captured, to the gallows or the 
 wheel, without even the pretence of a trial, after 
 all temptations of pardons and rewards had failed to 
 shake their faith. Now and then very rarely 
 some one abjured ; but, as I have said, these usually 
 abjured their abjuration at the first opportunity, or 
 died in agonies of remorse and despair. 
 
 As I have remarked before, our narrow corner 
 of the world had hitherto got off easily, and we 
 lived in comparative safety and in friendship 
 with our neighbors. But the time was coming, and 
 close at hand, when the storm was to reach alike the 
 lofty aerie and the lowly nest. My mother, I be- 
 
 * See any collection of Huguenot memoirs.
 
 58 The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 lieve, would have been glad to emigrate at once. 
 She thought with longings inexpressible of her quiet 
 English home in the valley of Tre Madoc, of the old 
 red-stone house overhung with trees, where dwelt 
 peace and quietness, with none to molest or make 
 afraid ; of the little gray church on the moor, with 
 its tall tower, which served as a beacon to the wan- 
 dering sailor, where the pure word of God was 
 preached, and the old people and little children 
 came every Sunday. 
 
 My mother always loved the English Church. She 
 kept her prayer-book by her, and used to read it 
 every day. She taught me many precious lessons 
 out of it, so that when I was twelve years old I 
 knew it almost by heart. This love of here for the 
 English Church was in some degree shared by my 
 father, and, as I heard afterward, was a reason for 
 his being looked coldly upon by some of the Re- 
 ligion, to whom the very name of bishop was an 
 abomination ; and no wonder, since with them it was 
 another name for oppressor and persecutor. But 
 they found, when the trial came, that the Chevalier 
 d'Antin and his gentle lady were as ready to put all 
 to hazard for their faith as the best of them. 
 
 As I have said, my mother was desirous of emi- 
 grating, as so many others had done. But my 
 father would not consent to forsake his poor tenants 
 and peasants, many of whom had come with him 
 from Provence. lie thought himself in some sort 
 their shepherd, and responsible for their welfare. 
 This was a very different estimation from that in
 
 The Chcvaner s "DaugTiter, 59 
 
 which some of our neighbors held their people. 
 There were three or four large estates about 
 Avranches and St. Lo, the owners of which lived in 
 Paris the year round, or followed the court in its 
 movements, and left their lands and people to the 
 care of agents, taking no thought for them except to 
 extract from them as much money as possible. But 
 such was not my father's idea. He held that every 
 large landowner was a steward under God, responsi- 
 ble for the welfare of those placed under his charge, 
 and that he had no right to use his estate merely 
 for his own enriching or aggrandizement. One 
 who did so he held for an unfaithful servant, who 
 would be called to a strict account whenever his 
 Lord should return, and who could expect nothing 
 else for his reward than outer darkness and gnash- 
 ing of teeth. 1 have seen something of great land- 
 owners since that day, and 1 fear this idea of duty 
 is very far from common among them. Certainly I 
 have never known one, unless it is my husband, who 
 fulfilled it as my father did. He was not always 
 dictating or patrom'zing. He did not regard his 
 tenants and workpeople either as little children or 
 as dumb beasts, but as rational, accountable 
 creatures. Of course he met with plenty of hin- 
 drance and opposition. The Korman is a slow 
 thinker, and very conservative. That " our fathers 
 did so' ' is reason enough for them to do so also, and 
 they are as full of prejudice arid superstition as any 
 people in France, except perhaps their neighbors of 
 Brittany. But they are good honest folk, sober for
 
 60 The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 the most part, except on some special occasions, very 
 industrious, and extremely domestic and frugal in 
 their habits. Their houses are generally comfort- 
 able, according to French ideas, and they often have 
 a great deal of wealth laid by in the shape of fine 
 linen, gold ornaments, and furniture. Oh, how I 
 should like to see the inside of a Norman farm-house 
 once more ! Those very cakes of sarrasin, which I 
 used to hate, would taste like ambrosia. But I am 
 wandering again, in the fashion of old people. 
 
 My father, holding these ideas, did not feel at 
 liberty to seek safety himself and leave his poor 
 people as sheep without a shepherd. He would 
 gladly have sent my mother and myself to a place 
 of safety, but my mother would not hear of leaving 
 him, nor did they see their way clear to part with 
 ine. So we remained together till I was fourteen 
 years old. My mother instructed me in all sorts of 
 womanly accomplishments, and from Mrs. Grace I 
 learned to do wonderful feats of needlework, 
 especially in darning, cut work, and satin-stitch, 
 which in my turn I taught to Lucille, with my 
 mother's full approbation, for she said I learned in 
 teaching, and besides, in these days of flight and 
 exile it behoved every one to practise those arts by 
 which they might earn their bread in a strange land. 
 These lesson's were sometimes very pleasant to both 
 of us ; at others they were disturbed by that spirit 
 of jealousy which had always been Lucille 's bane, 
 and which, as she did not strive to conquer it, in- 
 creased upon her. She was always vexed that I
 
 The Chevalier s Daug liter. 61 
 
 should do anything which she could not, and if she 
 could not almost directly equal or excel the pattern 
 1 set before her she would abandon the work in 
 disgust, sometimes with expressions of contempt, 
 sometimes with an outburst of temper which made 
 me fairly afraid of her for the time. But we 
 always made up our quarrels again, for she was 
 really anxious to learn, and besides that I think she 
 truly loved me at that time. Poor Lucille ! David 
 I seldom saw. He had gone, with the full appro- 
 bation of his father and mine, to learn the trade of 
 a ship-carpenter at Dieppe, where he soon distin- 
 guished himself by his skill. His holidays, which 
 were few and far between, he always spent at home, 
 and he never came without bringing presents to his 
 family, and some little product of his skill and in- 
 genuity a reel, a little casket inlaid with ivory or 
 precious woods, or a small frame for my em- 
 broidery. I have one or two of these things still. 
 
 My own temptations did not lie toward jealousy, 
 which was one reason perhaps that I had so much 
 patience with Lucille ; for I have observed that 
 people usually have the least toleration for the 
 faults most resembling their own. I was always, 
 from my earliest years, a dreamy, imaginative child. 
 I heard but little of the world that gay world in 
 which my uncle and aunt lived at court. But now 
 and then I got a peep at it through the medium of 
 the plays and tales which my other uncle would per- 
 sist in sending for I am sorry to say that 1 had 
 more than once repeated the offence of stealing and
 
 62 The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 studying some of these books and this same gay 
 world had great charms for me. I had been less 
 with my mother than usual for some months, for she 
 and my father had many private consultations from 
 which I was excluded. I used to take my work to 
 the top of the old tower or out in the orchard, and 
 while my fingers were busy with my stocking or my 
 pattern my fancy was making me a grand demoiselle, 
 and leading me to balls and gardens and all the 
 scenes of the English court. Of the English court, 
 I say, for my wildest dreams at that time never led 
 me to the court of Louis XIV. That was too 
 closely associated with the dangers and inconven- 
 iences of our condition for me to think of it with 
 anything but horror. Thus I spent many hours 
 worse than unprofitably. Then my conscience 
 would be aroused by some Bible reading with my 
 mother or some tale of suffering heroism from my 
 father, and I w r ould cast aside my dreams and re- 
 turn to those religious duties which at other times 
 were utterly distasteful to me. In short, I was 
 double-minded, and as such was unstable in all my 
 ways.
 
 CHAPTEE IV. 
 
 TRUST AND DISTRUST. 
 
 are to have a holiday to-day, Mrs. 
 Vevette," was Grace's announcement to 
 me one fine morning somewhere toward 
 the end of September. " Your mother 
 has one of her bad headaches. ' ' 
 
 " Oh, how sorry I am !" I exclaimed, thinking 
 not of the holiday but of the headache. "Is it 
 very bad, Mrs. Grace ?" 
 
 " Very bad indeed," returned the lady-in-wait- 
 ing, solemnly shaking her head ; "I have seldom 
 seen her worse. I have been up with her half the 
 night. You must be very quiet, my dear, and not 
 rush up and down stairs, or drop your books, or ' 
 
 " May I go up to the farm and see Mother 
 Jeanne ?" I asked, breaking in upon the catalogue of 
 what Grace called my " headlong ways ;" "I want 
 to teach Lucille that new lace-stitch, and I dare say 
 Jeanne won't mind if I do make a little noise," I 
 added, with some resentment. Not, of course, that 
 I wished to disturb my mother, or indeed any one 
 else, but I was a little tired of this same catalogue, 
 which had been rehearsed so many times.
 
 64 The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 " There you go again, breaking right into the 
 middle of a sentence," said Grace. " What would 
 your mother say ?" 
 
 " Perhaps she would say, ' Don't be always lec- 
 turing the child, Grace,' " said I mischievously, 
 quoting some words I had overheard from my 
 mother. Then, as I saw by her rising color that 
 she was really angry, I threw my arms round her 
 and hugged her. 
 
 " There, don't be vexed, Gracy dear ; you know 
 I would not disturb maman for the world. But I 
 do really want to go to the farm very much to teach 
 Lucille the lace-stitch you showed me yesterday, 
 and to see the new kittens." 
 
 " Kittens ! what kittens ?" said Grace, who was a 
 dear lover of pussies of all sorts. 
 
 " Why, the new kittens. Don't you remember 
 the beautiful young cats that David brought to his 
 mother the last time he came home ? One of them 
 has kittens, and Mother Jeanne says I may have my 
 choice of them." 
 
 " Oh, yes ; go by all means, my dear ; and I hope 
 you will have a pleasant day. Only be sure you are 
 at home before "dark, and mind you don't wait till 
 it is time you were here before you set out. And 
 as to the kitlings, if there should be a tortoise-shell 
 or a dark brindle, T would choose that, especially if 
 it have a white face. Such cats are always good- 
 tempered and good mousers." 
 
 "I believe these cats are all white," said I; 
 " the mother is as white as snow."
 
 The Chevalier s Daiigkter. 65 
 
 Grace's face was shadowed a little. 
 
 " I don't know about that," said she doubtfully. 
 " In Cornwall we think that white cats bring ill- 
 luck. My poor sister had a beautiful white cat 
 come to her, and that very night she broke her 
 china jug, and the ne:st day her husband fell from 
 the tall pear-tree and was lamed for life." 
 
 " But these are not like common cats, you know," 
 said I, suppressing a laugh which I knew would 
 mortally offend Grace and perhaps lose me my holi- 
 day. ' ' They are outlandish cats, with long hair and 
 bushy tails. I should think that would be differ- 
 ent." 
 
 " Perhaps so ; but I would think about it a little. 
 However, I will come down and see them myself. ' ' 
 
 I tiptoed through my mother's room into my own 
 little cell, collected my working things into the 
 pretty foreign basket which David had brought me 
 the last time he came home, and then, kissing my 
 mother's pale cheek, I descended the etairs softly, 
 and did not give a single skip till I was beyond the 
 precincts of the tower. 
 
 " How full of notions Grace is," I said to myself. 
 " I wonder if all the Cornish people are like that."* 
 (N.B. If a hare had run across my own path, or I 
 had heard a crow on my left hand, I dare say I 
 should have turned back from my expedition.) 
 " But I mean to have the kitten in spite of her. As 
 though I would give up a beautiful long-haired 
 white cat for such a fancy as that !" 
 
 * They are, even to this day. L. 8,
 
 66 The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 I did not hasten on my way, for it was early, and 
 I found my walk so pleasant that I had no desire to 
 shorten it. The bramble-berries and filberts that 
 were ripening by the sides of the lane had great 
 attractions for me. There were late autumn flow- 
 ers to gather, and lizards to watch as they ran to 
 and fro on the walls or sunned their gilded sides 
 on a broad flat stone, vanishing like a shadow when 
 one drew near. A great wind had blown the day 
 before and thrown down many apples from the 
 trees that overhung the lane. I filled my pocket 
 with some ripe golden pippins, and walked on eating 
 one till I drew near the place where the 'high way to 
 Avranches, such as it was, crossed our lane. This 
 was a favorite resting-place, since it commanded a 
 glorious view of sea and shore and the great 
 fortress-monastery. There was a kind of crag or 
 projecting rock some thirty feet high, round which 
 the road wound, and which, while it presented a 
 perpendicular face to the highway, was easily 
 ascended by an active person from the side of the 
 lane. 
 
 " I wonder whether they are gathering the vraic, ' 
 I said to myself. " I should think a great quantity 
 must have come ashore after the wind last night. I 
 mean to climb up and see." * 
 
 I climbed lightly up the rude rocky steps, but 
 
 * The vraic or varech is the seaweed, which is very abun- 
 dant on this coast, and much esteemed for manure. It is reg- 
 ularly harvested in spring and autumn, but may be gathered at 
 any time.
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter. 67 
 
 started as I came upon Lucille, who was sitting 
 upon the dry moss which covered like a soft carpet 
 the top of the rock. She was wrapped closely in 
 her long black cloak, the hood of which was drawn 
 over her head, somewhat to the detriment of her 
 clean starched cap. Her unfailing companion, the 
 distaff, was in her girdle, but the spindle lay idle 
 beside her, though she seemed to have cleared a flat 
 place especially for it to dance upon. Her hands 
 were folded over her knee, and her eyes were fixed 
 upon the high road, which from this elevated point 
 could be traced all the way to Avranches. I saw 
 in a moment that she was in one of her moods, but 
 I was in too high spirits with my walk and my hol- 
 iday to mind that ; and as she did not seem to hear 
 my approach I put my two hands over her eyes, 
 saying, in the words of our child's game, " Guess 
 whose fingers are all these. ' ' 
 
 " Vevette, how you startled me !" she ex- 
 claimed, rather angrily ; and then, recovering her- 
 self, " How did you come here ?" 
 
 "On my feet, since I have no wings," I an- 
 swered, sitting down beside her on the dry moss. 
 " Maman gave me a whole holiday because she has 
 a headache, and I thought I would come down and 
 teach you my new lace stitches. It is well I took 
 a fancy to climb up here, or I should have missed 
 you. But now, tell me how came you here ?" 
 
 " Because I have a holiday as well as yourself," 
 answered Lucille, in a tone which had no pleasure 
 in it. " Aunt Denise has come up from Granville
 
 68 The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 to see my mother, and maman said I might have a 
 play-day too, and go to see Marie Lebrun if 1 liked. 
 But I don't care about going. I know they only 
 sent me away because they have secrets to talk 
 about which they don't want me to hear." 
 
 ' ' "Well, why need you mind ?" I asked. ' ' Maman 
 often says to me, ' Run away, petite, I wish to say 
 something to Grace, ' and I never mind it a bit. 
 Of course grown people have things to talk about 
 which they don't want children to hear. Why 
 should you care ?" 
 
 " But I do care," said Lucille, and her eyes filled 
 with tears. " I am not a child like you. I am 
 three years older, and I do think they might trust 
 me." 
 
 " It is not that they do not trust you, silly one," 
 I returned, a little out of patience with the mood I 
 could not comprehend. " As I tell you, there are 
 things to be talked about by grown people which 
 girls do not understand and ought not to know. 
 Mrs.- Grace has told me that a dozen times. What 
 is the use of minding ? We don't understand, and 
 there is the end. Some time we shall, I suppose. ' ' 
 
 Lucille did not answer. She fixed her eyes once 
 more on the highway, and I let mine wander off 
 over the sands and the shore where people, looking 
 like little black ants, were busily collecting the 
 precious seaweed, to Mount St. Michael, whose 
 turrets shone brightly in the sun. 
 
 " I wish I had wings," said I at last. " How I 
 should like to fly over the sands and alight on the
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter. 69 
 
 top of the mount yonder, where the great gilded 
 angel used to stand looking over land and seas. I 
 wonder whether he got tired of his perch and flew 
 away some night. ' ' 
 
 " You should not speak so of the holy angels. 
 It is not right," said Lucille gravely. 
 
 " I was not speaking of the angel, hut of his im- 
 age," said I ; " that is quite another thing. Then 
 I would spread my wings and travel over to the 
 islands yonder, and then to England, where my 
 uncles live." 
 
 " And get shot for a strange water-fowl," said 
 Lucille, apparently diverted for the moment, and 
 laughing at my fancy. " Then you would be 
 stuffed and set up to be gazed at for sixpence a 
 head, and that would be more tiresome than sitting 
 at your embroidery." 
 
 " Yes, I don't think I should like it at all. Let 
 me take the distaff, Lucille. I have not spun any 
 thread in a long time. What beautiful fine flax !" 
 
 " Yes, it is some that my aunt brought me. She 
 got it of a sliip-captain who came from foreign 
 parts. Take care you don't break my thread." 
 
 We chatted on indifferent subjects a while, and 
 Lucille seemed to have recovered her good-humor, 
 when I inadvertently disturbed it again. 
 
 "Martin said he met your father coming from 
 Avranches yesterday. What took him so far from 
 home ?" 
 
 " I don't know ; they never tell me anything," 
 answered Lucille, her face clouding.
 
 70 The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 " There might be a very good reason for his not 
 telling you," 1 remarked in a low tone. " If his 
 journey was about the Religion it might be a great 
 deal better for you to be able to say you did not 
 know. And I dare say it was, for my father has 
 been away a great deal of late. ' ' 
 
 " Oh, the Religion always the Religion !" said 
 Lucille between her teeth ; " I hate the very name 
 of the Religion." 
 
 " Lucille, how dare you ?" I gasped, rather than 
 spoke. I was too shocked to say more. 
 
 "Well, 1 do," she returned vehemently. "It 
 spoils everything. It separates families and neigh- 
 bors, shuts us up just to our own little selves, and 
 cuts us off from everything that is pleasant. Jen- 
 nette Maury can go to the Sunday fetes and the 
 dances on feast days under the great chestnut, but 
 I must stay at home and read a musty book, because 
 I am of the Religion. Other people live in peace, 
 and nobody interferes with them. We live with a 
 sword hung over our heads, and our daily path is 
 like that over the Greve yonder likely to swallow 
 us up any time. And what do we gain by it in this 
 world, I should like to know ?" 
 
 " What should we lose in the next world if we 
 deserted it ?" I asked, finding my voice at last. 
 
 " I am not talking of deserting it. I am no 
 Judas, though they seem to think I am by the way 
 they treat me never telling me anything. But 1 
 don't see why we should not have kept to the ways 
 of our fathers, and saved all this trouble."
 
 Tke Chevalier s Daughter. 7 i 
 
 " WE DO keep to the faith of our fathers," said 
 I, repeating the proud boast of the Vaudois, which 
 1 had long ago learned by heart. " Our church 
 never was corrupted by Rome, and did not need 
 reforming. But, Lucille, what \vould your father 
 and mother say to such words ?" 
 
 " I should never say such words to them," an- 
 swered Lucille, " and I am foolish to say them to 
 you. I suppose, however, you will go and repeat 
 them to every one, and let the world say how much 
 better and more religious is the heiress of the Tour 
 d'Antin than poor Lucille Sablot." 
 
 " Lucille, you know better," I answered indig- 
 nantly ; " but I see you don't want anything of 
 me, so I shall go home again, as you say Mother 
 Jeanne is busy." And gathering up my basket 
 and laying down the distaff in Lucille' s lap, I rose 
 to depart, though I trembled so much with excite- 
 ment and indignation that I could hardly stand. 
 Lucille looked at me in surprise, for in our ordinary 
 quarrels I grew cool as she grew angry, and vice 
 versd. 
 
 " Don't go, Yevette. I ought not to have 
 spoken so. I did not half mean it, but I am so 
 very, very unhappy." As she spoke she hid her 
 face and burst into a flood of tears and sobs. I sat 
 down again, knowing from experience that when 
 she recovered from her crying fit her bad mood 
 would be gone for that day. So it proved. After 
 sobbing a long time she wiped her eyes and made a 
 great effort to compose herself.
 
 72 The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 " I am sorry I was so cross," said she ; " but 1 
 am so unhappy. There is so much that I cannot 
 understand. Why should you be the heiress of 
 D'Antin and I only a poor farmer's daughter? 
 Why should you learn music and English and dress 
 in silk, while I wear homespun and tend sheep, and 
 come and go at everybody's call ? Why should our 
 enemies triumph and eat us up like bread, and live 
 in all sorts of luxury, while we are poor and trodden 
 down like the mire in the streets, and our Master 
 never put forth a hand to help us ? We give up 
 everything for him, and he lets us be beaten on 
 every side, and gives us nothing but promises 
 promises for another world, from which nobody has 
 come back to tell us anything. No, I don't un- 
 derstand it." 
 
 Lucille spoke with a fire and passion compared 
 to which her former vehemence was nothing. I 
 had never thought of these things never dreamed 
 of questioning anything that was taught me. In- 
 deed, I believe I had been too full of dreams to 
 think at all. I was stricken dumb before her at 
 first, but as she gazed at me with her dark eyes like 
 sombre flames, 1 felt I must say something, so I 
 gave the only answer that occurred to me the only 
 one indeed that I have ever found. 
 
 " It is the will of God, Lucille, and he must 
 know best." 
 
 Lucille muttered something which I did not 
 quite hear. 
 
 " And besides, he does help us," I added, gath-
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter. 73 
 
 ering courage. " Just think how all the martyrs 
 have been helped to stand firm, and what joys they 
 have felt even at the galleys and in dark dungeons, 
 where they had hardly room to breathe." 
 
 " I know they say so," said Lucille ; " but tell 
 me, Yevette, have you experienced any of these 
 wonderful joys. Because I know 1 never did." 
 
 I did not know exactly what to answer to this 
 question. In fact, in those days my conscience was 
 in that uneasy state in which it always must be with 
 any half -hearted person. No, I could not say that 
 my religion was any comfort to me, and I hastened 
 to change the conversation. 
 
 " Anyhow, Lucille, 1 don't think you would be 
 any happier if we were to change places. You 
 would be lectured arid ordered about, and sent out 
 of the way a great deal more than you are now, and 
 you would not have nearly as much time to yourself. 
 I believe, after all, it is more in being contented than 
 anything else. Look at Gran'mere Luchon. She 
 has as little as any one I know living down by the 
 shore in that dark smoky little hut with her two 
 little grandchildren, and supporting them and herself 
 with her net-making and mending and her spinning. 
 And yet she is happy. She is always singing over 
 her work, and I never heard her make a complaint. " 
 
 " She is not there any more," said Lucille. 
 " The new cure ordered her to go to mass, and be- 
 cause she would not he has taken the children away 
 and handed them over to the nuns, and nobody 
 knows what, has become of the old woman."
 
 74 I he Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 " The wretches !" I exclaimed. 
 
 " Hush !" said Lucille ; " don't speak so loud ; 
 nobody knows who may be listening. I hate living 
 so in such constraint and danger all the time. It 
 is odious." 
 
 " Don't let us talk about it any more," said I. 
 " I have some news for you. My cousin, Andrew 
 Corbet, from England, is coming to visit us. Will 
 it not seem odd to have a cousin ?" 
 
 " Not to me," said Lucille, making an effort to 
 throw off her moodiness. " I have a plenty of 
 them, you know. When do you expect him ?" 
 
 " Next week, perhaps ; the time is not set." 
 
 " What is he like ?" 
 
 " I don't know ; I have never seen him. He 
 is about twenty years old, and has been educated at 
 a great college in England, so I suppose he is like 
 other young gentlemen. Come, let us eat some of 
 Mrs. Grace's cakes and bonbons, and then I will 
 show you my new stitch. Grace gave me a nice 
 basket, because she said we might like to make a 
 little feast under the trees. ' ' 
 
 Lucille had something too a bottle of milk and 
 some wheaten bread which she had set out to carry 
 to Gran'mere Luchon, when she heard of the mis- 
 fortune which had befallen the poor woman. We 
 grew quite merry over our little feast, and the lesson 
 in needlework went on prosperously afterward. 
 
 " You have caught it beautifully," said 1 ; 
 " Mrs. Grace would say that you excelled your 
 pattern. But what are you looking at ?" For
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter. 75 
 
 Lucille liad droped her work and was gazing intently 
 in the direction of Avranches. I turned my eyes the 
 same way and beheld a procession coming up the 
 road of what sort 1 could not at first discover. 
 There was a cross-bearer and two or three 
 banners ; then a sight dreaded by every Huguenot 
 child in France the Host carried under a fine 
 canopy and then came a dozen or so of donkeys, 
 each led by a man and bearing a woman dressed in 
 black, with a white scapular and long black veil. 
 " They are the nuns coming to take possession of 
 the hospital," said Lucille. "It has been all re- 
 paired and fitted up anew, and they are to have a 
 school and teach lace-making and embroidery. ' ' 
 
 " Lucille, what do you mean ?" I exclaimed ; for 
 she had risen and stepped to the edge of the rock to 
 have a better view. " They will see you. Come 
 down here behind the bushes till they are past. ' ' 
 
 Lucille obeyed rather unwillingly, as I thought. 
 We peeped through the bushes as the procession 
 advanced, and had a good view of the nuns. There 
 were ten of them, riding with eyes cast down and 
 hands folded in their large sleeves. One or two of 
 them were very pretty, and all had a ladylike look. 
 Last came the two little grandchildren of poor Mere 
 Luchon. The youngest, a mere baby, was sucking 
 a lump of gingerbread, apparently quite content ; 
 but the sobs and tear-stained face of the other told 
 a different story. She was seven years old, and 
 was already a great help and comfort to the old 
 woman. As she passed^ she raised her streaming
 
 76 The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 eyes as if imploring pity. My blood boiled at the 
 sight, and if I could have commanded the lightning 
 from heaven, that procession would have gone no 
 farther. It was closed by a number of villagers, all 
 telling their beads, some with a great show of de- 
 votion, others languidly and carelessly enough. The 
 new cure came last of all. He was a small, thin, 
 sharp-faced man, with a cruel mouth, and eyes that 
 seemed to see everything at once. lie was cer- 
 tainly a great contrast to poor Father Jean, who 
 used to go about with his deep pockets filled with 
 bonbons, which he distributed to Catholic and Prot- 
 estant children alike. 
 
 " The wretches ! the murderous brigands !" said 
 I between my teeth. " Oh, if I could kill them 
 all ! The vile kidnappers ! Oh, why does the 
 Lord suffer such things ?" 
 
 ' ' That is what I ask, ' ' said Lucille ; ' ' why should 
 they be so prospered and have so much power if 
 the Lord is not on their side ? As to these children, 
 I don't know that I pity them so very much. The 
 old woman could not have lived long, and now they 
 are sure of support and a good education. I think 
 the nuns are very kind-looking ladies, for my part. 
 And if they were right after all if one's salvation 
 does depend upon being a Roman Catholic then 
 they are right in forcing people to become so." 
 
 " Why did not our Lord and his apostles force all 
 the Jews to become Christians ?" I demanded hotly 
 enough. " He said he had only to ask to receive 
 more than twelve legions of angels. Why did not
 
 The Chevaliers Daughter. 77 
 
 he do it, and shut up all those people who did not 
 believe on him, or put them to death, if that is the 
 right way ?" 
 
 " He said his kingdom was not of this world, else 
 would his servants fight," answered Lucille. 
 
 " Then the kingdom which is of this world, and 
 whose servants do fight and oppress, is not his," I 
 answered, for I could reason well enough when I 
 was roused from my day-dreams. 
 
 " We ought to be going," said Lucille, abruptly 
 changing the subject. " The supper will be ready, 
 and my father will be angry if I am not there. I 
 am to be kept to rules as if I were no more than 
 five years old." 
 
 Jeanne welcomed me with her usual affection, 
 but her eyes were red with weeping, and she was 
 evidently absent-minded. I told her what we had 
 seen. 
 
 " Yes, I have had the story from my sister," 
 said Jeanne, her eyes overflowing as she spoke. 
 " The poor old woman ! happily it cannot be long 
 in the course of nature before she goes to her rest ; 
 but my heart aches for the little ones. My chil- 
 dren, you must be doubly careful. This new priest 
 is not like the old one he will leave us no peace. 
 You must take care never even to go near the 
 church, or stop to look on at any of their doings. 
 Perhaps a way of escape may be opened to us be- 
 fore long. It would indeed be hard to leave our 
 home and go among strangers, but exile with lib-
 
 78 The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 erty of worship would be better than living in such 
 constant fear." 
 
 " Put thy trust in God, my Jeanne,'' said Father 
 Simon. " We are all in his hands. We must re- 
 member that the church has never been promised 
 anything in this world but tribulation and the cross. 
 The crown is to come hereafter. Now let us think 
 of something else. Mamselle Yevette, will you 
 come and help to gather the apples on your own 
 tree ? They are quite ready, and I will carry them 
 up for you when you go home. " 
 
 I had been grave quite as long as I liked, and 
 was very ready to enjoy the apple-picking from my 
 own particular tree of golden Jeannetons, which 
 had been solemnly planted when I was born, and 
 now hung loaded with fruit. Never were such 
 apples as those, I am sure. I wonder whether the 
 tree is still in bearing ? It must be old and moss- 
 grown by this time, if it has not been cut down. 
 Jeanne made us a supper of fresh pan-cakes, 
 galette, fruit, and rich cream cheese, and \vhen 
 I went home Father Simon shouldered his hotte * 
 and carried a famous load of beautiful apples up to 
 the tower. 
 
 I found my mother much better, and able to wel- 
 come me, and to hear all I had to tell her. I hesi- 
 tated about repeating my conversation with Lucille 
 on the rock, but my mind had been so disturbed 
 
 * A kind of deep, roomy basket, made to be carried on the 
 shoulders.
 
 The Chevaliers Daughter. 79 
 
 that at last I though best to do so, hoping to have 
 my doubts laid at rest. 
 
 " You gave the right answer, my little one," said 
 my mother when I had finished. "It is the will 
 of God. Remember that he has never promised 
 his children temporal prosperity. ' In the world ye 
 shall have tribulation, ' are his own words. Yet he 
 does give his children many pleasures. There are 
 beautiful flowers and fair fruits growing even by 
 the side of the strait and narrow way, but we 
 must not go out of the way to seek them. Neither 
 must we be discouraged when the path leads over 
 rocks and thorns, or even through marshes and 
 quicksands ; but remember that our dear Lord has 
 trodden every step before us, and is waiting to 
 receive us at the end." 
 
 Much more she said, in the same wise and gentle 
 strain, and at last sent me to bed feeling somewhat 
 comforted. The night was warm, and my door 
 was left ajar for air. I had hardly fallen asleep, as 
 it seemed to me, when I was waked by voices, and 
 heard my mother say, 
 
 " I do not like what she says about Lucille. I 
 fear the girl has been tampered with. Perhaps we 
 should warn her parents. ' ' 
 
 " We will think about that," said my father. 
 " Ah, my Marguerite, if you and the little one 
 were but in safety 
 
 ' ' Do not ask me to leave you, Armand not 
 yet," said my mother, clasping her hands. " If 
 we could but send the child home to mv sister I
 
 So The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 should be at ease. Could we not do it, when 
 Andrew comes ?" 
 
 ' k We will consider of it," answered my father. 
 " And now, my Pearl, let us betake ourselves to 
 prayer." 
 
 The murmured sound of the prayer sent me to 
 sleep, and I heard no more, but 1 turned Lucille's 
 words over in my mind with a vague uneasiness 
 many times during the next few days. I was des- 
 tined to remember them for long afterward. 
 
 The next day was made memorable by an un- 
 lucky accident. Mrs. Grace was standing in the 
 door of my room (which I have said was raised 
 several steps), lecturing me in her usual prim fash- 
 ion concerning certain untidinesses which she had 
 discovered about my toilette-table, when, suddenly 
 stepping backward, she fell down the stairs, bruising 
 herself and spraining her ankle very badly. We 
 dared not send for a surgeon. There was an old 
 man at Avranches who was very skilful, and with 
 whom we had always been on good terms, though 
 he was a Roman Catholic ; but he had lately taken 
 a young. assistant (or rather had been given one, for 
 .ve all believed the young man had been placed as a 
 spy over the old one), -and should it be known that 
 we had a sick person in the house we were in dan- 
 ger of being invaded by the priests, striving to 
 force or coax the sick person into a recantation. 
 Happily my father hnd a pietty good practical 
 knowledge of snnrrry, and both my mother and Mrs. 
 Grace herself were strong in the virtues and uses of
 
 Tke Chevalier s Daughter. 8 1 
 
 herbs and simples. Mrs. Grace was presently put to 
 bed and her ankle bandaged. She was in great pain, 
 but the pain was little or nothing compared to the 
 worry of helplessness, housekeeping cares, and the 
 necessity of being waited upon instead of waiting 
 upon others. Truth to say, she was but a trouble- 
 some charge. My dear mother, who had borne 
 this same cross of helplessness for many a year, 
 preached patience in her gentle way. Mrs. Grace 
 assented to all she said, called herself a miserable, 
 rebellious sinner, and the next minute fretted more 
 than ever : over that careless Marie, who would be 
 sure to burn the marmalade, or that stupid coward of 
 a Julienne, who would not venture up to the top of 
 the tower to bring in the drying fruit lest she should 
 see the white chevalier. For after a long season of 
 absence for what ghostly purpose, who should say ? 
 the white chevalier had again been seen walking on 
 the battlements of the round tower, or passing the 
 window of his wretched and guilty wife's apart- 
 ment. 
 
 11 Do not trouble yourself about the marmalade, 
 my poor Grace," said my mother, with a somewhat 
 woeful smile. " Who knows whether we shall be 
 alive to eat it, or whether all our stores may not 
 fall into the hands of onr enemies ?" 
 
 " I should like to spice the marmalade for 
 them !" exclaimed Grace, quite overcome by the 
 idea of her dainties being devoured by the Papisties, 
 as she always called them. 
 
 " And as to the tower," continued my mother,
 
 82 The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 " I think myself the maids may as well keep away 
 from it. If the white chevalier and his wife should 
 really have been seen, it is just as well not to nin 
 any risks. " 
 
 " But whom then will yon trust ?" asked Grace, 
 with a startled look. 
 
 My mother put to her lips a fresh rose she had 
 brought in her hand, and glanced at me, and Grace 
 said no more. I was not annoyed, as Lucille would 
 have been, for I had become accustomed to such 
 hints ; and with a passing wonder as to whether my 
 mother really believed in the white chevalier, I 
 plunged into my dear " Arcadia, " and forgot all 
 earthly cares in the somewhat long-winded trials of 
 the virtuous Parthenia. But I was destined to hear 
 more of the matter. 
 
 That very evening, about an hour before sunset, 
 my father asked me to walk with him. This was a 
 great honor, for in my youth children were by no 
 means so familiar with their parents as they are 
 now. Whether the change be for the better or no 
 depends upon the parents a good deal. We walked 
 out by the lane, across a field, and through the 
 loaded orchard bending with golden and ruddy 
 fruit, some of which was already gathered for the 
 cider-mill. The low sun shone under the branches, 
 and turned the heaps of apples to heaps of gold and 
 rubies. It was very still, but the tide was high, and 
 came in over the distant sands with a hollow roar, 
 which my father said portended a storm. He spoke 
 little till we reached a little heathy eminence
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter. 83 
 
 crowned with one of the monuments of ancient date 
 BO common in Normandy and Brittany. From this 
 point we had a view for a long distance around, and 
 nobody could come near us without being observed. 
 My father sat down on one of the fallen stones, 
 and motioned me to sit beside him. 
 
 " My daughter,'' said he, taking my hand in his 
 with a certain solemnity, " you are now almost a 
 woman, and old enough to be admitted into the 
 knowledge of your father's secrets. But such 
 knowledge is full of danger. Are you brave, my 
 child ? Are you a worthy descendant of those 
 valiant Provencal and Yaudois women who hazarded 
 their lives for the faith ? Consider, my Vevette ! 
 Suppose you were required to go into the upper 
 floor of the old tower, even to the ladies' bower, at 
 night ; would you be afraid to do it ? Consider, 
 and give me an answer." 
 
 All my better self rose up at this appeal. I con- 
 sidered a moment, and then answered firmly, 
 
 " I might be afraid, but I would do it, if it were 
 my duty." 
 
 " There spoke a true Corbet woman !" said my 
 father, smiling kindly on me and pressing the hand 
 which he held. " ' MY DUTY ! ' Let that be your 
 motto, as it is that of your mother's house, and you 
 will not go far wrong. Now listen while I impart 
 to you a weighty secret. But let us first make sure 
 that there are no eavesdroppers." 
 
 My father raised himself from the fallen stone 
 and looked all around, but no one was in sight, and
 
 84 The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 the sparse heath and short grass could not hide any- 
 thing so large as a child of a year old. He even 
 parted the brambles and wild vines and looked in- 
 side the monument (which was one of those made 
 of three upright stones with a slab laid over the 
 top), but found nothing worse than a pair of young 
 owls and their mother, which were terribly discon- 
 certed by his scrutiny, and hissed and snapped 
 valiantly. Meantime I waited with anxious curi- 
 osity, though I had a guess of what was coming. 
 
 " I have certain intelligence," said he, speaking 
 in a low voice, " that one of our best and oldest 
 pastors, Monsieur Bertheau, who has, at the risk of 
 his life, visited and comforted many of our afflicted 
 brethren in Charenton and elsewhere, is now flying 
 from his enemies, and will arrive at this place some 
 time to-night. He must be lodged in the old tower 
 till the period of spring tides, when I shall hope to 
 procure a passage for him to Jersey, or to England 
 itself. Grace, who has usually taken charge of 
 such fugitives, is now disabled. I must be 
 away this night, and your mother is unable to do 
 what is needful ; besides that, her absence from her 
 room might excite suspicion. Mat hew grows old 
 and forgetful, and I dare not trust any of the other 
 servants. Dare you, my daughter, undertake to 
 meet this venerable man in the niins of the chapel 
 to-night, and lead him by the secret passage to the 
 room at the top of the tower, which has been pre- 
 pared for him 2"
 
 The CJicvalicrs Daughter. 85 
 
 " Yes, my father," I answered ; " but how shall 
 I know the way ?" 
 
 " I will give you directions which will lead you 
 to the entrance of the passage. Turn to your right 
 after that, and you cannot miss your way. When 
 the good man is in safety you can come directly to 
 your mother's room by another passage, which I 
 will also indicate to you. But, my child, I must 
 not conceal from you that there is danger in this 
 trust. Should you be discovered by any of our 
 enemies in giving help to this good old man, your 
 life or your liberty must be the forfeit." 
 
 " I know it, my father," 1 answered ; "but if 
 it is my duty, I can do it. Besides, there is daiynr 
 anyhow." 
 
 " That is true, my child. He that saveth his life 
 is as like to lose it as he that layeth it down for the 
 Lord's sake and the Gospels." 
 
 Then my father broke down, clasped me in his 
 arms, and wept over me in the way that is so terri- 
 ble to see in a strong man. 
 
 " My child, my Marguerite's only child ! my 
 treasure ! and must I lay down thy young life also ? 
 Oh, Lord, how long, how long !" 
 
 Presently, however, he composed himself, and 
 laying his hand on my head he most solemnly dedi- 
 cated me to God and his service, as the most pre- 
 cious thing he had to give. That dedication has 
 never ceased to affect my life, even when I have 
 strayed the farthest. 
 
 We returned home slowly, after my father had
 
 86 The Chevaliers Daughter. 
 
 given me the most minute directions for finding the 
 secret passage, and I had repeated them after him 
 so as to imprint them on my memory, for I dared 
 not write down even the least hint of them lest the 
 paper should fall into the hands of our enemies. I 
 told my father that I would look into the chapel, 
 and be sure that I understood what he had said. 
 
 " No one will think anything of it," I added. 
 " I am always wandering about the place, and I 
 often go to the chapel and sit in the old stalls." 
 
 " Very well, child. I trust thy discretion. Only 
 come in before it is dark, lest the poor mother 
 should be needlessly alarmed. And one thing 
 more, my Vevette : let not a hint escape thee to 
 the Sablots ; not that I would not trust the father 
 and mother with any secret, but I confess I mistrust 
 Lucille after what you have told us about her." 
 
 " You don't think she would betray us ?" Tasked, 
 startled. 
 
 " I cannot tell. If she has indeed been tampered 
 with she may not be able to help herself. At all 
 events, the fewer people are in a secret the better." 
 
 "When we returned to the tower I slipped away 
 and entered the old chapel. It was of considerable 
 extent quite a church, in fact, though I suppose 
 no service had been said there for perhaps a hun- 
 dred years. The altar of wonderfully carved oak 
 was still in its place, though all its ornaments and 
 images had been removed or destroyed. The altar- 
 piece which was painted on the wall still remained, 
 and though faded and stained was still beautiful.
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter. 87 
 
 My father once told me that it had been painted by 
 some great Spanish artist. The Virgin and her 
 Babe were the central figures. She had a sad, 
 grieved expression in her dark eyes, and I had a 
 fancy that she was mourning over the use that had 
 been made of her name. Certainly I think that 
 gentle, lowly woman could hardly be happy in 
 heaven itself if she knew how she was treated here 
 on earth. 
 
 The chancel was surrounded by a row of carved 
 niches or stalls with seats in them. I counted them 
 from the left-hand side of the altar, and putting my 
 hand under the seat of the fourth I found and 
 slightly pressed the button my father had told me 
 of. It moved in my fingers, but I dared not open 
 it. 
 
 " I suppose it was by this secret way that they 
 brought the wife of the white chevalier when they 
 buried her alive in the vault below, ' ' I thought, and 
 then, as a sound behind me made me turn with a 
 thrill, I almost expected to see the poor murdered 
 lady's ghost arise before me. But it was only one 
 of our numerous family of cats which had chosen 
 this place for her young progeny. If I had seen 
 the ghost, however, I do not believe I should have 
 blanched : I was too highly wrought up by enthu- 
 siasm and the kind of nervous excitement which has 
 always served me in place of courage, I ascended 
 the rickety stairs into the music loft, touched the 
 yellow keys of the useless organ, and leaning over 
 the ledge tried to think how the place must have
 
 88 
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 looked when it was full of kneeling worshippers. 
 Then, being warned by the deepening shadows of 
 the lateness of the hour, I went into the house to 
 my supper.
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 GUESTS AT THE TOUR. 
 
 SAT in my mother's room that night till 
 it was nearly twelve o'clock, and then, 
 wrapping myself in the long black cloak 
 which is, or was, worn by women of every 
 rank in Normandy, I stole down-stairs and across the 
 courtyard to the ruined chapel. All was lonely and 
 deserted. The servants had gone to bed hours be- 
 fore ; the horses were safe in their stables, and I en- 
 countered nobody and nothing but our great English 
 mastiff, Hal, who sniffed at me a little doubtfully at 
 the first, and then stalked solemnly at my side, carry- 
 ing in his mouth a stick he had picked up a cere- 
 mony which for some unknown reason he always 
 performed when he wished to do honor to any one. 
 I was not sorry to have his company, for the place 
 was lonesome enough, and I had never in my life 
 been out of doors so late. The moon, several days 
 past the full, had risen, but was still low in the sky, 
 and only gave light enough to perplex me with 
 mysterious reflections and shadows, which seemed to 
 have no right reason for their existence. Owls
 
 go The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 whooped dolefully, answering each other from side 
 to side. The sea roared at a distance, and now and 
 then a sudden gust, which did not seem to be/ong 
 to any wind that was blowing, shook the ivy and 
 sighed through the ruined arches. And there were 
 other sounds about as I entered the dark chapel 
 deep sighs, hollow murmurings and whisperings, 
 sudden rushes as of water no one knew from 
 whence. My father always said that these sounds 
 came from the wind sighing in the deep vaults 
 below the chapeh and perhaps from some subter- 
 ran passage which the sea had mined for itself 
 at high tides ; but the servants considered them as 
 altogether supernatural, and nothing would make 
 them approach the chapel after nightfall. 
 
 I believe I have said there was a door opening 
 from the chapel through the onter wall, but I had 
 never seen it opened in my time. By this door 1 
 now took my stand, Hal sitting in solemn wonder 
 at my side, and listened in awful silence, holding in 
 my hand the great key dripping with oil. It seemed 
 an age to me, though I do not think that more 
 than half an hour passed before I heard a slight 
 noise, and then three low taps thrice repeated on 
 the outside of the door. Hal roused up, growling 
 like a lion, but my upraised finger silenced him. 
 Quickly, and with a firmness of hand which sur- 
 prised me, I opened the door and saw, not the old 
 man I expected, but a peasant in Norman dress. 
 For a moment my heart stood still, and then I was 
 reassured.
 
 The Chevaliers Daughter. 91 
 
 " The name of the Lord is a strong tower !" said 
 the stranger. 
 
 " To them that fear him," I added, giving the 
 countersign. " Come in quickly ; we must lose 
 no time." 
 
 He entered, and I closed the door. Then dismiss- 
 ing old Hal, who was very unwilling to leave me in 
 such dubious company, I led the way to the chan- 
 cel, by means of the little dark-lantern which I had 
 held under my cloak. I pressed the button with 
 all my strength ; the whole of the stall moved aside, 
 and showed a narrow passage in the thickness of 
 the wall. 
 
 " Enter, monsieur," said I ; and then, giving him 
 the lantern to hold, I pulled back the stall and 
 heard the bolt drop into its place. Then taking the 
 light again and holding it low to the ground, I went 
 on, and the stranger followed. The road was rough, 
 and he stumbled more than once, but still we pro- 
 ceeded till we reached a very narrow and broken 
 stair, which led steeply upward till at last we came 
 to a heavy wooden door. This I pushed open, and 
 found myself in a somewhat spacious room with 
 some remains of mouldering furniture and hang- 
 ings. Here had been placed a small bed, a chair, 
 and some food, and on the hearth were the means 
 of lighting a little fire. 
 
 " Now we are in safety, monsieur, and can speak 
 a little," said I, with an odd feeling of protection 
 and patronage mingled with the veneration with 
 which I regarded my companion. " Please sit
 
 92 The Chevalier s Daghtuer. 
 
 down and rest while I light a fire. We can have 
 one at any time, for this chimney communicates 
 with my father's workshop, where he keeps a fire at 
 all hours. ' ' 
 
 I busied myself with lighting the fire, and had 
 started a cheerful blaze when I heard a deep sigh 
 behind me, and looking round I was just in time to 
 break the fall of the stranger as he sank on the 
 floor. I was dreadfully frightened, but I did not 
 lose my presence of mind. I loosened his doublet, 
 moistened his forehead and lips with strong waters, 
 and when he began to revive, and not before, I put 
 a spoonful of wine into his mouth, remembering 
 what Grace had said to me once, "$ever try to 
 make an unconscious person swallow. You run 
 the risk of choking him. When he begins to 
 recover he will swallow by instinct." 
 
 At last, when I had begun to think that I must 
 call my mother at all hazards, the stranger opened 
 his eyes and regarded me with fixed and solemn 
 gaze. 
 
 "Is it thou, my Angelique ?" he murmured. 
 " Hast thou at last come to call thy father away ?" 
 
 " Please take some more wine," said I, speaking 
 as steadily as I could, but my voice and hand both 
 trembled. The stranger sighed again, and then 
 seemed to come wholly to himself. 
 
 "I see I was bewildered," said he; "I took 
 this demoiselle for my own daughter, who has been 
 in heaven this many a year." 
 
 " I am the Demoiselle D'Antin," said I. "My
 
 The Chevalier s Daiighter. 93 
 
 father was obliged to go away, and Mrs. Grace is 
 ill, so he sent me to guide you to a place of safety. " 
 And then I brought the soup which I had warmed 
 on the hearth, and pouring out wine I begged him 
 to eat and drink. 
 
 "And did your father and mother indeed send 
 their only child on so dangerous an errand ?" asked 
 the old man. " Sure, now we shall know that they 
 fear God indeed, since they have not withheld 
 their only child from him." 
 
 "Please do eat, sir," I urged; "the soup will 
 be cold." 
 
 The old man smiled benignly. " Yes, my child. 
 I shall do justice to thy good cheer, never fear. I 
 have neither eaten nor drank for twenty-four hours. 
 But now seek thine own rest, little one. Late 
 hours are not for such as thou. ' ' 
 
 "I will come hither again to-morrow," said I, 
 when I had arranged the bed to my liking ; " but 
 my father bid me say he would not be able to see 
 you before midnight. If any one comes who knows 
 the secret, he will give three knocks, counting ten 
 between. If any one else comes, take refuge in the 
 secret passage, and follow it past the place of 
 entrance till you come to stairs that lead downward 
 to the chapel vaults. These you can descend ; but 
 do not walk about, as the ground is uneven, and 
 there are deep rifts in the rocky bottom of the 
 vault. I will leave you the lantern, as the moon 
 shines in on the staircase, and I know the steps 
 well. Good-night, monsieur."
 
 94 The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 The minister laid his hand on my head and gave 
 me his blessing, and I retreated to ray mother's 
 room, which I reached by another long passage in 
 the walls of the gallery. Now that the excitement 
 was over I was ready to drop with fatigue and 
 sleepiness, and most thankful I was to be dosed 
 with the hot broth my mother had kept ready for 
 me, and deposited in ray own little bed. Oh, how 
 horribly sleepy I was when I was awaked the next 
 morning. But I knew I ought to be stirring as 
 early as usual to avoid suspicion, and I was soon up 
 and dressed. How many tilings I did that day ! I 
 ran to wait upon Grace and my mother ; I mount- 
 ed to the top of the old tower to gather the wall 
 pellitory for some medicinal purpose or other, and 
 to spread out the fruit which Grace always laid there 
 to dry ; and finally 1 ran down to the great spring 
 below the orchard to bring up a jug of water which 
 Grace's fevered fancy had thought would taste 
 better than any other. 
 
 I was coming up the hill with my jug on my head 
 in Norman fashion, and singing, 
 
 " Ba-ha-balancez vous done !" 
 
 when I met Lucille. She had been crying, and 
 was very pale. 
 
 " What is the matter, Lucille ?" said I. 
 
 " The matter is that I will not endure any more 
 to be so treated," said she passionately. " To be 
 scolded like a child because I stayed out a little 
 after sunset talking to Pierre Le Febre, and to be
 
 The Chevalier's Daughter. 95 
 
 told that I disturb the peace of the family. No, I 
 will not endure it !" 
 
 " But, Lucille, why should you talk with Pierre 
 Le Febre ?" I asked. " You know what a wild 
 young fellow he is, and what bad things he lias 
 done. I don't wonder your mother does not like 
 it. Oh, Lucille, surely you do not care for him !" 
 
 " Of course I do not care for him," said Lucille, 
 more angrily still. " I do not care a rush for him. 
 It is the being lectured and put down and never 
 daring to breathe that I hate." 
 
 " I am sure you have as much liberty as 1 do," 
 said I ; " and as to lectures, I should Tike to have 
 you hear how Mrs. Grace preaches at me. Besides, 
 I think Mother Jeanne was rightly displeased. I 
 am sure no girl who values her character ought to 
 be seen with Pierre Le Febre. Remember poor 
 Isabeau, Lucille." 
 
 " What, you, too !" said Lucille between her 
 closed lips. " Must you, too, take to lecturing 
 me ? Ah, well, we shall see !" 
 
 We had now reached the point I mentioned be- 
 fore, where the lane crossed the high road to 
 Avranches, and our attention was attracted by the 
 sound of chanting. The priest and liis attendants 
 were coming up from the village, evidently carrying 
 the Host to some dying person. 
 
 " Quick, Lucille, there is yet time !" said I, and 
 I turned aside into the thick bushes and ascended 
 the rock I had spoken of. I had reached the top 
 and hidden myself from observation before I dis
 
 96 T/ie Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 covered that she was not following me. I peeped 
 over and saw her standing just where I had left her. 
 
 " Quick, quick, Lucille !" I cried, but she never 
 moved. The procession came near. To my inex- 
 pressible horror I saw Lucille drop on her knees and 
 remain in that position till the priest came up. He 
 stopped, asked a question or two, and then, as it 
 seemed, bestowing his blessing and giving her some- 
 thing from his pocket, he passed on. It was not till 
 he was out of sight that I dared descend. I found 
 Lucille still standing, apparently lost in thought, and 
 holding in her hand a little gilded crucifix. 
 
 " What ""have you done, Lucille ?" I cried. 
 " You have made an act of catholicity !" 
 
 " I know it," said she, in that hard, unfeeling 
 tone which is sometimes a sign of the greatest ex- 
 citement. " I meant to do it ! I have had enough 
 of the Religion, as you call it !" and she spoke with 
 a tone of bitter contempt. " I am going to try 
 what Holy Mother Church can do for me." 
 
 " And leave your father and mother, never to see 
 them again leave them in their old age, to break 
 their hearts over their child's apostasy 
 
 " No hard words, if you please, Mademoiselle 
 D'Antin," interrupted Lucille, with a strange 
 smile. " Suppose at my first confession I choose 
 to tell of contempt for the Sacrament, and so on ? 
 As to my father and mother, they will not care. 
 Why did they not try to make me happy at home ? 
 Why did they love David the best ? They have 
 never been kind to me never !"
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter, 97 
 
 " Every word you say is false !" I interrupted in 
 my turn, far too angry for any considerations of 
 prudence. " Your parents have always been good 
 to you far better than you deserved. Go, then, 
 traitor as thou art go, and put the crown to your 
 baseness by betraying your friend ! Sell yourself 
 to Satan, and then find out too late what his service 
 is worth. May Heaven comfort your poor father 
 and mother !" 
 
 And with that I walked away, but so unsteadily 
 that I could no longer balance my jug safely on my 
 head. I stopped to take it in my hands, when I 
 heard my name called, and in a moment Lucille 
 came up to me. 
 
 " Do not let us part so, Vevette," said she. " I 
 was wrong to speak to you as 1 did. Forgive me, 
 and say good- by. We shall perhaps never meet 
 again." 
 
 My heart was melted by these words. 
 
 " Oh, Lucille !" I cried, throwing my arms round 
 her, " do not lose a moment ! There is yet time. 
 Hasten to your parents, and tell them what you 
 have done. They will find a way for you to 
 escape." 
 
 " And so have my father sent to the galleys for 
 abducting a Catholic child ?" said Lucille ; " or per- 
 haps have lighted matches tied to his fingers, or live 
 coals laid on his breast, to force him to confess ? 
 No, Vevette, the deed is done, and I am not sorry 
 no, I am not sorry !" she repeated firmly. 
 " Good -by, Vevette. Kiss me once, though I am
 
 98 The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 an apostate. I shall not infect you. Comfort my 
 mother, if you can." 
 
 I embraced her, and took my way homeward, 
 stupefied with grief. I can safely say that if Lucille 
 had been struck dead by a thunderbolt before my 
 eyes the stroke would not have been more dreadful. 
 My mother met me at the door of Grace's room, 
 whither I went with my burden, hardly knowing 
 more what I was doing than some wounded animal 
 which crawls home to die. 
 
 " You are late, petite," said she ; and then, catch- 
 ing sight of my face, she asked me what w r as the 
 matter, repeating my name and her inquiry in the 
 tenderest tones, as I fell into her kind arms and laid 
 my head on her shoulder, unable to speak a word. 
 Then in a new tone of alarm, as the ever present 
 danger arose before her, 
 
 " Has anything happened to your father, Ve- 
 vette ? Speak, my child !" 
 
 " Speak, Mrs. Yevette !" said Grace sharply. 
 " Don't you see you are killing your mother ?" 
 
 The crisp, imperative tones of command seemed 
 to awaken my stunned powers. 
 
 "No, no, not my father," I said, "but Lu- 
 cille ;" and then I poured out my story. 
 
 ' ' The wretched, unhappy girl ! She has sacrificed 
 herself in a fit of ill-temper, and is now lost to her 
 family forever !" said my mother. 
 
 " But can nothing be done ? Can we not save 
 her, tnaman ?" I asked. 
 
 " I fear not," said my mother. "The act
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter. 99 
 
 too public and deliberate, and they will not lose 
 sight of her, you may be sure. Poor, deluded, un- 
 happy girl ! By one hasty act she has thrown 
 away home, friends, and, I fear, her own soul also." 
 
 I burst into a fit of sobbing so hysterical that my 
 mother, alarmed, hastened to put me to bed, and 
 administer some quieting drops, which after a 
 time put me to sleep. I did not wake till the 
 beams of the rising sun startled me. 1 opened my 
 eyes with that wretched dull feeling that something 
 dreadful had happened, which we have all experi- 
 enced. Then, as the truth came to my mind, I 
 dropped my head again on my pillow in a fit of 
 bitter weeping. But my tears did not last long. I 
 remembered our guest in the tower, and that no 
 one had been near him all the day before. I sprang 
 up, dressed myself quickly and quietly, and slipped 
 into my mother's room. 
 
 " Is that you, Yevette ?" said maman sleepily. 
 " "Why are you up so early ?" 
 
 "1 am going to visit the pastor, maman," I 
 answered softly ; "no one has been near him since 
 the night before last, and he must think it very 
 strange. Besides, he will be in need of fresh pro- 
 visions." 
 
 " Go, then, my precious one, but be careful. 
 The keys of the storeroom are there on my table." 
 
 The storeroom was the peculiar domain of Mrs. 
 Grace a kind of shrine where she paid secret 
 devotional rites, which seemed to consist in taking 
 all the things out of the drawers and cupboards and
 
 ioo The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 putting them back again. I had never been in it 
 more than once or twice, and it was with a feeling 
 almost of awe that I took the key from the outer 
 lock and shut myself in. What a clean, orderly, 
 sweet-savoring little room it was. The odor of 
 sweet herbs or gingerbread will even now bring the 
 whole place vividly before my mind. 1 filled my 
 basket with good things, not forgetting some of 
 Mrs. Grace's English gingerbread and saffron-cakes 
 and a bottle of wine. Then, as a new thought 
 struck me, I took a small brass jar, such as is used 
 for that purpose in Normandy, and stealing out I 
 called my own cow from the herd waiting in the 
 courtyard, and milked my vessel full. Just as I 
 had finished, old Mathew appeared. 
 
 " You are early, mademoiselle," said he, smiling. 
 " That is well. Early sunbeams make fresh roses. 
 I know madame will enjoy her morning draught all 
 the more for that it comes from your hands." 
 
 " 1 like to milk," said I ; " but I must not stay. 
 Maman will wonder where I am. ' ' 
 
 I took my basket from its hiding-place and 
 hastened up the stairs to the tower. Before knock- 
 ing I listened a moment at the door. The old man 
 was up, and already engaged in prayer. I heard the 
 most touching petitions put up for my father and 
 mother and for myself. Surely all the prayers 
 offered for me in my childhood and youth were not 
 thrown away. It was for their sake that I was not 
 left to perish in the wilderness of this world into 
 which I wandered.
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter. 101 
 
 When the voice ceased I made the signal, and 
 the door was opened. 
 
 " Ah, my daughter, good-morning, " said the old 
 man, with a benignant smile. " I began to fear 
 some evil had befallen you or yours. Has not 
 your father returned ?" 
 
 " No, monsieur, he said he might possibly not 
 arrive till to-night. I was ill last night, and not 
 able to come to you. I hope you have not been 
 hungry." And with some housewifely importance 
 I arranged my provisions on the old table and 
 poured out a tall glass full of the rich, frothy milk. 
 
 " This is indeed refreshing," said the old pastor 
 after a long draught ; ' ' better than wine to an old 
 man. Milk is for babes, they say ; and I suppose 
 as we approach our second childhood we crave it 
 again. I remember, as I lay for four days in a cave 
 by the sea-shore, with nothing to eat but the 
 muscles and limpets, and no drink but the brackish 
 water which dripped from the rocks, I was per- 
 petually haunted by the remembrance of my 
 mother's dairy, with its vessels of brass and red 
 earthenware overflowing with milk and cream. 
 But, my child, you are a bountiful provider. Will 
 you not awaken suspicion ?" 
 
 ' ' Oh, no, monsieur ; I have taken everything 
 from the storeroom, where no one ever goes but 
 maman and Mrs. Grace, her English gentlewoman. 
 I must leave you now, but I will come again to- 
 night." 
 
 I found my mother up and dressed. We had
 
 IO2 The Chevaliers Daughter. 
 
 only just finished our morning reading when 
 Julienne appeared, with the news that Simon and 
 Jeanne Sablot desired to see madame. 
 
 " I fear the good woman has had news of her 
 son," observed Julienne. " Her eyes are swollen 
 with weeping." 
 
 " Bring them to me at once," said my mother. 
 " Poor Jeanne ! there is but One who can comfort 
 her. I suppose Lucille has gone. " 
 
 It was even so. Lucille had come home and 
 done her share of work, as usual. She had sat up 
 rather late, making and doing up a new cap for her 
 mother. In the morning she did not appear, and 
 Jeanne supposed she had overslept, and did not call 
 her. Becoming alarmed at last, she went to her 
 room, and found it empty. The bed had not been 
 slept in. All Lucille's clothes were gone, but her 
 gold chain and the silver dove worn by the Pro- 
 ven^al women of the Religion, which she had in- 
 herited from her grandmother, were left behind. 
 It was evident that Jeanne had no suspicion of the 
 truth. 
 
 " She has left this writing," said she, producing 
 a note, ' ' though she knew that I could not read it. 
 She has been talking more than once of late with 
 that reprobate Pierre Le Febre. Doubtless she has 
 gone away with him, and we can have no remedy, 
 because he is of our enemies and we are of the Re- 
 ligion. Will madame have the goodness to read 
 the note ?" 
 
 " My poor Jeanne, the matter is not what you
 
 The Chevaliers Daughter. 103 
 
 fear, but quite as bad," said my mother, reading tlie 
 note, her color rising as she did so. "I fear you 
 will never see poor Lucille again." 
 
 The note was a short and cold farewell, saying 
 that the writer had become a Catholic, and was 
 about to take refuge with the nuns at the hospital. 
 
 " I know I have never been a favorite with you, 
 so I hope you will not be greatly grieved at my 
 loss," was the cruel conclusion. " If I had had a 
 happier home, things might have been different. 
 Do not try to see me. It will only lead to trouble. 
 Farewell." 
 
 I will not attempt to describe the anguish of the 
 poor parents as the letter was finished. Simon was 
 for going at once to the hospital to claim his 
 daughter, and my mother with difficulty convinced 
 him that such a step would be fruitless of anything 
 but trouble. 
 
 " I would at least know that she is there," said 
 Simon. " It may be that this is but a blind, after 
 all." 
 
 ' ' I fear not, ' ' said my mother ; and she told him 
 of the scene I had witnessed yesterday. Simon 
 walked up and down the room several times. 
 
 " Let her go !" said he at last. " She has been 
 the child of many prayers. It may be those prayers 
 will be heard, so that she will not be utterly lost. 
 Come, my wife, let us return to our desolate home. 
 Madame has cares and troubles enough already. ' ' 
 
 " May God console you, my poor friends," said 
 my mother. " Do not give up praying for the
 
 IO4 The Chevaliers Daughter 
 
 strayed lamb It may be that she will be brought 
 home to the fold at last." 
 
 I suppose no Protestant here in England in these 
 quiet days can have any idea of the feelings with 
 which such an act as Lucille's was regarded by those 
 of the Religion at that time. It seems even strange 
 to myself, till I bring back by reflection the atmos- 
 phere in which we lived. That some should be led, 
 through terror and torture, to deny their faith was 
 to be expected. Many did thus conform, so far as 
 outside appearances went that is, they went to 
 mass, even to communion, made the sign of the 
 cross, and bowed their heads to the wayside images. 
 These were looked upon with pity by the more 
 steadfast brethren, and always received back into 
 the church, on repentance and confession. But such 
 a step as this of Lucille's was almost unheard of, 
 and it produced a great commotion in our little 
 Protestant community. It was not only a for- 
 saking of the faith of her fathers, but a deliberate 
 going over to the side of our treacherous oppressors 
 of those who made us to serve with cruel and 
 hard bondage, who despoiled and tortured us, and 
 trampled us into the very mire. And there was no 
 remedy. The law declared that girls were able to 
 become " Catholics" such was the phrase of these 
 arrogant oppressors at twelve years old. Should 
 one do so, she was to be taken from the custody of 
 her parents, who were nevertheless obliged to sup- 
 port her. Later, matters were even worse. Little 
 children of five and six years old, who could be
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter. 105 
 
 deluded into kissing a wax doll, or looking into a 
 clmrch, or bowing the head to an image, were carried 
 off, never to be heard of again. Often they were 
 kidnapped without any such ceremony. The very 
 pious Madame do Haintenon (whom some folks 
 make quite a saint ^f nowadays) availed herself of 
 this infamous law to A great extent, and many of the 
 pupils at her famous school of St. Cyr were of this 
 class. Thus she took both his cliildren from her 
 cousin, the Marquis de Yillette, because the poor 
 gentleman would norf yield to her arguments, but 
 made fun of them. * 
 
 As my mother h?wl said to Simon Sablot, there 
 was no redress. We of the Religion had no chance 
 of justice, even in a merely civil suit, much more in 
 a case like the present. It was openly said in the 
 courts, when a man complained of an unrighteous 
 judgment, " Ah, well, the remedy is in your 
 hands. "Why do you not become Catholic ?" All 
 new converts were permitted to put off the payment 
 of their debts for three years, and were exempted 
 from many taxes which fell heavily upon their 
 brethren. In short, we were oppressed and trodden 
 down always. 
 
 There were those, however, even of our enemies, 
 who raised their voices against these infamous laws. 
 Certain bishops, especially those inclined to Jansen 
 ism, protested against the Protestants being abso- 
 
 * Souvenirs of the Marquise de Caylus, quoted by Felise. 
 Anyone who thinks Madame de Maintenoii a pattern would do 
 well not to read memoirs ojfjier own days.
 
 io6 The Chevaliers Daiig liter. 
 
 lutely driven to commit sacrilege, by coming to the 
 mass in an unfit frame of mind. Fenelon afterward 
 wrote a most indignant letter to the king on the 
 subject. The Bishop of Orleans absolutely refused 
 to allow the quartering of dragoons on his people. 
 More than one kind old cure or parish priest was 
 exiled from the presbytery, where he had spent all 
 his days, and sent to languish in some dreary place 
 among the marshes or in the desolate sandes, for 
 omitting to give notice of some heretic who had 
 died without the sacraments, or for warning his 
 poor neighbors of the approach of the dragoons. 
 The very Franciscans who had charge of some of 
 those dreadful prisons where poor women were shut 
 up, after trying their best to convert their charges, 
 would relent, and, ceasing to persecute them, would 
 comfort them as well as they could by reading the 
 Psalms and praying with them, smuggling in biscuits 
 and fruit and other little dainties in their snutfy old 
 pockets, and even, it was said, introducing now and 
 then a Bible in the same way.* The Franciscans 
 have always been the most humane of all the regular 
 orders. But again I am wandering a long way 
 from my story. However, I shall not apologize for 
 those digressions. They are absolutely needful to 
 make any reader understand what was the state of 
 things in France at that time. 
 
 * See the affecting story of the Tower of Constancy, told in 
 many authors, and well repeated in Bungener's ' Priest an<} 
 Huguenot," a book D'' l vlf -ipnreciated.
 
 CHAPTEE VI. 
 
 THE LONELY GRANGE. 
 
 HAT evening my father came home, 
 bringing with him my English cousin, 
 Andrew Corbet, whom I had never seen, 
 and whom he had been expecting for 
 some days. He had come over in the train of the 
 English ambassador, and therefore was to some ex- 
 tent a sacred person, though the name' of English- 
 man was not at that time considered in Europe as it 
 came to be afterward. Charles the Second \vas but a 
 subsidized vassal of Louis the Fourteenth, as every 
 one knew. It remained for the ungracious, silent 
 little Dutchman, who came afterward, to raise Eng- 
 land once more to her proper place among the na- 
 tions. I may as well say here, not to make an un- 
 necessary mystery, that Andrew Corbet was my des- 
 tined husband, that arrangement having been made 
 when we were both children. Such family arrange- 
 ments were and are still common in France, where a 
 girl's widest liberty is only a liberty of refusal, and a 
 demoiselle would no more expect to choose her hus- 
 band than to choose her parents. In England there 
 has always been more opportunity for choice an
 
 io8 The Chevalier's Daughter. 
 
 opportunity which has so greatly increased since I 
 can remember that it is hard to see where it is going 
 to end. I must say that, though I would never 
 force a young person's inclinations, yet I do think 
 the parents should have something to say as to their 
 children's settlement. However, a person of dis- 
 cretion will find ways of managing such matters and 
 preventing uncomfortable entanglements. 
 
 I suppose I was not intended to know of this 
 affair quite so soon, but it came out through Mrs. 
 Grace's fussy anxiety that I should appear well in 
 the eyes of my intended bridegroom ; and, being 
 once out, why, there was an end, as my mother said. 
 I was not looking my best, by any means. Four- 
 teen is not usually a beautiful age, and I was no 
 exception to the general rule. I was naturally dark 
 " a true black Corny,"' my father said and in- 
 clined to paleness, and my appearance was not at all 
 improved by the dark lines under my eyes, caused 
 by the grief and fatigue of the last few days. 
 However, this same grief and care had a good effect 
 in one way. They had brought my better nature 
 uppermost for the time, and banished those day- 
 dreams, which were my bane, so that I was much 
 less awkward and self-conscious than I should other- 
 wise have been. I was of course curious to see my 
 future bridegroom, but I cannot say that I remem- 
 ber feeling any particular flutter or agitation on the 
 occasion. I was too young for thai, and I had had 
 no opportunity to form any other fancy. In this 
 country it would have been thought improper if not
 
 The Chevaliers Daughter. 109 
 
 dangerous for me to associate so freely with a hand- 
 some young working-man like David Sablot, hut I 
 can safely say that such an idea never entered any 
 one's head. The distinction of rank is very much 
 more severely marked in France than here, and was 
 much more so at that time than now ; and besides, 
 David was my foster-brother, and as such no more 
 to be considered in any lover-like light than an 
 own brother would have been. Andrew's only rival 
 was a certain Lord Percy, a creature of my own 
 imagination, who figured largely in that visionary 
 world which I inhabited at times an impossible 
 creature, compounded of King Arthur, Sir Galahad, 
 and some of the fine gentlemen I had come across 
 in my stolen readings who was to rescue me from 
 unheard-of dangers, and endure unheard-of hard- 
 ships in my behalf, though I never quite made up 
 my mind whether he was to die at my feet or carry 
 me off in triumph to his ancestral halls. 
 
 Andrew, certainly, was not the least like this hero 
 of mine. He was handsome in a certain way, but 
 that way was not mine. He was short, for one 
 thing, and broad-shouldered, with a large nose, large 
 gray eyes with dilating pupils, so that his eyes 
 usually passed for black ; and his hair and beard 
 were so black as to be almost blue, and crisped like 
 my own. No, he was not at all like Lord Percy ; 
 but, after all, I liked his looks. Andrew had been 
 about the world a good deal for a man of his years, 
 having been on two or three long sea- voyages, and 
 he was by no means as awkward as young men of
 
 1 1 o The Chevalier's Daughter. 
 
 that age arc apt to be. He saluted my mother and 
 myself with considerable grace, I thought, and 
 made himself at home in our house, with just 
 enough and not too much freedom. On the whole 
 I liked him very well. Oh, how I longed to tell 
 Lucille about him ; and I shed some bitter tears at 
 the thought that I should never confide in her 
 again. 
 
 My father's first inquiry, after he was assured of 
 our health and safety, was for the pastor, and he 
 praised the courage and presence of mind I had 
 shown. 
 
 " "We must not keep the old man here," he said. 
 " The tide will be favorable for his escape by the 
 day after to-morrow, and an English ship will be 
 waiting for him off the shore. But first I would 
 fain have one more celebration of the Holy Supper 
 with some of our poor friends. Heaven knows 
 when we shall have another chance. But what is 
 this I hear about the Sablots ?" 
 
 My mother repeated the story. My father 
 listened with the greatest interest, and when it was 
 finished, turning to me he asked, with anxiety, 
 whether I were quite sure I had not been seen by 
 the priest. 
 
 " Quite sure," said I. "I was hidden on the 
 top of the rock, but I saw it all. 
 
 My father sighed. " The net is drawn closer and 
 closer," said he. " Ah, my Marguerite, were you 
 and the little one but in safety !" 
 
 " But I do not understand." said Andrew, ppeak-
 
 The Chevalier's Daughter. 1 1 1 
 
 ing almost for the first time. " I see that this girl 
 has become a Papist ; but need that separate her 
 entirely from her family ? It would be a grief to 
 them, of course ; but could they not go their way, 
 and let her go hers ? Surely, they might at least 
 give the poor thing a home. ' ' 
 
 " You do not understand, indeed, my poor An- 
 drew," said my father, smiling sadly. And he ex- 
 plained the matter in a few choice words. An- 
 drew's brow darkened, and he struck his hand on 
 the table. 
 
 " And there are thousands upon thousands of you 
 Protestants in France, able men, and many of you 
 gentlemen used to arms, and yet you suffer such 
 tyranny !" said he. " Why do you not rise upon 
 your oppressors, and at least have a fight for your 
 lives ?" 
 
 " Hush, hush, my son," said my father. " Would 
 you have us rise in rebellion against our king the 
 Lord's anointed !" 
 
 " The king is a man like another man, when all is 
 done," said my cousin sturdily ; " and has a joint 
 in his neck, as the old Scotchman said. I have 
 been in America, my cousin, where our colonies are 
 growing, and where they seem to do fairly well at 
 a pretty good distance from any king. As to such 
 a man as this Louis being the Lord's anointed, any 
 one may believe that who likes. / don't ; or, if he 
 is, he is such an one as Saul or Rehoboam." 
 
 " Some of our people tulk as you do,' 1 said my 
 father, while I looked at my cousin's firm lips and
 
 1 1 2 The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 sparkling eyes with great approval ; " but we are 
 too much divided among ourselves on the subject 
 to make any plan of resistance possible. ' ' 
 
 " Then I would flee to some better place," said 
 Andrew. " Come over to Cornwall and set up 
 your tent. There is a fine estate to be bought, not 
 far from Tre Madoc. Some of the lands have 
 mines upon them, which my father believes could 
 be worked to advantage, and you could give em- 
 ployment to many of your oppressed countrymen. 
 Why not go thither at once ?" 
 
 " And leave my poor people ?" 
 
 " The people are not in so much danger as you 
 are," answered Andrew. " It is the high tree that 
 falls in the storm. Think of my aunt and cousin 
 here, condemned to such things as you have told 
 me of, or left desolate by your loss. Surely you 
 should consider them as well as your tenants. ' ' 
 
 Andrew spoke with great warmth, yet with due 
 modesty, and I liked him better and better every 
 moment. My mother and I both looked at my 
 father. 
 
 " Here are two pairs of eyes pleading with you," 
 said my father. " I must say that your plan is a 
 most tempting one, if it could be carried out, and 
 we are in a better position to make such an escape 
 than many others, being so near the sea, and hav- 
 ing a good deal of wealth laid by in jewels against 
 a day of need. But, my son, let me most earnestly 
 impress upon your mind the great need of caution 
 in speech even among ourselves. Though all of
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter. 1 1 3 
 
 our household are faithful, so far as I know, yet 
 they are always liable to be tampered with, aud we 
 are never safe from spies and eavesdroppers. Such 
 a speech as yours about the king, if reported, would 
 be our utter ruin. Let me beg you, for all our 
 sakes, to be careful." 
 
 I saw Andrew clinch his hand and set his teeth 
 hard at the idea of such care being needful ; and 
 indeed it was a new care for him. Times were not 
 very good in England just then, but they were far 
 better than with us. 
 
 We separated, to prepare for supper. I dressed 
 myself in my very best, to do honor to my cousin's 
 arrival, though I was quite conscious, when I looked 
 into my little mirror, that I did not look nearly so 
 well in my fine damask gown and lace cap as I did 
 in the gray-blue homespun which was my ordinary 
 morning wear. Grace would sit up in bed to 
 arrange my cap and lace my stays herself, and she 
 drew them so tight I could hardly breathe. 
 
 The next morning I was sent down to Father 
 Simon's cottage with a weighty message no less 
 important than this : that there would be a celebra- 
 tion of the Holy Supper, as we always called it, that 
 very night, in the vaults under the lonely grange, 
 which stood in a hollow of our domain. Simon 
 was to send word to certain of the faithful at 
 Sartilly and Granvnlle. Andrew, who had already 
 as it were taken possession of me, would go with 
 me, and though Mrs. Grace demurred at such a 
 freedom, he had his way. He always has had a
 
 1 1 4 The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 great knack of getting his own way, partly, I think, 
 because he goes on that way so quietly, without 
 ever contradicting any one. I did not go by the 
 lane this time, but through the orchard, over the 
 heathy knoll, where my father and myself had had 
 such an important conversation, and down the lit- 
 tle ravine which the stream had made in its passage 
 to the sea. It was a somewhat scrambling walk, 
 and I liked it all the better for that. My ostensi- 
 ble errand was a search for fresh eggs, so I carried 
 my little straw basket on my arm. I had a pass- 
 word in which to communicate my errand, and, 
 meeting one of the old men who was to be sum- 
 moned, I used it. 
 
 " Jean Martin, my father bids me ask you if the 
 old grange will do to store the apples in ?" 
 
 The old man's face lighted up, and he took off 
 his hat. 
 
 "When should they be stored, mademoiselle?" 
 he asked. 
 
 " To-morrow at high noon," was the answer. 
 
 " It is as safe a place as any. Thank your hon- 
 ored father and yourself. I will be there." 
 
 " What does that mean ?" asked Andrew, as we 
 went on ; " why should that old fellow be so won- 
 derfully pleased at being asked about a place to 
 store the apples ?" 
 
 " Hush !" said I, speaking English, which I now 
 did quite perfectly. " You must learn not to talk 
 so loud." 
 
 " I am like to lose the use of my tongue alto-
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter. 115 
 
 gether, if I stay long in this country, " said lie dis- 
 contentedly. " Well, cousin, I will squeak like a 
 rere-mouse, if that will content you. But what 
 does it mean ?" 
 
 I explained the matter, taking care to speak in 
 English, and in a low tone. 
 
 ' ' So that was it, ' ' said he, in a tone of wonder 
 mixed with compassion. ' ' And will the old man 
 really leave his bed at midnight, and risk not only 
 the rheumatism but his life, on such an errand as 
 that?" 
 
 "Yes, indeed, and his wife also, though she is 
 very infirm," said I. "We of the Religion are 
 used to such risks." 
 
 ' ' I wonder what one of the farmers in our parish 
 at Tre Madoc would say to such an invitation ?" was 
 Andrew's comment. " But what if you should be 
 discovered ?" 
 
 " Then we should be shot down like wolves, or 
 carried away no one knows where. Such things 
 happen every day." 
 
 " And in our free country, where every one can 
 worship, the pastor has often hard work to gather a 
 dozen people to the communion," remarked An- 
 drew. " Truly, if Papist France deserves a judg- 
 ment for suppressing the truth, I know not but 
 England deserves as much for neglecting it." 
 
 " Are people there, then, so careless of their 
 duties ?" I asked. 
 
 ' ' Many of them are. The court sets the worst 
 example, and those of the gentry who frequent it
 
 1 1 6 The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 are not slow to follow. And though there are in 
 London itself and scattered all through the land 
 faithful and earnest preachers of the Word, there 
 are also far too many who think of the church only 
 as a means of getting a living at a very easy rate. 
 And yet I dare say a great many of these easy-going 
 pastors, if it came to the pinch, would wake up and 
 show that they could die for their faith, if need 
 were. Only they would not die as easily as people 
 seem to do over here, "he added. " They would 
 have a fight for it first." 
 
 " Our pastors do not think it right to fight," said 
 I, a little vexed. 
 
 " I know they do not, and there is where I differ 
 from them," said he. "Is this the farm where 
 we are going ? What an odd, pretty place ! And 
 what splendid old apple-trees !" 
 
 1 ' Yes, Father Simon is very proud of his apples, 
 poor man. The place does not look like itself," I 
 added, with a sigh, as I missed Lucille from the 
 bench before the door, where she would have been 
 sitting with her distaff at this hour. We found 
 Mother Jeanne going about her household work as 
 usual, but in a sad, spiritless way, quite unlike her 
 ordinary bustling fashion. Her face brightened, 
 however, when she heard my errand, and she called 
 in Simon to hear it also. To him I gave, in addi- 
 tion to the questions about storing the apples, a com- 
 mission about cider-casks, to be executed at Sartilly. 
 
 "It is well," said he; "I shall attend to the 
 matter. Our Master has not quite forgotten us,
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter. \ \ 7 
 
 thou seest, my Jeanne, since he sends us such 
 help and comfort by the way." 
 
 "Did you think he had, Father Simon?" I 
 asked. 
 
 "Not so, Mamselle, but one's faith droops at 
 times ; and when one is weary and faint with the 
 heat of the day, it is a wonderful comfort to come 
 on a clear well of living water. Tell your honored 
 father that 1 will attend to the matter." 
 
 11 And about the eggs ?" I asked. 
 
 " I have a few for madame, and Marie Duclas 
 has some, I know." 
 
 ""Who is this fine chevalier, my child ?" asked 
 Jeanne, as I followed her to the well-known out- 
 house where the hens' nests were. " Is he one of 
 your English cousins ?" 
 
 It was with some pride that I informed my foster- 
 mother of Andrew's relation to myself. Jeanne 
 was much affected. She clasped me in her arms 
 and wept over me, calling me by every endearing 
 name in her vocabulary, now lamenting that I 
 should go so far away, and then rejoicing that I 
 should be in safety. 
 
 " But, ah, my lamb, my precious one, do not set 
 thy heart too strongly upon thy young bridegroom. 
 Remember what times of shaking and separation 
 these are, when the desire of one's eyes may be 
 taken away with a stroke at any time. Ah, my poor 
 daughter my Lucille, my youngest lamb ! Tell 
 me, my Vevette, dost thou think I was ever unjust 
 or unkind to her ?"
 
 i [8 The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 " No, indeed !" I answered, with honest indigna- 
 tion, for my heart burned within me every time I 
 thought of Lucille's cruel note of farewell. " No- 
 body ever had a better home or kinder friends. I 
 imagine she will find out before many days what 
 she has lost." 
 
 " 1 fear she will not be happy," said Jeanne, 
 wiping her eyes. " I had lost so many before she 
 came, and she was so delicate in her childhood that 
 I was always more careful of her than of David, who 
 never gave me an hour's anxiety since he was born, 
 except on that unlucky day when he went to see 
 the procession." 
 
 " I do not believe poor Lucille will be very happy 
 anywhere not unless she changes her disposition," 
 said I. "It seems to me that a jealous person 
 will always find something to torment him. But 
 though I knew she was discontented, I never could 
 have believed she would take such a step. Poor 
 Lucille !" 
 
 "It is some comfort to speak of her," said 
 Jeanne. " The father never mentions her name 
 'xcept in prayer. He feels the disgrace most 
 deeply. I must tell you, my child, that that poor 
 reprobate Pierre Le Febre came here yesterday, and 
 most earnestly disclaimed having any hand in or 
 knowledge of Lucille's decision. He confessed that 
 he loved her, and would gladly have married her, 
 and then he broke down and wept, saying that he 
 should have felt her death less. He had been a bad 
 man, but he had some human feeling left. Simon
 
 TJie Chevalier s Daughter. \ 1 9 
 
 led him into the orchard and had a long talk -with 
 him, and this morning they met, and Pierre told 
 him that he had gone with poor Isabean before the 
 priest and made her his wife. So some good has 
 come out of the evil." 
 
 By this time Jeanne had set out some refreshment 
 for us, of which we partook, not to seem ungracious. 
 Andrew had been over the farm with Father 
 Simon, and though his French was not the most 
 fluent in the world, and Simon's was deeply flavored 
 with patois, they seemed to get on together very 
 well. I think two such manly, honest hearts could 
 not fail to understand each other, though they had 
 not a word in common. Andrew could not say 
 enough in praise of the grand Norman horses and 
 the beautiful little cows, but he turned up his nose 
 at the buckwheat, and thought that a great deal 
 more might be made of the land. We visited Le- 
 brun's and one other farm, where we were received 
 with the same welcome. Everywhere we heard 
 comments on poor Lucille's conduct. 
 
 " The poor Jeanne was too easy with her. She 
 indulged her far too much," said Marie Lebrun. 
 " She took all the hardest and most unpleasant work 
 on herself, to spare Lucille, and leave her time for 
 her needlework and her fine spinning. If she had 
 had to work as hard as my girls, she would not have 
 had so much time to indulge her foolish fancies." 
 
 " Ah, Marie, it is easy to condemn," remarked 
 her sister Marthe, who had never married, and was 
 held in great respect among us for her piety and
 
 I 20 77/6' Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 good works. "If Jeanne had taken the opposite 
 course, people would have said it was because the 
 child was so oppressed that she left her father's 
 house. It is easy to say what might have been. A 
 parent may do her best, and yet the child may go 
 wrong." 
 
 '* I am not so sure of that," said Marie, with some 
 complacency. " ' Train up a child in the way he 
 should go, ' you know. ' ' 
 
 " * My beloved had a vineyard in a very fruitful 
 hill,' " quoted Marthe ; " ' and he fenced it, and 
 gathered out the stones thereof, and planted it with 
 the choicest vine, and built a tower in the midst 
 thereof, and also made a wine-press therein ; and 
 he looked that it should bring forth grapes, and it 
 brought forth wild grapes. ' If the great Lord of 
 the vineyard met with such a disappointment, shall 
 we blame the under-gardeners when the vintage 
 does not answer our expectations ? Ah, my Marie, 
 after all, that others can do for us ; we must each, 
 build our lives for ourselves. We cannot cast on! 
 the responsibility on any one else." 
 
 I have manva time thought of these words of the 
 
 w 
 
 good Marthe, when I have heard parents blamed 
 for the faults of their grown-up children. Poor 
 Marthe \ she was one of the victims of the times, 
 and died in prison. 
 
 As we walked homeward Andrew and I fell into 
 conversation about our future prospects. He told 
 me of his house at Tre Madoc, which was, however, 
 his mother's as long as she lived ; of the increased
 
 The Chevaliers Daughter. 121 
 
 _> 
 
 wealth which had come to them from the working 
 of a mine on his estate ; and described to me the 
 old house and its surroundings till I could almost 
 see it. Then he asked me frankly, in his sailor 
 fashion, whether 1 liked him, and whether I thought 
 I could be happy with him ; to which I answered, 
 with equal frankness. 
 
 " I do not see why I should not, cousin : that is, 
 if your mother will be kind to me." 
 
 "You need not fear that," answered Andrew. 
 " She is kindness itself, and my sisters are good 
 merry girls. But about myself. ' ' 
 
 " I like you very much," I answered, with true 
 Gorman bluntness, " and I am glad you came here. 
 1 wish you were going to stay. It is as nice as hav- 
 ing an own brother." 
 
 To my surprise Andrew did not seem at all 
 pleased with this remark of mine. He colored, 
 muttered something between his teeth about 
 brothers which did not sound very complimentary, 
 and was rather silent during the rest of our walk. 
 Afterward, from something I caught, I fancy he had 
 been speaking of the matter to my mother, for I 
 heard her say, 
 
 ' ' You are too precipitate, my son. Think how 
 young the child is, and how carefully she has been 
 brought up. You must trust to time and your own 
 merits for the growth of a wanner feeling." 
 
 Andrew has since told me that he loved me from 
 the very first time he heard me speak. How long 
 and steadfastly that love endured, through evil and
 
 122 The Chevaliers Daiighter. 
 
 good report, hoping against hope, triumphing over 
 danger and distance, it must be mine to tell, though 
 the story is not much to mine own credit. 
 
 That night about eleven o'clock, after all the 
 younger servants had gone to bed, my motlier and 
 myself, with the pastor, wrapped in our long black 
 cloaks, stole forth in the darkness. My father and 
 Andrew had gone away on horseback early in the 
 afternoon, ostensibly to Avranches, but we knew 
 we should find them waiting for us at the appointed 
 place. We dared not take a lantern lest it should 
 betray us, but found our way, by the stars and the 
 cold diffused light of an aurora, to the little rocky 
 dell in the midst of the fields where stood the lonely 
 grange. It was a great rambling stone building, 
 very old, but strong still. Nobody knew when or 
 for what purpose it had been first erected, but my 
 father believed it to be of great antiquity. It was 
 not much used at present, save for a storehouse for 
 grain and cider, but the old Luchons lived in two 
 tolerably comfortable rooms on the ground floor of 
 the old tower. The walk had been long and rough 
 for us all, and especially for my mother, and we 
 were not sorry to see the tower standing dark against 
 the sky, and to meet the challenge of our outposts ; 
 for at all our meetings we had our sentinels and our 
 pass-words. My father and Andrew were on the 
 lookout for us, and Andrew nearly crushed my 
 hand off in the fervor of his joy at finding me safe. 
 
 We passed though the ol.l Luchons' kitchen into 
 the great room or hall which occupied the center of
 
 The Chevaliers Daughter. 123 
 
 the building, and which was crowded with empty 
 casks and sheaves of grain. Threading our way 
 amid these obstructions, which would have appeared 
 impenetrable to any one not in the secret, we 
 descended a flight of stairs to the vault, where most 
 of our brethren were assembled. A rude platform 
 was built up at one end, before which stood a 
 small table covered with a white cloth. The con- 
 gregation consisted of several of the neighboring 
 farmers and some of the poorer laborers with their 
 wives, and now and then a grown-up son or 
 daughter, and a few tradespeople and fishermen 
 from Granville, who had run a double danger to 
 break the bread of life once more. The only gen- 
 try beside ourselves were the Le Roys, from near 
 Sartilly, who had brought their child for baptism. 
 Not one of the family is alive now. Of that little 
 company, more than half witnessed for their faith 
 on the scaffold or under the muskets of their ene- 
 mies. I suppose so many of the Religion could not 
 now be gathered in all Normandy. 
 
 It was touching to see the joy of the poor people 
 at having a pastor once more. Many of them had 
 seen Monsieur Bertheau before. These crowded 
 round him, and happy was the man or woman who 
 could obtain a grasp of his hand or a word from 
 his lips. But there was little time to be spent in 
 friendly greetings. The congregation took their 
 places, and the service began. 
 
 When I shut my eyes, how vividly the whole 
 scene comes before me the rough \ r ault, but dimly
 
 124 The Chevaliers Daughter. 
 
 lighted by a few wax torches ; the earnest, calm 
 face and silver hair of the pastor ; the solemn, atten- 
 tive congregation, the old people occupying the 
 front rank, that their dull ears might not lose a 
 word ; Monsieur and Madame Le Roy, with their 
 beautiful babe wrapped in a white cashmere shawl. 
 I can smell the scent of the apples and the hay 
 mingled with the earthy, mouldy smell of the vault, 
 and hear the melodious voice, trembling a little 
 with age, as the old man read : 
 
 " I will not leave you comfortless : I will come 
 to you." 
 
 " If the world hate you, ye know that it hated 
 me before it hated you." 
 
 I think no one can fully understand these words 
 who has not heard them under circumstances of 
 danger, or at least of sorrow. Andrew was deeply 
 affected by them ; and when the little lily-white 
 babe was brought forward for baptism, he put 
 down his head and almost sobbed aloud. My 
 father had been somewhat unwilling to have him 
 run the risk of attending the meeting, but he had 
 insisted, and he told me afterward, and has often 
 told me since, that he would not have missed it for 
 anything. I know that the service was greatly 
 blessed to my own heart, and for a long time after- 
 ward I was quite a different creature 1 may say, 
 indeed, for all my life, since, though for a time 
 choked by the thorns of this world, the seed sown 
 that night always remained, and at last, as I hope, 
 has bome some fruit to the sower.
 
 Chevaliers Daughter. 125 
 
 Our meeting was not to pass off without an 
 alarm. The pastor had just finished distributing 
 the bread and wine when one of the lookouts came 
 down to say that he had heard a distant sound like 
 the galloping of horses, which drew nearer every 
 moment. All were at once on the alert. The 
 lights were extinguished below, and also in the 
 kitchen above. Another great cellar opened from 
 the one we were in, and here, since there was no time 
 to get away, we hid ourselves, waiting in breath- 
 less suspense, but calm and collected, for whatever 
 might be coming. The very youngest children 
 never uttered a cry or whimper, and the only sound 
 heard was a whispered prayer or encouragement 
 passed from one to another. But oh how welcome 
 was the voice which announced that the alarm was 
 a false one ! A herd of young horses had broken 
 from their pasture and rushed abroad over the 
 fields, scared, perhaps, by some stray wolf. It was 
 thought best to break up our gathering at once, 
 and exchanging short but earnest farewells we all 
 reached our homes in safety. Several of the old 
 people, worn out by the fatigue and agitation, died 
 within a short time, and the sweet babe only sur- 
 vived its baptism for a few weeks. Happy child ! 
 to be taken in its innocence from the evil to come. 
 
 The next night the pastor left us. He went out 
 in a fishing-boat, hoping to meet an English ship 
 which was expected off the coast, but the ship was 
 detained by contrary winds. A sudden storm came 
 up, and the boat was capsized. With him were two
 
 i 26 The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 sailors, sons of a widow in the little village from 
 which he embarked. One perished ; the other was 
 picked up and carried to Jersey, where he lay long 
 ill of a fever. But he recovered at last, and it was 
 from him we heard the story.
 
 CHAPTEK VII. 
 
 A SUDDEN SUMMONS. 
 
 about a fortnight or more after the de- 
 parture of the pastor we had a very quiet, 
 pleasant time. The weather was lovely, 
 and we made long excursions out of doors. 
 We gathered apples and quinces, and hunted for 
 herbs and flowers, for Andrew w r as a good deal of an 
 herbalist (a botanist, I think they call it now, though 
 I am sure herbalist is the prettier word), and he was 
 in correspondence with some learned gentleman in 
 London on the subject of plants. lie told me many 
 things about flowers that I had never known or 
 dreamed of before, showing me the several parts of 
 the blossom, the leaves, and roots, by means cf a 
 pocket magnifying-glass which he always carried 
 about him. lie read to my mother and myself as we 
 sat at our embroidery or spinning, and he held end- 
 less gossips with my mother about old families in 
 Cornwall and Devonshire, and people and places she 
 used to know. I listened with great interest to these 
 tales, for I had begun now to look upon Tre Madoc 
 as my future home, and any detail concerning it was
 
 128 The Chevaliers Daughter. 
 
 of interest to me. 1 was growing more and more 
 fond of my cousin all the time, and the image of 
 Lord Percy had quite ceased to haunt my imagina- 
 tion. 
 
 I do not think that I ever spent two happier 
 weeks in all my life. For one tiling, I was at 
 peace with myself. The events of the last month 
 had aroused my conscience and wakened the relig- 
 ious principles implanted by education to new life. 
 I laid aside the dreams of worldly pleasure and am 
 bition, which usually occupied so much cf my time, 
 and kept my conscience in a state of chronic dis- 
 comfort, and I really did begin to experience some 
 of those higher and holier joys of which poor Lu- 
 cille had spoken in that memorable conference of 
 ours. True, we were still under the power of our 
 enemies still in danger at any time of losing 
 liberty and life. But one becomes used to danger 
 as to everything else, and somehow to me the pres- 
 ence of my cousin seemed a protection, though if I 
 had been asked why, I could not have told for my 
 life. 
 
 Andrew was very earnest with my parents to con- 
 sent to our being married immediately. lie said, 
 and with some show of reason, that lie should then 
 have the right to protect me, whatever happened, 
 and that the fact of my father's daughter having 
 married a British subject might be some advantage 
 to him. This, however, my father doubted. He 
 had no idea that the English government would 
 quarrel with Louis on any such frivolous pretext.
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter. 1 29 
 
 Both lie and my mother were opposed to such early 
 marriages, though they were common enough at 
 the time, and moreover they wished to learn a little 
 more about Andrew before giving their only child 
 wholly into his hands. So the matter was post- 
 poned for an indefinite time. 
 
 Of course I should have acquiesced in any ar- 
 rangement made by my honored parents, and I do 
 not think I should have found any difficulty in 
 doing so, for, as I have said, I liked Andrew better 
 and better every day. But my heart had not 
 awaked to love in its highest sense. I looked upon 
 Andrew as a big brother, very nice to play with, 
 and to order about, but that was all. I had, besides, 
 very high though very indefinite notions of the 
 duties and responsibilities of a married woman, and 
 dreaded assuming them, all the more because my 
 mind was more awakened to a sense of duty than it 
 had ever been before. On the whole I very much 
 preferred to let matters remain as they were. 
 
 The feast of St. Michael occurred during An- 
 drew's stay, and it was to be celebrated with more 
 pomp than usual. The new cure was very zealous 
 in beating up for pilgrims to the shrine, and, as we 
 heard, preached more than one sermon on the sub- 
 ject. We had had a bad harvest that year of every- 
 thing but apples, and the fishing had been unusu- 
 ally unsuccessful. This the cure attributed to the 
 anger of our great patron, St. Michael, because his 
 feast day had been neglected of late, owing so he 
 said, though I don't think it was true to the influ-
 
 130 The Chevaliers Daughter. 
 
 ence of the heretics who were allowed to defile the 
 holy soil of La Manche with their presence ; and 
 lie threatened the people with still severer judg- 
 ments unless the great archangel were appeased by 
 a grand pilgrimage, and by the purification of the 
 holy soil before mentioned. 
 
 " St. Michael must have been rather astonished 
 at the acts attributed to him, if he happened to be 
 anywhere in the neighborhood," said Andrew ; but 
 rny father shook his head. 
 
 " It is no laughing matter," said he. " We have 
 lived in great peace with our Roman Catholic neigh- 
 bors, under the rule of the last cure, who was a kind- 
 hearted old man, much fonder of his garden and 
 orchard than of his breviary ; but this new priest is 
 of a different type. He is doing his best to arouse 
 the fanaticism of the peasants, and especially of the 
 lower and more debased class. I do not believe he 
 would hesitate to hold out, as an inducement, the 
 plunder of the tower." 
 
 " Would he dare do that ?" asked Andrew. 
 
 "It has been done in a hundred instances," 
 answered my father. "It is no lower motive than 
 that of relieving a man of the payment of his honest 
 debts, on condition of his returning to the bosom of 
 the church, and that has been done by a public 
 edict." 
 
 " And this is the king who must not be resisted, 
 because, forsooth, he is the Lord's anointed !" said 
 Andrew, with that peculiar flash of his gray eye, like
 
 The Chevaliers Daughter. 131 
 
 sunlight reflected from bright armor, that I had 
 learned to know so well. 
 
 " The king is governed by his counsellors," said 
 my father. 
 
 " As to that," answered Andrew, " he does not 
 seem to be very much governed by his counsellors 
 in the matter of his building and gambling expenses, 
 and some other things, ' ' catching a warning glance 
 from my mother. " I thought he made a boast 
 that he was the state. As to his being deceived, 
 why does he not find out for himself ? Things are 
 no better in Paris than here. How can he be 
 ignorant of what happens under his very nose ?" 
 
 " Yery easily, my son. A good many things 
 happen under the very nose of His Majesty King 
 Charles of Engbni which do not seem to make 
 much impression on his mind," said my father, a 
 little testily. He had his full share of that unrea- 
 soning loyalty unreasonable, too, as I think which 
 possessed all France, Protestant and Catholic, at that 
 time. " TTe have all heard how the king was en- 
 gaged the night that the Dutch sailed up the river. 
 You cannot propose him as a model, nephew !" 
 
 "I never said he was," answered Andrew dryly, 
 and then the conversation stopped. 
 
 The next morning I went out very early into the 
 lane to look for a pair of scissors which I had dropped 
 the day before, when I was joined by my cousin. 
 
 " Yevette," said he, "is there no place from 
 which we can view this procession in safety ? I 
 have a great curiosity about it."
 
 132 The Chevaliers Daughter. 
 
 " Oh, yes, we can do so from the top of the rock 
 at the end of our lane, if you like," I answered. 
 " But we must make haste thither, for they will 
 soon be on their way." 
 
 I was all the more ready for the adventure as I 
 hoped to obtain a glimpse of Lucille. 
 
 We were soon safely hidden among the tall bushes 
 and wild vines which covered the top of the rock, 
 but not too soon, for we were hardly settled before 
 the head of the procession appeared in sight. It 
 had been joined by pilgrims from all parts of Nor- 
 mandy, and looked b'ke a little army. The cross- 
 bearer came first, as usual, then a company of priests, 
 loudly chanting as they walked, then banners with- 
 out number, and I know not what devices besides of 
 images and angels and what not. Then came a 
 company of women, headed by the nuns from the 
 hospital, each leading by the hand one of the new 
 converts, as they were called, in bitter derision. The 
 poor little Luchon was there, pale and thin as 
 a shadow. Her wasted hand held a rosary like 
 the rest, but it drooped listlessly by her side. 
 Either the sad-faced nun who led her by the other 
 hand did not think it worth while to have a public 
 contest with her, or she had tried and failed, for she 
 did not interfere with the child, and, I even fancied, 
 looked at her with an eye of pity. Lucille was one 
 of the last. I saw in a moment that she was at least 
 no happier than she had been at home, for the dark 
 sliade was on her face which I knew so well. How- 
 ever, she was telling her beads as diligently as the
 
 The Chevaliers Daughter. 133 
 
 best of them. As she passed the foot of the rock 
 she looked up. I had ventured a little nearer the 
 edge than was quite prudent, and our eyes met for 
 a moment. She made me a warning sign, and then 
 a bitter smile curled her lips, and she pressed to 
 them with fervor the crucifix attached to her rosary. 
 Her companion looked up also, but saw nothing, as 
 I had shrunk back from my dangerous position. 
 That was the last time I saw my old playmate for 
 many a long day, though I heard from her once or 
 twice, as I have reason to remember. 
 
 There were more banners and more pilgrims, but 
 I saw none of them. I had retreated to the back 
 of the cliff and thrown myself down on the moss in 
 a fit of bitter weeping. I had loved Lucille dearly, 
 despite our many quarrels, and I believe she loved 
 me as much as her self-absorbed nature would let her 
 love any one. Hers was an asking lov r e, always 
 thinking more of what it was to get than of what it 
 had to give. 
 
 Andrew was so absorbed in the spectacle that he 
 did not miss me till all were past, and when he came 
 to find me he was frightened at my agitation. It 
 was some time before I could even be got to move 
 or speak. Andrew brought me water in a little 
 driiiking-cup he always carried, fanned me, and 
 soothed me with the greatest tenderness, and at last 
 I was able to tell him the story. 
 
 " Then that was the girl who looked up," said 
 he. "I thought there was something peculiar 
 about her. She docs not look very happy with her
 
 134 The Chevaliers Daughter. 
 
 new friends. I wonder what they will do with 
 her?" 
 
 "Make a nun of her, if they can squeeze her 
 dowry out of Father Simon, or perhaps marry her 
 up to some one," I answered. " Julienne's sister 
 says the Le Febres are very angry with Pierre for 
 marrying his old sweetheart Isabeau, when he might 
 have waited and taken Lucille and her farm." 
 
 " But the farm is her father's, and will descend to 
 her brother, won't it ?" asked Andrew in surprise. 
 " Did you not tell me she had a brother who was 
 expected home ?" 
 
 " Yes, my foster-brother, David. You will like 
 him, I am sure. But he is of the Religion, like his 
 father, and if Lucille should marry a Catholic* the 
 law would find some way of handing the farm over 
 to him, though David is honest and industrious, and 
 Pierre is a bit of a reprobate. I hope David will 
 come ; I should like you to see him." 
 
 " Pierre may be a bit of a reprobate, but he is a 
 good bit of a man as well," said Andrew. " I saw 
 him give that great hulking Antoine Michaud a 
 blow that knocked him flat because he insulted that 
 poor old woman whose grandchildren were taken 
 away from her." 
 
 (I forgot to mention that poor old Gran'mere 
 Luchon had been allowed to return to her cotton. 
 being, I suppose, too small game to be worth the 
 
 * I do not like to uee Catholic in this sense, but we were in a 
 manner forced to it at that time. Q. C.
 
 The Chevaliers Daughter. 135 
 
 bagging, or perhaps with the hope of catching gome 
 one else by her means.) 
 
 " He knows how to sail a boat, too," continued 
 Andrew. " I went out with him yesterday, and I 
 never saw a boat better handled, though it is a hor- 
 rid old tub, too. Such a fellow ought to be a soldier 
 or sailor. Many a man has made a good record on 
 shipboard who would never do anything for him- 
 self." 
 
 " I hope he will be good to poor Isabeau," said 
 I. " But come, Andrew, we must go home." 
 
 TTe had been sitting all this time on the top of the 
 rock, in the very place where Lucille had cleared a 
 spot for her spindle. As we rose we both cast a 
 glance over the landscape. 
 
 ' ' There is going to be a storm, ' ' said I. ' ' See 
 how the sea-birds are all flying to shore, and how the 
 fog is beginning to creep in from the sea. I am 
 glad I am not going to cross the Greves this day. 
 Some one is sure to go astray and be lost." 
 
 " Browned by the tide ?" asked Andrew. 
 
 " Yes, or more likely sucked under by the quick- 
 sands, which extend themselves very much at times. 
 There is hardly ever a great pilgrimage but some 
 one is lost. Come, we must be going. My mother 
 will wonder where we are." 
 
 The storm I had predicted came on later in the 
 day, just in time to catch many of the returning pil- 
 grims, and several were drowned, among them, as 
 we heard, the poor little Suchon and the nun who 
 had her in charge.
 
 136 The Chevaliers Daughter. 
 
 " One cannot be sorry for the child," remarked 
 my father when he heard the news. " She has 
 ecsaped a great deal." 
 
 "Nor for her companion either, if there be any 
 truth in looks," said Andrew. "I never saw a 
 sadder, more hopeless face. Did you not notice it, 
 Yevette?" 
 
 " I did," I answered. " I noticed, too, that she 
 looked compassionately on the poor child, and did 
 not try to force her to tell her beads, like some of 
 the others." 
 
 " This storm is an unlucky thing for us," said 
 my mother. " I can see well how it will be used 
 to excite the people more and more against us. 
 Armand, when shall we leave this place, and put 
 our children and ourselves in safety ?' ' 
 
 "As soon as Mrs. Grace is able to travel," 
 answered my father. " We could not leave her 
 behind, or take her along at present. I trust 
 another month will see us in England. I would 
 not leave my people so long as my presence was 
 any protection to them, but I think, as things are 
 now, they would be better without me." 
 
 " Could not your brother in Paris secure you a 
 protection from the king ?" asked Andrew. " He 
 seems to be a great courtier, and greatly in favor. " 
 
 " So great a courtier that he would not risk a 
 frown from the king to save my whole family from 
 destruction," answered my father dryly. "No, 
 there is nothing to hope and everything to fear 
 from attracting the notice of any one about the
 
 The Chevaliers Daughter, 137 
 
 king. I have looked the matter all over, and tried 
 to gain every light on the subject that I was able," 
 continued my father gravely; "I have also asked 
 counsel of such of our pastors as I have been able 
 to meet with, and my mind is made up. So soon 
 us Grace is able to travel we must endeavor to 
 escape. So, my wife and daughter, you must pack 
 up your valuables and necessaries in the smallest 
 possible compass, and keep the bundles where you 
 can lay your hands upon them at any moment. 
 But mind, the necessaries must be reduced to the 
 lowest point," he added, with that sorrowful smile 
 I had learned to know so well. " Yevette cannot 
 carry her story books nor her carved wheel, 
 nor madame her rose-bushes or her poultry, or 
 Mrs. Grace her precious marmalade. A very 
 few clothes and the jewels and a little money are 
 all we can take with us. ' ' 
 
 These words fell coldly upon my ear and heart. 
 I was familiar enough with the idea of flight, but I 
 had not realized that flight meant leaving behind all 
 my most cherished possessions my beloved books, 
 my lute, my pet cows, all that I treasured most. I 
 went up to my pretty little room, and, sitting down, 
 I wept as if my heart would break for a while. 
 Then I knelt down and prayed, with all sincerity 
 and earnestness, that I might have grace cheerfully 
 to abandon all I had, yea and mine own life also, if 
 need be, for the kingdom of heaven's sake ; and 
 after a while, feeling comforted and strengthened, I 
 arose and began looking over my possessions, to see
 
 138 The Chevaliers Daughter. 
 
 what should betaken and what left. I do not think 
 that in this I was foolish or even childish. It is 
 not seldom that very little things bring home to 
 us the bitterness of grief. I have seen a lady who 
 was perfectly cool, collected, and sweet-tempered 
 through all the dangers of a terrible storm and ship- 
 wreck and the miseries of dreadful sea-sickness, 
 protracted for weeks, break down in an agony of 
 grief because the little dog she had brought from 
 France was swept overboard from the wreck in 
 which she might herself go down at any moment. 
 
 But poor Mrs. Grace was destined to take a longer 
 journey than that we proposed, and to find a refuge 
 where neither danger nor home-sickness can enter 
 where the wicked cease from troubling and the 
 weary are at rest. She had been for several weeks 
 confined to her bed. One day my father and 
 mother, Andrew and myself set out for a long walk 
 over the domain. It was rather a silent and sor- 
 rowful expedition, for, though no one said so, we 
 all felt that it might be a last farewell. We called 
 at Simon Sablot's farm, and my father confided to 
 Simon certain weighty deposits and an important 
 secret concerning his own affairs, and told him 
 where certain valuable packages would be found in 
 case he should be obliged to send for them. I 
 should say that for several nights my father and 
 Andrew had been busily occupied in conveying to 
 places of safety so much of our stock of plate as 
 could be removed without suspicion. This was the 
 more easy because we used very little silver every
 
 The CJicvalicrs Daughter. 139 
 
 day, the rest being secured in a strong closet 
 which opened from my father's room. We went 
 through the orchards and the little vineyard, visited 
 the old people at the lonely grange, walked through 
 the chestnut wood and filled onr pockets with the 
 nuts, which were just ripening and falling.* 
 
 " There is a fine harvest of chestnuts at least," 
 said my mother, sighing. " I hope some one will 
 be the better for them. ' ' 
 
 My father pressed the hand that lay on his arm, 
 but he could not trust himself to speak. The mo- 
 ment was an unspeakably bitter one to him. He 
 had taken great pains with his estate, and had laid 
 out much money in improvements, not only for his 
 own profit but still more for the good of his ten- 
 ants. Every field and tree and vine, yea, every 
 bush and stone, was dear to his heart, and though 
 he did not hesitate no, not for a moment, when he 
 had to choose between these things and the kingdom 
 of heaven yet he could not but feel the wrench 
 when he had to tear himself away from them. I 
 sometimes fear, in these days when the church and 
 the world are so mixed together that it is rather 
 hard to see any division line between them, that 
 people will utterly lose the meaning of such places 
 of Scripture as the tenth chapter of St. Matthew. 
 
 We had not reached the tower when Julienne cajne 
 running to meet us, her face as pale as her cap. 
 
 * The fine chestnut-tree at the south end of the house i3 
 from one of these nuts. I trust no one will ever cut it 
 down. G. C.
 
 140 The Chevaliers Daughter. 
 
 " Thank Heaven, you are come, maclame !" said 
 she breathlessly. " I have sent everywhere for 
 you. Mamselle Grace has had a swoon, and we can- 
 not bring her to herself." 
 
 " A swoon ? How was that ?" asked my mother,. 
 as we all quickened our steps. " I thought she was 
 feeling very well this morning." 
 
 " She was, madame ; but you were no sooner out 
 of the house than she would make me help her up 
 and dress her, and she has been up ever since. She 
 would even walk into your room, leaning on my 
 arm, and sat there while I dusted the furniture, 
 though I had dusted it all not more than an hour 
 before," said Julienne, in an aggrieved voice. 
 " Then she would have her work-basket and darn 
 a cambric ruffle of monsieur's, and all I could say 
 she would not lie down. I assure inaddme that I 
 did my best to persuade her." 
 
 " I doubt it not, my good Julienne ; but what 
 then ?" 
 
 " Then, just as the bell rang for noon, she said she 
 felt tired, and would lie down. I called Marie and 
 Annette, for I saw she looked dreadfully ill ; but 
 we had not got her on the bed before she fainted, 
 and we cannot get a sign of life from her any more 
 than if she were dead. So 1 sent for madame. " 
 
 We had reached the tower by that time, and my 
 mother ran up-stairs to Mrs. Grace's room, closely 
 followed by myself. Though I had never, to my 
 knowledge, seen death before, I knew, the moment I 
 set eyes upon Grace, what had happened. People
 
 The Chevaliers Daughter. 141 
 
 talk of death and sleep being alike, but I can never 
 see the resemblance. We tried a long time and in 
 every way to bring back animation, but it was of 
 no use, and we soon came to perceive that our 
 good faithful friend had left us forever. 
 
 I cannot describe my mother's grief on the occa- 
 sion. Grace had been her own personal attendant 
 ever since she could remember. She had been 
 taken into my grandmother's nursery a little mai<J 
 of nine years old, and had been specially assigned 
 to my mother. She had followed her mistress to * 
 strange land, had been with her through all her ill. 
 health and the loss of her many children, had been 
 nurse, friend, companion, and servant, all in one. 
 I loved Grace dearly, lamented her deeply ; bul 
 the event was not to me what it was to my mother 
 
 However, she was gone, and there was an end. 
 The servants wept, too, as they prepared her bod} 
 for the grave. They forgot all the scoldings sh 
 had given them, and only remembered how she 
 had nursed them in sickness, and the numberless 
 kindnesses she had shown them and their friends at 
 home. 
 
 "I was vexed enough at her this morning," 
 sobbed Julienne, who, as a bit of a slattern, and 
 especially as being guilty of the crowning enormity 
 of having a sweetheart, most frequently fell under 
 the displeasure of Mrs. Grace ; " but I am sure I 
 would dust all the furniture of the house thrice 
 over if it would do her any good." 
 
 " And what will madame do without her ?' T
 
 v" 
 A 
 
 142 TJie Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 asked Marie. " Nobody can know her ways like 
 Mamselle Grace, though there. are perhaps otherv 
 who can govern the household as well, or even bet- 
 ter. I always thought she was very wasteful of 
 sugar and honey in preserving the fruits." 
 
 " Yes, you would like them as sour as last year's 
 cider," retorted Julienne. " Mainselle Grace was 
 not a skinflint, whatever else she was." 
 
 " "WTiat will you do about the funeral?" asked 
 Andrew of my father. " Shall you send to Gran- 
 ville or Avranches for an undertaker ?" 
 
 "No indeed !" answered my father. " I have 
 given special orders to the servants not to say a 
 word about poor Grace's death. It would be sure 
 to bring down upon us a visitation. Mathew is 
 making her a coffin now, and we must place the 
 body in the vault beneath the chapel, as soon as 
 may be this very night, if possible. There she 
 may perhaps rest in peace. I would not, if L could 
 help it, have my poor old friend's body thrown out 
 into a ditch like a dead dog." 
 
 " They would not dare to do it," said Andrew, 
 aghast. 
 
 " They would be sure to do it," was my father's 
 answer. " Things have nc": ' ..proved since the 
 Duke of Guise kicked the dead face of brave old 
 Coligny. If it were only the dead who were warred 
 upon it would not be so much matter." 
 
 And yet somehow an insult to the dead seems 
 aser and more cowardly than one offered to the 
 living," said Andrew thoughtfully. " Many a rude
 
 The Chevaliers Daughter. 143 
 
 fellow who would knock a man down as soon as look 
 at him, as we say, would be horrified at any rough 
 treatment of a corpse. Why is it ?" 
 
 " Partly, perhaps, from superstition, but more 
 from an idea that the dead are helpless to defend 
 themselves," answered my father. "If a man 
 have any manhood in him his heart will be touched 
 by the plea of helplessness. It is only when men are 
 turned into demons by war or cruelty or lust tfiat 
 they will disregard the plea of helplessness." X^N. 
 
 That very night at midnight the corpse of our 
 good old friend was conveyed down to the vault, 
 beneath the ruined chapel, and built into one of the 
 niches of the wall with some of the rough stones 
 which lay loose about the floor. I had never been 
 in the vault before, and my father cautioned me to 
 beware how I stepped. The floor was of the 
 natural rock, rough and uneven, and in some 
 places were deep cracks from which issued a 
 solemn roaring sound, now loud, now faint and 
 almost dying away. By one of the niches I have 
 mentioned which surrounded the vault, and which 
 were like small chambers hewn in the rock, was 
 placed a little pile of building materials. In this 
 chamber was placed the body of our good old friend. 
 My father read from my mother's prayer-book the 
 funeral service of the Church of England, so 
 solemn, touching, and comforting. Then the vault 
 was built up with stones taken from the floor, and 
 carefully daubed with mould and slime, to look 
 as much like the rest of the wall as possible. It
 
 144 The Chevalier's Daughter. 
 
 was a dreary funeral enough, but not so sad as was 
 many another in these sad days, when many a duti- 
 ful child had to look on and see the body of father 
 or mother dragged away on a hurdle and cast intc 
 a bog or buried in a dunghill.
 
 CHAPTEE VIII. 
 
 FLIGHT. 
 
 HE next day my father took Andrew and 
 myself once more into the vault this 
 time by the secret passage which led 
 from the pastor's room in the tower. 
 We had a lantern with us, which we lighted as soon 
 as we had shut ourselves in, for the lower passage 
 and the staircase were quite dark. 
 
 " I made a discovery in this place some years 
 since, which I think may be of great service to us, 
 if worse comes to worst." said my father. " There 
 used to be a legend to the effect that a great cavern 
 existed under this vault which had an outlet to the 
 sea-shore, and to which there was formerly an en- 
 trance from this place. It was said that this en- 
 trance had been built up on accoimt of some dread- 
 ful crime committed in the cavern. However that 
 may be, in trying, when a young man, to satisfy my 
 curiosity upon the subject, 1 found an underground 
 passage leading from hence to the little ruined 
 tower in the orchard, which you were teaching 
 Vevette to sketch the other day."
 
 146 The Chevaliers Daughter. 
 
 " flow curious !" said Andrew. " What could 
 it have been used for ?" 
 
 " Probably for a sally-port in the days when the 
 house was fortified. Such underground ways are 
 not uncommon in old buildings. It may serve us a 
 good turn upon a pinch ; but you must help me to 
 open it, and you, Vevette, must hold the light. I 
 built it up myself with the hewn stones which seem 
 to have been left here from ancient times, perhaps 
 from the time that the entrance was closed to the 
 cavern below. No one knows the secret but old 
 Sablot, who died the other day, and who assisted me 
 in the work. So as there is no one else about the 
 place whom I dare trust, I must even ask you, my 
 fair son, to turn laborer for once, and help me 
 with these same stones." 
 
 " I want no better fun," said Andrew, pulling 
 off his coat at once. ' ' I have been suffering for 
 some hard work ever since I came here." 
 
 ' ' Is that the reason you go out so often with 
 Pierre Le Febre in his new boat ?" I asked. For 
 my father, seeing that Pierre was really making a 
 great struggle to do well, had given him a fine nev: 
 fishing-boat, to be paid for in very small instal- 
 ments, as he could afford, and the poor fellow and 
 his wife were very grateful. 
 
 " Partly for that reason, and partly because I am 
 interested in the man himself," answered Andrew. 
 ' ' fle is one who, under good teaching, would have 
 made a brave seaman. If I read him aright, he is 
 one of those people who need grand motives more
 
 The Chevalier's Daughter. 147 
 
 than the mere living and working from day to day, 
 and I have been trying in my stupid way to set be- 
 fore him something of the sort. He was as much 
 astonished when I told him that God was his Father, 
 and was pleased when he did well and grieved when 
 he did ill, as if he had been brought up among the 
 heathen 1 have seen in the Indian seas. But I beg 
 your pardon, sir ; I did not mean to preach." And 
 Andrew caught himself up and blushed like a girl, 
 for, like other young men, he was dreadfully ashamed 
 of having any one think he was trying to be good. 
 
 " I do not see why you should beg my pardon, 
 dear son," said my father, with a smile that sweet, 
 sudden smile which dees so light up a usually grave 
 face, and which I see again sometimes on my sober 
 little Armand. ' ' Surely it is a blessed work, and 
 one which God will own. But I must warn you 
 that it is not without danger. You may be accused 
 of proselyting, which is one of our deadliest sins in 
 the eyes of our enemies." 
 
 " Well," said Andrew, with a great sigh, " I 
 think I shall appreciate it if I reach a land where a 
 man may open his mouth. Why should you delay 
 any longer ? Why not fly to-night ?" 
 
 ' ' Because my arrangements are not yet com- 
 plete," said my father. 
 
 " If you wait till everything is ready you will 
 never go at all," said Andrew. 
 
 ' ' That is true ; but there are certain things yet 
 to be arranged concerning those who stay behind. 
 1 must see our friends at Avranches, and leave with
 
 148 The Chevaliers Daughter. 
 
 them some means of raising funds to help them- 
 selves withal. To-morrow I shall go thither, and 
 the day after I hope to go but why should I say 
 hope ?" he murmured, in the sad voice I knew so 
 well. " Weep not for the dead, neither bemoan 
 him, but weep, son, for him that goeth away, for 
 he shall return no more, nor see his native country." 
 
 " If my native country was such a step-dame as 
 this, I don't think I should bemoan it very much," 
 muttered Andrew between his teeth. 
 
 " Don't the people who have gone away and 
 settled in America long to see England again ?" I 
 asked. 
 
 " No, I don't believe they do," he said. " They 
 are as self-satisfied as any people I ever saw. And 
 yet I don't know," he added. " The names they 
 give their children are very touching, especially 
 those on the stones in their burying-ground." 
 
 " What names ?" I asked. 
 
 " Such names as * Hopestill,' ' Waitstill,' * Sub- 
 mit,' ' Resignation,' and the like. I read one epi- 
 taph over a little baby girl which runs thus : 
 
 ' " Submit submitted to her Heavenly King, 
 Being a flour of tbat Eternal Spring ! 
 Near three years old, she died, in Heaven to wait ; 
 The year was sixteen hundred forty-eight.' 
 
 Not the best of poetry, you will say, but very 
 affecting to my mind." 
 
 "Come, come, son," said my father; "we did 
 not come into this mouldy old hole to repeat verses. 
 Let us set to work."
 
 The Chevaliers Daiig liter. 149 
 
 Andrew blushed again, and at once bent himself 
 to the task of removing the heavy stones. This 
 was hard work, especially as it was necessary to 
 make as little noise about it as possible ; but it was 
 accomplished at last, and the arched entrance of the 
 passage made practicable. More my father did not 
 care to do. 
 
 "Now for the other end," said my father. 
 " Vevette, are you afraid ?" 
 
 " No indeed !" said I indignantly. 
 " Yevette is. a real Corbet woman !" said An- 
 drew. " She is afraid of nothing." 
 
 "Except of being laughed at," returned my 
 father. " Come, then, give me the light. I will 
 go first, and do you young ones follow, carefully, 
 and looking to your steps." 
 
 I was about to speak, but my father put his finger 
 upon his lip. 
 
 " We will not talk," whispered he ; " we are now 
 outside the bounds of the vault, and may be over- 
 heard." 
 
 Accordingly we proceeded in silence for some 
 hundred yards, sometimes able to walk upright, 
 sometimes bending almost double, as the walls and 
 roof contracted, till our further passage was barred 
 by a heap of large stones. These, however, being 
 loosely piled, were easily removed, and we found 
 ourselves in a cellar-like vault, in which were piled 
 up old cider-casks. (All such places in that part of 
 Normandy always are full of useless old casks, 
 though what they are kept for I cannot say.)
 
 150 The Chevaliers Daughter. 
 
 From tills vault a ruined but passable staircase led 
 up to the level of tlie ground. I sliall never forget 
 how beautiful everything looked to me as we 
 emerged from the deeps of the earth and saw the 
 whole landscape bathed in the mild autumnal sun- 
 shine. My heart bounded for a moment and then 
 sank as in a deep of cold, bitter waves, when I 
 thought how soon I must leave all this beauty, never, 
 never to see it again. English people sometimes 
 fancy that French people do not care for their 
 homes because they have no one word which 
 answers to the English one. It is just one of those 
 pieces of insular pride and I was going to say 
 stupidity which always enrage me, though I am 
 half an English woman by birth and wholly one by 
 adoption. 
 
 " All, fair France !" said my father mournfully ; 
 " thou that killest the prophets and stonest them 
 that are sent unto thee. Surely the day will come 
 when thou shalt desire to see one of the days of the 
 Son of Man, and shall not see it. Thou hast con- 
 demned and killed the just, and he doth not resist 
 thee !" 
 
 " And that is where the just is not of my mind," 
 muttered Andrew between his teeth. " If he were 
 he would have one fight for it." 
 
 My father did not hear, but I did, and gave An- 
 drew a look, partly of approbation, partly of warn- 
 ing. I felt as he did. If we could only have 
 fought for our lives I should not have minded it so 
 much.
 
 The Chevaliers Daughter. 151 
 
 "We returned by the fields, after my father and 
 Andrew had shut up the entrance to the passage 
 with the loose stones in such a manner that they 
 could easily be removed. As to the other end, 
 we were not afraid to leave it open, since not one^ 
 of our farm or house servants would have descend- 
 ed into the vault for any consideration. We found 
 my mother anxiously expecting us. 
 
 " You are gone a long time," said she. " Here 
 is a strange visitor no less than a Capuchin friar 
 who says he used to know you, and desires much to 
 see you." 
 
 " A friar !" said my father, turning pale. 
 " What can he want ? Where is he ?" 
 
 " Eating and drinking iii the dining-room at this 
 moment, if he is not asleep in his chair," answered 
 my mother. " I could do no less than offer him 
 hospitality, especially as he asked no impertinent 
 questions, and had nothing to say about religious 
 matters. He seems a harmless old soul enough." 
 
 ' ' Many of them are r I believe, while others are 
 wolves in sheep's clothing," said my father ; " but I 
 shall soon see to which class our friend belongs." 
 
 My father went to the dining-room, where he 
 shut himself in with his guest and remained a long 
 time, apparently in earnest conversation. Finally, 
 however, we saw him accompany the friar to the 
 gate and take a friendly leave of him. 
 
 " Well, what had your ghostly father to say ?" 
 asked my mother when my father returned to us. 
 
 " Nothing more than 1 knew already," replied
 
 152 T/ie Chevaliers Daughter* 
 
 my father. " Did you not know liim ? It was 
 my old playmate and companion in arms, Louis de 
 Reviere." 
 
 " I thought there was something famihar in his 
 , face and voice, ' ' said my mother. ' ' But what 
 brought him here, and in that dress ?" 
 
 " He has taken the tonsure, and is now a Fran- 
 ciscan, " answered my father. "He had always 
 rather a turn for a religious life, as they call it. As 
 to his errand, he came ostensibly to convert me 
 really to warn us of danger, and beg us to fly. He 
 says that a company of dragoons will be at 
 Avranches next week. Ah, my poor people !" 
 
 " Do not give way, my Armand," said my 
 mother tenderly. " But now, tell us clearly, what 
 is your plan ?" 
 
 " To set forth by night and travel to Honfleur 
 by the most retired roads, disguised in the peasant 
 dresses I bade you prepare. You and Yevette will 
 ride the donkeys. Andrew and myself will walk 
 beside you. We will also have another beast laden 
 with poor Grace's dried fruits and confections which 
 we are carrying to Honfleur to sell. Once there 
 we shall find English s"hips, and, I trust, have no 
 difficulty in making our way. Simon Sablot is in 
 the secret, and will have the animals all ready." 
 
 " And when shall we set out ?" I asked anxiously. 
 
 " To-morrow night, my little one. I must go 
 once more to Avranches to bestow in safety the 
 money belonging to our consistory, which thou 
 knowest is in my hands."
 
 The Chevaliers Daughter. 153 
 
 u Could not Simon take the money to 
 Avranches ?" asked my mother. 
 
 " And thus run the risk while I was escaping ? 
 Nay, my Margaret, that is not spoken like thyself. 
 But, in truth, my risk would be much less than his. 
 Thou knowest I have made many errands thither 
 of late, concerning the houses which are being re- 
 paired in the market-place. No one will think it 
 at all strange. ' ' 
 
 My mother shook her head, but both she and I 
 knew that, once my father's mind was made up on 
 a point of duty, there was no more to be said. 
 
 The day passed quietly and sadly enough, for 
 we all felt it was probably the last day we should 
 spend in the dear old house. Our preparations 
 were all completed, even to filling the panniers of the 
 spare donkey with the dried fruits and other mat- 
 ters which were to form our ostensible errand to 
 Honfleur. As my father said, he had laid by a 
 considerable amount of wealth in diamonds and 
 other jewels, which, being of small bulk, could be 
 easily concealed about our persons. We had also 
 about three hundred louis in gold, which was di- 
 vided between us. We dared take but very few 
 clothes, and as for books or any treasures of that 
 sort, they were of course quite out of the question. 
 
 I think none of us slept that night. I am sure I 
 did not. It seemed to me as if 1 could not endure 
 to lose sight for a moment of the things and places 
 I was so soon to leave forever. At daylight my 
 father called us all together, and for the last time
 
 154 The Chevaliers Daughter. 
 
 we joined in prayer about that family altar which 
 was so soon to be laid in ruins, never to be builded 
 in that place again. But why should I say so ? 
 Never is a long day. Perhaps some time, in the 
 councils of heaven, that altar may be once more 
 erected. 
 
 We took our breakfast together very silently, and 
 then my father kissed us all and mounted his horse 
 to go to Avranches, taking Andrew with him. My 
 mother called all the servants and paid them their 
 wages, with a little present into the bargain. 1 be- 
 lieve the good s'ouls had an idea of what was going 
 to happen, though none of them said a word. It 
 was a weary day, for w r e had done everything we 
 could think of by way of precaution, and the time 
 hung heavy on our hands. My father was to have 
 returned by three o'clock, but the hour struck and 
 he did not come. Alas, never again ! 
 
 I had gone down to the gate for the tenth time 
 to look for them, when, as I opened the little wicket, 
 I met Pierre Le Febre face to face. 
 
 " Thank the holy archangel," said lie breath- 
 lessly. " I was wondering how I should get speech 
 of you, mademoiselle. But let me come in, for I 
 have somewhat to say." 
 
 1 let him into the courtyard, and called my moth- 
 er to hear Pierre's tale. 
 
 " I was standing by the great gate of the hospital, 
 as they call it," said he. "I had sold my fish to 
 the Sisters, and was waiting for my money when the 
 wicket suddenly opened and Lucille Sablot looked
 
 The Chevalier's Daughter. 155 
 
 out. Ah, madame, how changed ! But, as I said, 
 she looked out, and, seeing no one, she put this 
 little packet into my hand. 
 
 " ' Quick, Pierre, if ever you cared for me,' said 
 she. ' This for Marnselle Vevette, and make haste. 
 Life and death are in thy steps. Tell Yevette I 
 dared not write, but she will know what this means 
 by the English name.' Then she drew in her head, 
 and I heard some one scolding her within for look- 
 ing out of bounds." 
 
 Breathlessly I opened the paper. There was 
 nothing in it but a grosse mouche, what in English 
 we call a bluebottle. 
 
 "-A fly," said I. " Fly ! That is what it 
 means, maman. Lucille has sent us a warning. 
 She knows of some danger that threatens us imme- 
 diately. What shall we do ?" 
 
 " Oh, if your father were but here !" said my 
 mother, wringing her hands convulsively. 
 
 "Here he comes," said I, and at that moment 
 appeared, not my father, but Andrew, riding across 
 the fields at break-neck speed, his horse covered with 
 foam. He sprang to the ground, flinging his reins 
 loose anyhow. 
 
 " Armand ! my husband!" said my mother. 
 "Where is he?" 
 
 " To the tower tirst, aunt, then I will tell you 
 all. Pierre, if ever he or I did you a good turn, 
 do me one now!" said Andrew sharply. " I do 
 not ask you to risk yourself, but let me have 
 your boat. The wind is fair. We must run for
 
 156 The Chevaliers Daughter. 
 
 Jersey as soon as it is a little later. Go, and get it 
 ready." 
 
 "My boat does not go without me, monsieur,'' 
 said Pierre. " I can bring it back, and if I am out 
 two or three days I am kept by the wind. You 
 can never manage it alone ; you do not know the 
 channels, and I do." 
 
 ' ' As you will ; but have it ready by ten this 
 night. It will be very dark, but so much the bet- 
 ter. Run, now. Come, aunt, for Heaven's sake, 
 for your child's sake. " For maman stood like a 
 marble statue. 
 
 " I will not move till you tell me news of Ar- 
 mand," said she. 
 
 "He is with God," answered Andrew, with a 
 convulsed face. " His last words were, f Tell Mar- 
 garet to escape, for my sake, and the child's. We 
 shall meet again. ' ' 
 
 ' ' True, we shall meet again. It is but a short 
 parting," said my mother musingly. Then, as An- 
 drew stamped his foot with impatience, she seemed 
 to rouse herself. " I am ready, my dear son. 
 What shall we do ?" 
 
 "Go, you and Vevette, and put on your peasant 
 dresses, and secure the money and jewels, while 1 
 warn the servants. 1 want them to find an empty 
 nest. Stay in your room till I come." 
 
 We obeyed at once. My mother was pale as 
 ashes, but calm, and even cheerful. As to myself, 
 I believe I retained only one rational thought at 
 that moment to do as 1 was bid. We changed our
 
 The Chevaliers Daughter. 157 
 
 dresses and made our other arrangements with tho 
 speed of thought, hut we had hardly finished before 
 the noise of voices and clapping of doors told that 
 the alarm had been given. In another moment 
 Andrew appeared. 
 
 " I have told them that the mob are coming, and 
 that their ladies have already escaped. I have bid 
 them take to the woods for the night. Come, 
 now ! Leave everything in all the confusion possi- 
 ble to look like a hasty flight. It will all the better 
 throw them off the scent." 
 
 We entered the secret passage, and closing it 
 securely after us we sought the upper floor of the 
 tower not, however, the uppermost one, but the 
 second. 
 
 "Do you know the way, Andrew?" I asked. 
 " My father said these floors were not safe." 
 
 " They are safe enough for us, but our enemies 
 will not find them very safe," was Andrew's 
 response. ' ' Step lightly, and follow me exactly. ' ' 
 
 We went around the side of the room to a cup- 
 board with shelves, masking a door BO entirely that 
 no one would have known it was there. This door 
 opened into a second and much smaller room, which 
 again opened upon the staircase up which I had led 
 the preacher. 
 
 "We can take breath now," said he. "We 
 need not seek the vaults till we hear them approach- 
 ing, and not then unless they come into this tower. " 
 
 "They will come," said I. " Remember the 
 staircase from the gallery."
 
 I 58 The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 " Let them," was Andrew's grim reply. 
 " There are a few secrets about this place which 
 even you do not know, Yevette. " As he spoke he 
 stooped down, drew out two large iron bolts and 
 laid them on the floor. " The trap is set and 
 baited," said he; " now let the rats walk in 
 whenever they please." 
 
 " But how how was it," I asked in a whisper, 
 for my mother never said a word. The fact that 
 my father was dead seemed enough for her. 
 
 ' ' We had hardly reached Avranches when we 
 heard the uproar in the market-place," returned 
 Andrew. " At first we did not think of the cause, 
 but as soon as we caught sight of the place we saw 
 what was going on. They were pulling down the 
 houses of the Protestants, and dragging out the 
 women and the little children." Andrew shud- 
 dered and covered his face. " I saw one man in a 
 friar's gown take two little baby girls in his arms 
 and try to carry them out of the press, but they were 
 torn from him. Then they caught sight of us, and 
 one cried out, ' There is the arch heretic. There is 
 the man who shelters the preachers. ' And a volley 
 of stones flew about our ears. We turned to fly, as 
 there was clearly nothing else to be done, but a man 
 named Michaud I don't know whether you know 
 him" 
 
 " My father saved him from the galleys," said I. 
 
 " Well, he raised his arquebuse and deliberately 
 fired at my uncle, wounding him in the breast. He 
 did not fall nor lose his presence of mind, and by
 
 The Chevaliers Daughter. 159 
 
 lanes and by-ways we gained the wood. Then he 
 sank to the ground, and I saw that lie was dying. 
 ' Lose no time with me, ' said he faintly. ' Hasten 
 home at once. Did we not hear them cry. ' ' To the 
 tower !" Remember the secret passage. Hide as 
 long as you can, if you cannot get away. Go not 
 by the road, but across the heath. Why do you 
 stay ? ' But I did not leave him till he had breathed 
 his last. Then I drew his body aside into the 
 bushes, and hastened hither. ' ' 
 
 " And do you think they will come ?" I asked, 
 as soon as I could speak. 
 
 " I most surely do," he answered. " The hope 
 of plunder would bring the rascals, of whom there 
 are abundance. The priest sets on the zealots and 
 others join because they are afraid of being suspect- 
 ed of favoring the cause. ' ' 
 
 "We sat in silence for what seemed a very long 
 time, till the great clock struck eight. At that very 
 moment we heard a shout and the trampling of 
 many feet, while a strong glare shone through the 
 little grated casement of the room. 
 
 " There they are," said Andrew, stepping to the 
 window. I followed him and looked out. On they 
 came, a mob "of ruffians and abandoned women, 
 with many, too, of whom I should have hoped better 
 things. Heading the press was one of the cures of 
 Avranches, a man whose openly dissolute life was a 
 scandal to his own people. There were also two or 
 three friars, among them the one who had visited 
 us the day before.
 
 160 The Chevaliers Daughter. 
 
 "Ah, the traitor!" said I. "My father's old 
 companion in arms, and but yesterday eating his 
 bread." 
 
 "I believe you do him injustice," said my 
 mother, in as calm a tone as if she were speaking of 
 the most ordinary matter. " He has come in the 
 hope of rendering us some service. Poor, miserable, 
 deluded people !" 
 
 " I would I had some charges of grapeshot for 
 these poor people," said Andrew. " They would 
 go farther to dispel their illusions than a deal of 
 reasoning. Anything but hiding like rats in a 
 hole. But we have no choice. Not a word or 
 sound, for your lives. But what is here ?" 
 
 It was something which in my excited state 
 almost sent me off into a hysterical laugh namely, 
 my great, long-haired, white cat Blanchon, which 
 had followed us into the tower, and now mounted 
 upon the window-seat was growling savagely at the 
 intruders. He was an odd creature, very fond of 
 his friends, but formidable to his enemies, and he 
 had this peculiarity, that he never mewed. A 
 strange yell, which sounded like that of a human 
 being in the wildest rage, when he flew upon his 
 enemies, and a loud purr were all the noises he ever 
 made. 
 
 " Let him be. He will do no harm," said I. 
 " He never makes any noise. What shall we do 
 now ?" as the mob made their onslaught on the 
 gates with a savage yell which made me shudder.
 
 The Chevaliers Daughter. 161 
 
 " Keep quiet," was the reply. " "We are safe 
 enough unless they set fire to the tower. ' ' 
 
 In another moment the gate yielded, and the peo- 
 ple poured in. Before one could speak they were 
 all over the house, calling to each other and venting 
 their rage at finding no one by breaking and de- 
 stroying all before them. 
 
 " To the old tower, comrades !" finally cried a 
 voice. " There is the hiding-place." 
 
 1 suppose numbers gave the people courage, for 
 I am certain not one of them would have dared in- 
 vade the domain of the white chevalier alone. We 
 heard the rush up the stairs and then the battering 
 down of the door. Then there was a short pause. 
 
 '' Come on," cried the same voice, which I now 
 recognized as that of Michaud, our old gamekeeper, 
 whom my father had saved only to be murdered 
 by him. " Come on. Who cares for ghost or 
 devil ?" 
 
 There was a rush into the room, then a cry from 
 those nearest the door. " Take care ! The floor !" 
 But it was too late. The loosened boards gave way, 
 and down went a dozen men, Michaud among them, 
 through a yawning gulf clear to the ground floor. 
 
 " Back ! back ! The tower is falling !" was the 
 cry, while the shrieks of the men below added to 
 the confusion. The tower was at once deserted, 
 and we presently heard sounds which told us that 
 the fallen men were being rescued from amid the 
 ruins of the floor. 
 
 " To the cellars !" cried now the voice of Pierre
 
 1 62 The Chevaliers Daiighter. 
 
 Le Febre. " Let us taste the old chevalier's wine 
 and brandy." 
 
 " Good, Pierre !" said Andrew. " Once let them 
 get among the casks and bottles, and we are safe." 
 
 " If Pierre does not get among them himself," 
 said I. 
 
 " I do not believe he will, and in any case we 
 have the boat. But it is time we were stirring. 
 Aunt, can you walk ?" 
 
 " Oh, yes ! I can do anything you wish," 
 answered my mother, in the same calm way. She 
 seemed to have all her wits about her, but she did 
 not speak unless we spoke to her. 
 
 " Come, then," and he opened the door of the 
 secret passage into which pussy led the way, 
 majestically waving his tail and looking back as if 
 to say, " Come on, and fear nothing ! You are 
 under my protection." I remember smiling, in all 
 my grief and anxiety, at his air of patronage. I 
 went first, after I had lighted the lantern, then 
 came my mother, and lastly Andrew. We heard 
 only distant and muffled sounds, and judged that 
 the people were busied in the cellar, where was 
 stored not only wine and liquor, but abundance of 
 old cider, strong as brandy itself. 
 
 We had just reached the level of the chapel and 
 were about passing the door which led into it, when 
 Blanchon the cat stopped, growling fiercely. In 
 another moment a light shone through the opened 
 door. The next Blanchon sprang forward with hin 
 v. ild, unearthly yell of onset, and flung himself into
 
 The Chevaliers Daughter. 163 
 
 the face of a man who had just put liis JLead 
 through the opening. There was a scream of quite 
 another character, and the man fled stumbling and 
 falling on his way out, while Blanchon came back 
 to us with the loud purr, which was his way of ex- 
 pressing complacency. 
 
 " Good cat," said Andrew. " That man won't 
 find his way back in a hurry, but some one else may. 
 Hold up the light, Yevette." 
 
 I held up the light while Andrew pulled to the 
 door and with a stone smashed the spring-lock. 
 
 " Nobody will open that, even if any one dares 
 try," said he. "Now for all the haste we can 
 make." 
 
 I caught up Blanchon and carried him, to which 
 he made no objection. We were soon in the open 
 air, and walking quickly down the course of the 
 stream which had scooped out the valley, we found 
 ourselves in the little hamlet. It seemed to be 
 deserted. Not a man was to be seen, nor a light, 
 save in Isabeau's cottage. The night had grown 
 wild and stormy, but it was not very dark. And 
 we could see the mast of the boat, which lay at the 
 end of the little pier. 
 
 "Now if Pierre has been true," said Andrew, 
 and at that moment we heard his voice. 
 
 " Monsieur arid madame, is that you ? All is 
 ready ; but we shall have a wild night." 
 
 " Never mind, so long as the wind is fair," re- 
 turned Andrew, in the same whisper. " I would
 
 164 The Chevalier s Daughter 
 
 rather face the sea than the devils we have left be- 
 hind." 
 
 We were assisted into the boat, I holding fast 
 to iny cat, and set sail. I can give little account of 
 the voyage. I know it was a rough and tempestu- 
 ous one, and that we were many times in the great- 
 est danger from the rocks and counter currents 
 which make navigation in those parts so difficult. 
 Andrew had the helm most of the time, while 
 Pierre, whose smuggling and other lawless exploits 
 had made him well acquainted with the channel, 
 directed our course. My mother sat quite still 
 under the half -deck of the boat, and I dozed by fits, 
 with Blanchon in my lap, who now and then uttered 
 a peevish growl, as he vainly tried to lick himself 
 dry. 
 
 " There comes the morning at last," said Le 
 Febre joyously ; " and here is the blessed St. Au- 
 bin's bay spread out before us, if we can but get 
 into it. I would we had a better pilot than my- 
 self." 
 
 " Yonder comes a boat which has been out all 
 night," said Andrew. And he stood up and hailed 
 her in English, 
 
 " Boat ahoy !" 
 
 " Hilloa !" came back, as the stranger rapidly 
 overhauled us. " Who are you ?" 
 
 " English," was the answer. " We have ladies 
 on board. Where are you bound ?" 
 
 " To St. Aubin's," was the reply. " Follow us, 
 and you will do well enough."
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter. 165 
 
 " Good !" said Andrew to my mother. " We shall 
 land close at home. And now that we are com- 
 paratively safe, tell me, Pierre, did I not hear your 
 voice at the tower last night ?" 
 
 "You did, monsieur," was the reply. "I had 
 a mind to see what was going on, for I knew I 
 would get back in time, and without being missed. 
 It was I who put the rascals up to break into the 
 cellars. The priest tried to draw them away after 
 him to search the old chapel, but he did not know 
 his men so well as I did. Then, when I saw them 
 well engaged, I took to my heels and reached the 
 pier before you, not having so far to go, or knowing 
 the way better. But where were you when the 
 floors fell ? I trembled for you then." 
 
 "We were safe enough, and not far off," was 
 the reply. " Was any one much hurt ?" 
 
 " Yes ; Michaud will die, and a good riddance 
 too. There were some broken heads and bones ; I 
 don't know how many. But, monsieur, what could 
 have been in the chapel which handled the priest so 
 terribly. I found him in the court blinded in both 
 eyes and his face torn to pieces as by a wild beast, 
 and he said something sprang at him in the old 
 chapel. Could it have been that devil of a white 
 chevalier, think you ? Could a ghost handle a man 
 like that ?" 
 
 "I do not know -whether or no ghosts can 
 scratch, ' ' answered Andrew gravely ; ' ' but the one 
 who attacked the priest has been a passenger with 
 us." And he raised my cloak and showed Blan-
 
 1 66 The Chevaliers Daughter. 
 
 chon, who had abandoned the attempt to keep him- 
 self dry, and lay a wet and sulky heap in my lap. 
 Pierre's face fell. 
 
 " A white cat," said he. " If I had known we 
 had a white cat on board I should have given up in 
 despair a dozen times. However, all is well that 
 ends well," he added, brightening up ; " and here 
 we come sure enough. ' ' 
 
 " And yonder is your cousin's house, Yevette," 
 said Andrew, pointing to a comfortable-looking 
 mansion not far away. " We shall soon be under 
 a roof once more." 
 
 The family of the fisherman whose boat had pre- 
 ceded us were gathered at the landing to see us 
 come in, and loud were their exclamations of won- 
 der and pity as my mother and myself were assisted 
 from our cramped position in the bottom of the 
 boat to the landing-place. By one of the boys 
 Andrew sent a message up to the house, and in 
 what seemed a wonderfully short time we were sur- 
 rounded and conveyed to the mansion Andrew had 
 pointed out, by a troop of excited boys and girls, 
 under the leadership of an elderly considerate man- 
 servant. Here we were warmly welcomed, kissed, 
 fed with hot soup and mulled wine, and finally put 
 to bed in the most fluffy of feather-beds, my mother 
 and myself in adjoining rooms. Maman was still 
 in the same curiously passive state, but not uncon- 
 scious. 
 
 " Go to rest, my Yevette," she said, kissing me 
 as I hung over her. " Have no fears for me. I
 
 The Chevaliers Daughter. 167 
 
 shall do well. Thank God that you are in safety. 
 Ah, if thy father were but here !" and for the first 
 time she burst into tears. 
 
 " That is well, my love," said my oldest cousin, 
 to whom I looked in anxiety. " These tears will 
 relieve your mother, and she will sleep, and all the 
 better if she knows you are at rest. Go, my child. " 
 
 I was used to obey, and my kind motherly cousin 
 inspired confidence by her very tone. I undressed, 
 put on the dry warm flannels provided for me, and 
 crept into the bed, on which Blanchon was already 
 established. Oh, the delicious depths of that 
 English bed ! 1 thought I should lie awake to 
 listen to the sounds from the next room, but I was 
 worn out, and fell asleep before my head was fairly 
 on the pillow.
 
 CHAPTEE IX. 
 
 IN JERSEY. 
 
 SLEPT till afternoon, and when 1 waked 
 I could not at first tell where I was, 
 everything about me was so utterly differ- 
 ent 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 cur- 
 tain, 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
 
 The Chevaliers Daughter. 169 
 
 it was, loeked a cluster of noisette roses. The floor 
 was of boards intsead 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
 
 I 70 The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 awake. " Have I been asleep ? Has not my 
 father come home ?" 
 
 " It is 1, my love Cousin Marianne," said the 
 new-comer in a soft, lady- like 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 hap 
 pened ?" 
 
 " 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 per- 
 suaded her to remain in her room, for I am sure
 
 7 *he Chevaliers Daughter. 171 
 
 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 nsual 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 Mari- 
 anne glided away with that peculiar swift, short 
 step of hers, which never seemed to make any noise 
 even on a tiled floor. I never saw any one else 
 move in the same way or get over so much ground 
 in the same time.
 
 i 72 T/ie Clievaliers Daughter. 
 
 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 Yevette ?" 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 bewilder- 
 ment, as though I were some one beside myself, I 
 had no pain. " Why do you ask 3" 
 
 " 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 advanc-
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter. \ 73 
 
 ing 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, re- 
 member 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 lie maybe 
 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 prom- 
 ises of high command, of court favor, and kingly 
 grace, but he never yielded an inch no, not, as I
 
 i 74 TJic Cltevalier's Daughter. 
 
 believe, in liis 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, interrupt- 
 ed 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 sig- 
 nal 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 Lon- 
 don, 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
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter. \ 75 
 
 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, 
 mainan ?" 
 
 " Very pleasant indeed. I have tasted it before 
 when it was a new tiling 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 1 could remember in Jeanne Sablot's cot- 
 tage, 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 im- 
 portance 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
 
 i 76 J~ke Ckevaliers Daughter. 
 
 vain to tell them tliat 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 neat- 
 ness 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 in- 
 strument I had never beheld before, with a pile of 
 nmsic-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-gar- 
 den, 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
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter. 177 
 
 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. Jsobody seemed to be stir- 
 ring. 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, Yevette ?" 
 
 " 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 oil and was silent again. 
 
 " How beautiful everything is, and how peace- 
 ful 1" said I at last. " Do you know it seems so
 
 i 78 The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 strange to me to think that we are safe. 1 can 
 hardly believe it." 
 
 " It is hard to believe it, even to me, to whom 
 safety comes natural," he answered. "I car, 
 scarcely think that yonder is a Protestant church, 
 where all the village will presently assemble to wor- 
 ship, 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 h'ke that when single 
 would most likely do the same if she were mar- 
 ried," 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 cab us," said An-
 
 The Chevaliers Daughter. 179 
 
 drew. " 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-col- 
 ored, 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 yoirwant 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 hei- 
 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 fash- 
 ion of widows in England. I checked myself, how-
 
 180 Tlie Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 ever, and put into her hand the flowers Eleanor had 
 helped me to gather. 
 
 " Thank you, my love. They are very charm- 
 ing," said my mother, who loved flowers with a 
 kind of passion. " But I fear you have been mak- 
 ing 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. ' ' 
 
 " Th6re is no fault to be pardoned, my child," 
 said my mother, recovering herself as by a great 
 effort, and kissing me ; " but, Yevette, 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 sho 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
 
 The Chevaliers Daiighter. 181 
 
 transitions. " That name of Gene vie ve does not 
 suit an English girl, to my thinking." 
 
 u Call her Vevette," said my mother. "It is 
 the name she has always gone by. Or yon may call 
 her by her first name, Agnes, if yon like. ' ' 
 
 " Oh, my dear, Agnes is an nnlucky 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 cut- 
 ting some cold meat than it sat up upon its hind 
 legs, and spread out one paw exactly like a Chris- 
 tian. 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 de- 
 scribe. It was the light within shining out which 
 did so illumine his countenance, for a sweeter, more 
 odly, and withal more kind and genial soul never
 
 1 82 T7/6 7 Chevalier's Daughter. 
 
 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 Btreams 
 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
 
 The Chevaliers Daughter. 183 
 
 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 ; " 1 am not ill at 
 all. " I caught a look of surprised reproof from my 
 mother, and became aware that I had answered pet- 
 tishly. ' ' 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 morn- 
 ing. 
 
 " 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 Paulina, 
 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
 
 184 The Chevaliers Daughter. 
 
 in the mood. Can you tell tales, Cousin Ve- 
 vette ?" 
 
 " 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 Kath- 
 erine ; " 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 our- 
 selves 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,
 
 The Chevaliers Daughter. 185 
 
 and some whom 1 guessed to be French exiles, like 
 ourselves. 1 saw Pierre Le Febre seated along with 
 a decent-looking family of fisher-folks, arid as I 
 glanced at him from time to time I saw him listen- 
 ing with the greatest attention and an air of pro- 
 found amazement, not to say alarm, which mado 
 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 my- 
 self 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 ?" 1 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." 
 
 "1 should like something to eat," said I. "I
 
 1 86 The Chevaliers Daughter. 
 
 feel hungry, though I could not eat this morn- 
 ing." 
 
 My mother smiled sadly, and I saw Cousin Mari- 
 anne suddenly turn away to the window almost a? 
 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 nurs- 
 ing talent, which is one of the best gifts ever 
 bestowed on man or woman. 
 
 I lay quietly in my bed, as 1 said, very little troubled 
 as to the lapse of time or anything else, taking
 
 7 he Chevalier's Daughter. 187 
 
 what was given me, perfectly content so long as I 
 had my mother or Eleanor by me. I learned after- 
 ward 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, bnt 
 not cracked, and by and by it recovered its elas- 
 ticity. One morning 1 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 Yevette ; 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 con- 
 gregation on that day prayed for you. Do you not 
 recollect anything of your illness ?"
 
 i88 The Chevaliers Daughter. 
 
 " No," I answered. " The last I recollect clear- 
 ly was being in church listening to the sermon, and 
 then waking in my room and hearing some one say 
 1 was better. But that was some days ago, was it 
 not ?" 
 
 u 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 
 I 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.
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 TO ENGLAND. 
 
 S I said, my strength increased every day, 
 so tliat I was soon able 6 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 par- 
 lor,, 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 per- 
 former. I never Raw 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
 
 I go The Chevaliers Daughter. 
 
 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 re- 
 turn 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 re- 
 turned 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 in- 
 deed a good deal damaged. But it seems he did 
 not find himself comfortable. Tie fell under sus- 
 picion, notwithstanding all hra precautions, and he 
 was not well treated by his own family, who never
 
 The Chevalier's Daughter. 191 
 
 forgave his marrying poor Isabean. 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 ter- 
 rible 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."
 
 192 Tke Chevaliers Daughter. 
 
 u Yon 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 dee Cornwall once 
 more." 
 
 " I should nrge yon 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 Lon- 
 don, 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
 
 The Chevaliers Daughter. 193 
 
 hoped for, we got ready and embarked without 
 delay. I gave my white cat Blaiichon 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 pros- 
 perous, 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 compari- 
 son 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 magnifi- 
 cent, 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, 1 found it as begrimed as a black- 
 smith's. 
 
 We remained in London about two weeks. My
 
 194 The Chevaliers Daughter. 
 
 Uncle Charles, my mother's brother, was out of 
 town with his family when we first arrived, but ho 
 Boon 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 speci- 
 men 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
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter, 195 
 
 remain yourself, and we will find her a good hus- 
 band.'' 
 
 " 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 cap- 
 tain, and the estate at Tre Madoc cannot be worth 
 more than four hundred a year all told, 1 ' said my 
 uncle. " Besides, unless he abandons his profession 
 the child will be a widow without any of the advan- 
 tages of widowhood. There, I beg yonr 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 Stan- 
 ton," 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 ?" 
 
 u Yes, she lives with Mr. Evelyn, her guardian,
 
 196 The Chevaliers Daughter. 
 
 who is bringing her up in his strait-laced fashion." 
 
 " To be a companion to his pattern Mrs. Godol- 
 phin," 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 de- 
 light. "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 Yevette 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." 
 
 " 1 am sure my uncle and aunt seem very kind," 
 said I rather indignantly, and feeling somehow 
 vexed that Andrew should say " our Yevette," 
 though he had often done so before. I was quite 
 dazzled, in truth, by the splendor of these new re- 
 lations, who revived in some degree my old day- 
 dreams. 
 
 " They are so in their way, but that way is not
 
 The Chevaliers Daughter. 197 
 
 ours," said my mother ; " and even were the ad- 
 vantages 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 out- 
 side, 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 1 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
 
 198 The Chevaliers Daughter. 
 
 clasp which his wife fancied, and promised to find 
 a purchaser for the rest a promise which he ful- 
 filled to our great advantage. His conversation 
 was an odd mixture of worldly shrewdness and an 
 almost childlike simplicity, but I observed with ap- 
 proval 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 some- 
 thing 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 wliile, 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 Castlemain, and some 
 other person of the same stamp. I saw my mother 
 flush as with indignation as she said, half to her- 
 self, 
 
 " And it is in such a world as this that they would 
 have me leave my child to be brought up !" 
 
 " You must not tliink, 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
 
 The Chevaliers Daughter. 199 
 
 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 day- 
 dreams 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 dis- 
 regard its teachings, and to repine at the strict man- 
 ner in which I had been brought up. I had grown 
 very handsome since my illness, and I was quite
 
 200 The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 iiware of the fact as what girl is not ? and when I 
 was ;rway from my mother's side and in my aunt's 
 drawing-room I received many flourishing compli- 
 ments, such as were then in fashion, from the gallants 
 <.vho 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 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 Bake well, who would jump 
 at the chance of making herself a lady with her 
 thousands. Truly, she is plain enough, and some- 
 thing 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 Chevalier s Daughter. 201 
 
 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 iu 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 1 confess I should like to keep the 
 girl." ' 
 
 My aunt made no reply, and the conversation 
 was dropped. I must say 1 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. " More-
 
 2O2 The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 over, 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-mor- 
 row." 
 
 " This afternoon," said my mother ; and BO 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.
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter. 203 
 
 " 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 Sun- 
 day with my uncle and aunt. I was quite amazed 
 at the splendor of the church, which had recently 
 been refitted, and deligh Led with the service, espe- 
 cially 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 gen- 
 tlemen bowing and courtesying to each other, whis- 
 pering 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 Presbyte- 
 rian,'' said my aunt, yawning, without any disguise,
 
 204 The Chevaliers Daughter. 
 
 almost before the congregation was dismissed. 
 " And why did you not courtesy 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." 
 
 11 Oh, I thought perhaps it was against your prin- 
 ciples," 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 rus- 
 tic 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.
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter. 205 
 
 " '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 talk- 
 ing 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, nee- 
 dles, thimble, and other implements, beautifully 
 wrought, and packed in a very small compass.
 
 206 The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 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 be- 
 longed 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 Sa- 
 blot. 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,
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter. 207 
 
 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 minis- 
 ter 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, press- 
 ing always more and more severely upon our breth- 
 ren ; 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 
 consist6ries 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 com- 
 munion to which to belong meant shame, imprison- 
 ment, 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
 
 208 The Chevalier s Daughter 
 
 felt miserably ashamed of my late frame of f.> .<!, 
 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. lie 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 to- 
 gether 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 wo were expecting, came just then, and we
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter. 209 
 
 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?"
 
 2 1 o The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 " He rests in peace, madame," answered Sablot. 
 " Jean La Roche and myself buried him at mid- 
 night, by the side of my own babes, in our orchard. 
 We levelled the ground and laid back the turf, BO 
 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 Math- 
 ew 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 Si- 
 mon 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.
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter, 2 1 1 
 
 As for Jeanne, she can wait upon inadame, and 
 
 each 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 sou," 
 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 fin- 
 ished, 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 ah 1 our goods, which indeed were not burden- 
 some by reason of quantity, in a ship going to 
 Plymouth. We had a short and prosperous voy- 
 age, and after resting a day or two in Plymouth we 
 took horse for the far more toilsome journey into 
 Cornwall.
 
 CHAPTEK XI. 
 
 THE MADOC. 
 
 T was a toilsome journey. Andrew had 
 taken great pains to provide easy horses 
 for us, and we carried some comforts in the 
 way of provisions, biscuits, gingerbread, 
 two or three flasks of wine, and small packages of 
 coffee, and one of the new Chinese drink called tea, 
 which had just begun to come in fashion, and which 
 has now become quite common, even in tradesmen's 
 families. For this, as for many other kindnesses, we 
 were indebted to Mr.Pepys and his good little wife. 
 We did not travel very rapidly, the roads being 
 bad, even at this time of the year, and such as in 
 many places forbade our travelling otherwise than 
 in single tile. The weather was charming that 
 was one comfort and the air as delicious as any I 
 ever breathed in ray life. As we crossed the high 
 moors, we saw abundance of those old heathen monu- 
 ments which abound in Normandy, and still more 
 in Brittany, and once we passed one almost exactly 
 like that above our orchard, where my father and I 
 had our memorable conversation. We stopped for
 
 The Chevalier's Daughter. 213 
 
 rest and refreshment in littlo country towns, and 
 sometimes at lonely inns standing by themselves, 
 such as would not have been considered very safe 
 abiding-places in France, and where we should have 
 been at a loss to make ourselves understood but for 
 Andrew and the sailor whom he had taken along 
 from Plymouth. The Cornish tongue, which is now 
 fallen greatly into disuse, was at that time generally 
 spoken among the common people. I picked up a 
 good deal of it afterward, but at that time it was all 
 heathen Greek to me, though my mother could 
 speak it a little. I must needs say that, though we 
 must have appeared as outlandish to them as they 
 did to us, the good folks were most kind to us, espe- 
 cially when they had heard something of our story. 
 They would express their sympathy by sighs and 
 tears, and by bringing out to us the best that they 
 had ; and the men would often leave their work and 
 walk miles beside us to guide us on our way. 
 
 Simon kept up his courage very well, and indeed 
 he enjoyed the journey ; but poor Jeanne's spirits 
 sank lower and lower, and I think she would have 
 given out altogether had we not come, on the fifth 
 day, to cultivated fields and orchards. The sight 
 of these last revived her drooping courage, and 
 when at last we reached the village of Tre Madoc, 
 always a neat little place, and passing it came to the 
 brow of the hill from which we looked down on the 
 house of Tre Madoc, nestling amid great trees in its 
 south-land valley, with the clear stream falling in a
 
 214 The Chevaliers Daughter. 
 
 cascade at the upper end and rushing down to the 
 sea, she was quite another woman. 
 
 " Is this not beautiful, Jeanne ?" said my 
 mother, her eyes filling with tears as she gazed on 
 the old home, unseen for so many years. 
 
 "It is, madame ; I won't deny it, though the 
 house is nothing in grandeur to the Tour d'Antin. 
 And the cottages do look snug and comfortable 
 but after all it is not France !" 
 
 " No, it is not France : don't you wish it were ?" 
 said I. " How nice it would be to see a party of 
 dragoons coming after us over the hill, and to be 
 afraid to pass yonder tumbling old cross lest some 
 one should see that we did not bow to it !" 
 
 I am conscious that I spoke these words all the 
 more sharply because I was myself dreadfully 
 homesick not for France so much as for London, 
 with which I had fallen in love, though I had begun 
 by disliking it so much. I had had a taste of that 
 gay life of which I had so often dreamed, and I 
 found the cup too sweet to wish to have that taste 
 the only one. 
 
 My mother looked at me in surprise, but she had 
 no time to speak the reproof which her eyes uttered. 
 It seemed that we were expected and watched for. 
 "We saw a little lad, who had been sitting with his 
 dog and clapper watching the birds, leave his occu- 
 pation and ran down toward the house, and pres- 
 ently an elderly lady, surrounded by three or four 
 young ones, came out upon the porch. 
 
 " There are my mother and sisters," said An-
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter. 2 1 5 
 
 drew; "and," he added to me, in a lower tone, 
 " your mother, too, Vevette ! I hope you will 
 love her." 
 
 " I am sure I shall," I tried to answer graciously, 
 though I felt inwardly vexed. I always was pro- 
 voked when Andrew said any such thing implying 
 a kind of property in me. I felt an unaccountable 
 shyness of these new relatives, such as I had not 
 been conscious of either in Jersey or London, and I 
 wished the meeting with them could be postponed. 
 But our tired beasts now put themselves into brisk 
 motion, rejoicing, poor creatures, in the thought of 
 rest and food. We descended the hill, passed 
 through a short avenue of nut-trees, and came out 
 before the same porch, overgrown with ivy and a 
 great Virginia vine, as we used to call it, and found 
 ourselves in presence of our friends. Andrew 
 sprang from his horse and assisted my mother and 
 myself to dismount. The older lady clasped my 
 mother in her arms. "Dearest sister Margaret, " 
 said she, kissing her on both cheeks, " welcome 
 home ! It is a happy day that sees you enter your 
 father's house once more. And this is my new 
 daughter. Heaven bless you, my love ! I have a 
 flock of maidens, as you see, but there is plenty of 
 room for one more. And who are these ?" turn- 
 ing to Simon and Jeanne, who had also dismounted 
 and stood modestly in the background. 
 
 My mother explained matters, and our poor friends 
 were welcomed in their turn and committed to the 
 care of a very nice old woman, to be made comfort-
 
 216 T. he Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 able, while one of half a dozen old bine-coated serv 
 ing-men led away our horses and attended to our 
 luggage. Then we were conveyed into a parlor, a 
 large low room wainscoted with cedar and hung 
 with handsome though faded needlework. Here we 
 were relieved of our riding gear and presented to 
 our other cousins, of whom I was too tired and 
 confused to see aught but that Betty was small and 
 dark, Margaret tall and fair, and Rosamond very 
 much like somebody I had known, I could not say 
 whom. 
 
 " But you are both tired with your long journey, I 
 am sure," said my aunt, after the first greetings had 
 been exchanged. " Rosamond and Betty shall show 
 you your lodgings, and when you have refreshed 
 yourselves we will meet at supper. I have given 
 you the gilded room, Margaret, and to Agnes or 
 do you call her Genevieve ? the little chamber over 
 the porch beside it. I might have given you a 
 more sumptuous apartment, my dear," she added, 
 turning to me ; " though indeed we are but plain 
 country folks at best ; but the porch room hath a 
 pleasant lookout, and I thought you would like to 
 be near your mother." 
 
 I murmured something, I hardly knew what, and 
 my mother answered for me. " Yevette is not used 
 to luxury, my dear sister, and the porch room is 
 good enough for any young maid. May I ask you 
 to send Jeanne to me ? She will feel herself very 
 strange, I fear." 
 
 "She shall attend you directly," answered my
 
 The Chevaliers Daughter. 217 
 
 aunt ; " and glad I am that two such confessors for 
 the faith should find a shelter under this roof." 
 
 " Take heed to the steps," said Rosamond, as we 
 came to the foot of the staircase : " they are some- 
 what slippery." 
 
 That they were, being of dark oak, and polished 
 like glass with age and much scrubbing. However, 
 I was used to polished floors, and so did not get a 
 fall. We traversed a long gallery hung with pic- 
 tures, and came to my mother's room, which was 
 large and low. Above the wainscot the walls were 
 covered with old-fashioned stamped and gilded 
 leather, such as one seldom sees now. The bed 
 was of needlework, with wondrous white and fine 
 linen a matter in which we Corbets have always 
 been particular. There was a small Turkey carpet 
 on the floor, and quite a fine Venice glass, with 
 branches, handsomer than that in my aunt's dressing- 
 room in London. I thought the room as pretty as 
 any one I had ever seen. Indeed, the whole house 
 was finished with a richness uncommon in remote 
 country houses at that day, for the men of the 
 family, taking naturally to a seafaring life, had 
 brought home from abroad many articles of luxury 
 and beauty. 
 
 My own room was by far the prettiest I had 
 ever inhabited, even at my aunt's house in London. 
 It was partly over the porch, as my aunt had said, 
 and had a kind of projecting window which com- 
 manded a lovely view of the sea and the shore. 
 The bed was small and hung with white, and there
 
 218 The Chevaliers Daughter. 
 
 was a queer old cabinet or chest of drawers, which 
 reminded me at once of Jeanne's cherished bakut, 
 which she often sighed over. 
 
 " That cabinet came from the south of France, 
 they say," said Rosamond, seeing my eyes fixed 
 npon it. ' ' My grandf atlier brought it home for a 
 present to his wife." 
 
 " There she goes," said Betty, laughing. " Rosa- 
 mond knows the history of every old piece of fur- 
 niture and tapestry and every old picture and sam- 
 pler in the old house, and will retail them to you 
 by the hour, if you care to listen to her. They are 
 all precious relics in her eyes." 
 
 " I am sure I shall care," said I, seeing that 
 Rosamond looked a little dashed. " I love things 
 that have histories, and that old cabinet is so like 
 one that my poor foster-mother used to have that I 
 fell in love with it in a moment ; I think Rosamond 
 and I will agree finely." 
 
 It was now Betty's turn to look a little vexed, 
 but her face cleared up directly. 
 
 " You will have abundance of entertainment, 
 then t for the house is a museum of old furniture 
 and oddities. But this old tabernacle is a con 
 venient affair. Here are empty drawers, as you see, 
 and a place to write, and in this large drawer you 
 will find clean towels and napkins as you want 
 them. Come, Rosamond, let us leave Agnes to 
 dress herself. I am sure she must feel the need of 
 it." 
 
 I did indeed need such a refreshment, after mv
 
 The Chevaliers Daughter. 219 
 
 long ride. My mail was already in the room, and 
 it was with considerable satisfaction that I arrayed 
 myself in one of the new frocks which had been 
 made for me in London, and which, as I could not 
 but be aware, set off to considerable advantage my 
 slender, erect figure. Then, very well satisfied with 
 myself, I went into my mother's room, where 1 
 found Jeanne, much refreshed in mind and body, 
 and disposed to regard her new home with more 
 favorable eyes. My mother was already dressed, 
 and, seated in a great chair covered with needlework 
 flowers in faded silks, was directing Jeanne in the 
 unpacking of her mail and the disposition of her 
 clothes. 
 
 " You look well, my child," said she, holding out 
 her hand to me. " Have riot the lines fallen to us 
 in pleasant places ? Even Jeanne admits that the 
 Cornish folk are Christian people, since, though they 
 cannot speak French, they know how to make 
 cider." 
 
 " And very good cider too, madame," answered 
 Jeanne ; " and though I think them not very polite 
 to smile at the English which I learned so well to 
 speak in London, yet one must not expect too much 
 of them, living as they do at the very world's end. 
 Why, they tell me, at least that old sailor did, there 
 is absolutely no land between the shore yonder and 
 that savage country of America. Do you think 
 that can be true, madame ? It makes one almost 
 afraid." 
 
 " It is quite true, m^ r Jeanne ; but I see no cause
 
 220 The Chevaliers Daughter. 
 
 for fear," answered my mother, smiling. " Some 
 of our own people have settled in America, and are 
 prospering well. We have even relatives abiding 
 there. My husband and I have sometimes talked 
 of the possibility of going thither ourselves. Is not 
 this a pretty place, iny Yevette ?" 
 
 44 Yes. inaman, very pretty, only " and here 
 I stopped, for something choked me, and I felt a 
 great disposition to cry. 
 
 " Only it is all strange and new, and my little 
 one is overwrought,"' said my mother, kissing me. 
 u I forget it is not a home-coming to you as to me. 
 Yet I hope you will try to be happy here," she 
 added, regarding me wistfully. 
 
 " Indeed I will, dear maman," I answered, mak- 
 ing a great effort to control myself, and succeeding 
 pretty well. " I think the house is beautiful, 
 especially this room and my own ; and only think, 
 Mother Jeanne, there is a bahut almost like yours, 
 and my cousin Rosamond says it came from the 
 south of France. Perhaps it was made by the same 
 man." 
 
 " That could hardly be, mamselle, for my great- 
 grandfather made mine. He was a skilful man, I 
 have heard say, and made many beautiful pieces for 
 great houses. ' ' 
 
 " Then why not this one ? Go and look at it," 
 said I. Jeanne obeyed, and soon came back in great 
 excitement. 
 
 " It was it really was made by my great-grand- 
 father, madame !" she cried. " There are the two
 
 The Chevaliers Daughter. 221 
 
 doves pecketting on the top just the same, and the 
 very sign the olive-leaf marked with a circle 
 which he used to put on all his work. Is it not 
 wonderful, madame ? Is it not a good omen ?" 
 And again she went back to examine the cabinet, 
 and I followed her, listening with interest while she 
 pointed out the maker's sign carved here and there 
 upon the doors and drawers, and the peculiar beauty 
 of the steel hinges and locks. 
 
 This little incident diverted my mind and put 
 me into better spirits, and when Rosamond came to 
 call us to supper I was ready to meet her with a 
 smile. The meal was served in another room from 
 that we had seen before a high-arched room with 
 a gallery crossing one end, which was situated so 
 Rosamond told me in the older part of the house, 
 and was formerly the great hall. The meal was well 
 served, and seemed wonderfully abundant, though 
 1 was growing accustomed to English profusion in 
 the matter of eating and drinking. I could not but 
 admire the white, glossy sheen of the damask cloth 
 and napkins, and the beautiful china dishes, more 
 beautiful than any I had ever seen. China col- 
 lecting was a great passion then, and my aunt in 
 London would have given one of her little pink ears 
 for the curious standard dish full of early strawber- 
 ries which adorned the supper-table, or the tall jug 
 crowned with frothy whipped cream beside it. 
 
 We young ones were more or less silent, of course, 
 while my mother and my Aunt Amy talked about 
 old times, and who was dead, and whose son had
 
 222 The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 married which one's daughter, and all the rest of 
 the chat which goes on when old neighbors come to- 
 gether. My dear mother was no disparagement 
 to her either a bit of a gossip ; though, as we had 
 few friends among our French neighbors, she had 
 had little opportunity of indulging her tastes ; but 
 now she grew more animated and interested than I 
 had ever seen her, in hearing all the news my Aunt 
 Amy had to tell. 
 
 "And what about our cousins at Stantoun ?" 
 asked my mother presently. " From what Andrew 
 tells me, I suppose the present lady is not much 
 like the one I knew." 
 
 "No more than chalk is like cream-cheese," 
 answered Aunt Amy. " Yet she is a good lady, 
 too, and a kind stepmother to the lad who is left, 
 though she had two daughters of her own when she 
 married my lord." 
 
 " And what like are they ?" 
 
 " Nay, that you must ask Andrew. He has seen 
 more of them than I have." 
 
 " Theo is well enough," said Andrew. "She is 
 a merry girl, who cares not much for anything but 
 pleasure and finery, but she is good-natured at least. 
 Martha is a girl of another stamp. I pity the man 
 who marries her. She hath far more mind than 
 Theo, but such a temper ! Disagree with her ever 
 so little do but dare to like what she hates or know 
 something she does not and she is your enemy for 
 life." 
 
 " Gently, gently, my son," said his mother, with
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter. 223 
 
 a little laugh. " What hath poor Martha done to 
 you ?" 
 
 " Nothing tome, mother, but 1 have seen enough 
 of her doings to others. I believe there is but one 
 person in the world she stands in awe of her 
 mother and but one she loves her half-brother, 
 the young lord. 1 uo think she cares for him." 
 
 "Ah, well !" said my aunt easily, u if she has 
 such a temper it brings its own punishment." 
 
 " And the punishment of a good many others 
 also, unluckily," said Andrew, and then the con- 
 versation turned to other things. 
 
 After supper Andrew proposed that we should 
 go up and see the gardens. The elders preferred 
 sitting in the house, but we young ones went out, 
 after proper injunctions to keep moving and not 
 to stay out after the dew began to fall. Garden- 
 ing, it appeared, had also been a fashion with these 
 curious Corbets, who seem to me from the earliest 
 records to have made their homes as pleasant as pos- 
 sible, only to run as far away from them as the 
 limits of the world would allow. The flower-beds 
 were in their spring beauty, and were filled with 
 rare plants and flowers, which I never saw anywhere 
 else. The climate of Cornwall is very mild, so that 
 the myrtle grows to a great size out of doors, and 
 many tender trees flourish which will not live at all 
 about London. I particularly admired a tall shrub 
 with red-veined leaves and covered with little scarlet 
 bells in immense profusion, and asked its name. 
 
 "I cannot tell you that," said Andrew. "My
 
 224 The Chevaliers Daughter. 
 
 father brought it from the "West Indies, where it 
 grows very large. This other bush, with bright scar- 
 let flowers and broad leaves, is from the Cape of 
 Good Hope, but it will bear no frost, so we take it 
 in in the winter." 
 
 " What great rosemary and lavender plants !" 
 said I. " They make me think of what Jeanne has 
 told me about Provence, where they grow wild. ' ' 
 
 " They do fairly well, though the place is damp 
 for them. See, yonder is a tulip-tree. Is it not a 
 grand one ? The Americans make great use of the 
 wood, which, though soft, is very lasting for some 
 purposes. 1 ' 
 
 " What a pity to cut down such beautiful trees !" 
 said I. Andrew laughed. 
 
 " Trees are the great enemies over there," said 
 he. " It did look terribly wasteful to me to see 
 great logs of hard maple, chestnut, and oak, rolled 
 into heaps and burned in the field, just to get rid of 
 them." 
 
 " What a shame !" said Betty. " Why not at 
 least give them to the poor for fuel. Goody Pena- 
 luna would be glad enough of such a log." 
 
 "If Goody Penaluna were there she would have 
 wood enough for the asking," replied Andrew. 
 ' ' One can hardly say there are any poor, for though 
 they have often had hard times enough, yet it 
 mostly comes share and share alike." 
 
 " 1 believe Andrew hath a hankering after those 
 same colonies in his secret soul," said Betty.
 
 The Chevalier s Daiighter. 225 
 
 " You will find yourself transplanted thither some 
 time or other, Agnes." 
 
 Again I felt annoyed. I did not know why. 
 
 " Do not call me Agnes ; call me Vevette," said 
 I. " That is the name I have always been used to. " 
 
 " But Agnes is so much prettier. Vevette is 
 like a nickname, ' ' objected Betty. 
 
 "It is a sort of pet name, I suppose short for 
 Genevieve," remarked Margaret. "If Vevette 
 likes it best, she certainly has a right to choose." 
 
 " But it is French," objected Betty again, " and 
 she is an English girl now. I am quite sure mother 
 would prefer to have her called Agnes, and Andrew 
 too ; wouldn't you, Andrew ?" 
 
 " I should prefer that she should have her own 
 way in the matter," answered Andrew shortly, and 
 there the discussion ended for the time ; but we 
 were no sooner in the house than Betty began it 
 again, appealing to her mother to say if it would 
 not be much better for me to be called by my Eng- 
 lish name now 1 was come to live in England. 
 
 " That is for her mother to say," replied Aunt 
 Amy. " I presume she will prefer to call her by 
 tLe name she has been used to." 
 
 " 1 certainly shall prefer to do so, and to have 
 others do so," said my mother. " The name of 
 Agnes was never a favorite of mine." 
 
 Betty said no more, but she never lost an oppor- 
 tunity of calling me Agnes, till I took to calling her 
 Elizabeth, to which name she had a special aver- 
 sion.
 
 226 The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 The next morning and for many succeeding days 
 my mother was very unwell, and I naturally spent 
 most of my time with her in her apartment, which 
 was at some little distance from the rest of the 
 house. Jeanne attended on her, and Simon worked 
 in the garden, taking great pleasure in the variety 
 of plants and flowers he found there. He got on 
 very well with his fellow-servants, being of a quiet 
 and sober disposition. He did not at all disturb 
 himself when laughed at for his mistakes in English, 
 but only laughed back, or contented himself with 
 quietly correcting his mistake. But Jeanne's 
 southern blood was more easily stirred, and she 
 more than once came to my mother declaring that she 
 could endure her life no longer. Betty used to take 
 pleasure in teasing her, as indeed she did every one 
 who came within her reach, except her mother and 
 Andrew, of whom she stood in awe. She and 1 
 had more than one encounter, in which 1 can safely 
 say that she met her match, and she did not like me 
 the better for it ; but Rosamond was her especial 
 butt, and she made the poor girl's life miserable. 
 Rosamond was of a studious turn of mind, and 
 loved nothing so much as to get away by herself, 
 with a great chronicle, or with her French or Latin 
 books. It was a somewhat uncommon disposition 
 at that time, when the education of women was 
 much neglected, even more than it is now. But 
 the Corbets have always been rather a bookish race, 
 and Rosamond was a true Corbet in all things. She 
 loved acquiring new icleas^ above any other pleasure
 
 The Chevaliers Daughter. 227 
 
 in the world. She made Simon tell her all about 
 Normandy and Brittany, and there were several old 
 sailors in the village to whose tales of foreign parts 
 she was delighted to listen for hours, albeit I fear 
 they were sometimes more romantic than reliable. 
 Aunt Amy never interfered with this taste of Rosa- 
 mond's, but allowed her to read as much as she 
 pleased, though she never cared to open a book her- 
 self. Margaret was Rosamond's champion in all 
 things, though she thought so much reading a 
 waste of time ; but Betty was always tormenting 
 the poor girl, hiding her books, destroying her col- 
 lections of dried plants and shells, and laughing at 
 and exaggerating the mistakes which she now and 
 then made in her preoccupation. I must say that 
 in general Rosamond bore all with the utmost sweet- 
 ness, but now and then she would fly into a passion. 
 Then Betty would provoke her more and more till 
 she succeeded in driving Rosamond into a burst of 
 passionate crying, which generally ended in a fit of 
 the mother, which brought my aunt on the scene. 
 Then Betty would be all sweetness and soothing 
 attentions to the sufferer, bringing everything she 
 could think of to relieve her, and affecting to pity 
 and pet her till, if it had been me, I am sure I 
 should have boxed her ears. Aunt Amy never saw 
 through these manoeuvres, but when Rosamond re- 
 covered she would talk to her seriously about the 
 necessity of governing her temper, and Rosamond 
 would listen humbly and meekly promise to try and 
 do better. There was always more real worth in her
 
 228 The Chevalier Daughter s. 
 
 little finger than there was inBetty's whole person, 
 but her timidity and absent-minded ways often 
 made her appear at a disadvantage. She and my 
 mother were soon great friends, and she used to 
 bring her precious books to our apartment, where 
 Betty dared not intrude. Here she would read 
 aloud to us for hours, or practise her French and 
 Italian with maman and myself. She spoke them 
 both horribly, but was very desirous to improve, 
 and made great progress. Margaret also joined in 
 the French lessons, but she had a great many other 
 things on her hands. She took a good deal of 
 the care of housekeeping off her mother. She 
 visited the poor in the village, and worked for 
 them, and she had taken upon herself a kind of 
 supervision of the dame school, which furnished all 
 the education for the village of Tre Madoc. Old 
 Dame Penberthy, who taught or rather kept it, had 
 not been a very good scholar in her best days, I 
 imagine, and she was now old and half blind. The 
 little children were sent to her to be kept out of 
 mischief, and taken away as soon as they were fit 
 for any sort of work. Some of the brightest of 
 them learned enough to pick out, with much stam- 
 mering, a chapter in the Testament, and these were 
 the dame's best scholars, whom she exhibited with 
 great pride. Margaret, however, had lately taken 
 the school in hand, moved thereto by something 
 she had read, and also by Andrew's wish for a bet- 
 ter state of things. He had seen in the American 
 colonies day-schools established for all sorts of chil-
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter. 229 
 
 dren, and he wished for something of the same sort 
 at Tre Madoc. So Margaret had persuaded the 
 dame to take home an orphan grandneice, a clever 
 girl who had lived a while at the court, and the old 
 woman easily fell into the way of letting this girl, 
 Peggy Mellish byname, have most of the charge of 
 the school. Margaret herself went every other day, 
 to inspect the sewing and spinning, and to hear the 
 children say their horn-book and teach them their 
 Belief and Commandments.* By and by she would 
 have rue join her in this work. I was fond of walk- 
 ing and of children ; iny mother and Andrew 
 favored the plan, and so I took hold of it with great 
 zeal, and after a few visits along with Margaret to 
 learn her ways, I even took charge of the school on 
 alternate days, and soon knew as much about the 
 families of the children, their wants and ways, as 
 Margaret herself. Thus it came to pass that Betty 
 was in a manner left out in the cold. It was her 
 own fault, 1 must needs say, for she laughed equally 
 at Meg's and my teaching and Rosamond's learn- 
 ing ; but she was not any more pleased for that ; and 
 so, partly from idleness, partly for revenge, she sc t 
 herself to make mischief between Andrew and 
 me. But I must put off the relation to another 
 chapter. 
 
 * A horn-book was a printed sheet' containing the alphabet 
 and some other lessons, protected from moist little fingers by a 
 sheet of transparent horn.
 
 CHAPTER Xll. 
 
 MISCHIEF. 
 
 HAVE said that my mother was very un- 
 well for a time after her arrival at Tre 
 Madoc, and my aunt feared she would go 
 off in a quick decline ; but by degrees she 
 recovered strength again, so as to walk into the garden 
 to help my aunt in the still-room and dairy occupa- 
 tions, of which she was very fond, and after a while 
 to ride' the easy old pony as far as the village, to see 
 some of the sick and old people. An accident had 
 happened to .Andrew's ship, the Enterprise, which 
 had put off her sailing for some weeks. We were 
 all very glad of the respite, my mother especially, 
 to whom Andrew was most devoted more so than 
 to myself, which was very sensible of him. He 
 used to walk at her bridle-rein, gather flowers for 
 her, and in short pay her a great many attentions 
 which were more lover-like than filial. He had 
 never again spoken to rne on the subject of mar- 
 riage, and always sharply hushed up any allusion to 
 the matter on the part of other members of the 
 family ; and though he was very kind and very
 
 Tkc Chevaliers Daughter. 231 
 
 attentive to my comfort, it was more as a brother 
 than a lover. It was the course, if lie had known 
 it, just calculated to make me care for him, if only 
 out of pique, and accordingly I began to watch for 
 his coming, to wonder whether he would ask me 
 to walk with him, and to dress so as to please his 
 eye. I began to take an interest in the farm and 
 garden, as indeed I had been used to do at home, 
 and I was more than ever zealous in visiting and 
 working for the school and the poor folks. My 
 aunt had taken to me at once, and I to her, and I 
 believe but for the meddling of another we should 
 never have had a falling out. My charitable work 
 and my studies with Rosamond and my mother had 
 again brought my better self uppermost, and despite 
 Betty's teasing and an occasional sigh for London, 
 or a spasm of home-sickness for dear Normandy, I 
 was very happy. 
 
 I have said that Betty set herself to make mis- 
 chief, and she succeeded certainly to her heart's 
 content, or one would have thought so. She is 
 gone to her account long ago, poor thing, and I feel 
 tenderly toward her memory, for she was my An- 
 drew's sister ; but I cannot make my story under- 
 stood without speaking of her faults. 
 
 She began with Jeanne. The housekeeper and 
 chief personage under Margaret was an old woman 
 named Deborah Permuen. an excellent person, but 
 of somewhat irritable temper, and very jealous of 
 her authority and her influence with her mistress. 
 She and Jeanne had begun by being great friends ;
 
 232 The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 for Deborah was a hot Protestant, and a Presby- 
 terian to boot, who, though she regularly attended 
 the parish church on Sundays, as regularly went on 
 Thursdays to a gathering of her own sort of folks, 
 which was held in a cottage on the verge of the 
 estate. She even condescended to learn of Jeanne 
 how to prepare an " omelette aux herbs'' and several 
 other French dishes, imparting in return various im- 
 portant culinary secrets of her own. 
 
 By degrees, however, her friendship cooled. She 
 began to throw out hints about interlopers, and 
 French Jesuits in disguise coming to interfere in 
 peaceable families. She declined anything but civ- 
 illy a proposition of Jeanne's to teach her the true 
 way of making a galette ; and at last the crowning 
 offence threw into the pig's mess a fine salad 
 with crawfish, which Jeanne had prepared for 
 Andrew's birfhday, declaring that she would not 
 have her young master poisoned with French pig- 
 wash. Jeanne rushed to rny mother with com- 
 plaints, not observing or not heeding that my aunt 
 was in the next room looking over a drawer of linen 
 in the cabinet. Then Deborah was called upon the 
 scene, and told her story, which she did with many 
 tears and exclamations that ever she should have 
 lived to see the day that she should be supplanted 
 by a foreigner, and so on. 
 
 "You foolish old woman, what do you mean ?" 
 said my aunt, out of patience at last. " Who is 
 thinking of supplanting you ?" 
 
 " Why, that French woman there ?" sobbed
 
 The Chevalier's Daiighter. 233 
 
 Deborah, pointing to Jeanne, who, burning with in- 
 dignation all the more because my mother had im- 
 posed silence on her, stood behind her mistress' 
 chair. ' ' Did not she say that she would have me 
 out of this house in a twelvemonth, and that when 
 her young lady ruled the roast in the parlor it 
 would be her turn in the kitchen ?" 
 
 " I don't believe she said so," said my mother ; 
 and she translated Deborah's remark for Jeanne's 
 benefit. 
 
 " Indeed, indeed, madame, I never said such a 
 word," was Jeanne's reply. " I never thought of 
 such a thing. I had too much respect for Deborah, 
 let alone Madame Corbet, ever to say a thing so im- 
 polite, so improper." 
 
 " What did you say to Mrs. Betty then, when she 
 asked you about it?" demanded Deborah, begin- 
 ning to calm down a little. 
 
 " Nothing at all," was the answer. " Mrs. Betty 
 said to me that she supposed I should be the what 
 say you ? the manager, when Mrs. Yevette and the 
 young master were married, and that she hoped I 
 would give them more nice things than Mrs. Deborah 
 did ; to which I answered nothing ; for it did not 
 seem to me, craving madame's pardon, that it was a 
 proper way for a young lady of the house to speak to 
 a servant. So, when she added something more, I 
 said I was Madame d' An tin's servant, and at her 
 disposal ; and I added no more. My feelings have 
 been much hurt by Mrs. Deborah's remarks of late; 
 and to-day especially I was so moved by her treat-
 
 2^4 The Chevaliers Daughter. 
 
 nicnt of my salad ah, madam c ! sucli noble salade 
 des ecrevisses ! that I fear I forgot myself. Alas, it 
 is too easy to wound the heart of an exile and a 
 childless mother. " And here Jeanne wept in her 
 turn, and Deborah began to look rather ashamed, 
 and to mutter some thing about ' ' not meaning. ' ' 
 
 " I see how it is," said my aunt, who with all 
 her easiness of disposition was not a person to be 
 despised ; " Deborah has allowed herself to be prej- 
 udiced, and to believe her mistress capable of the 
 most unworthy conduct." 
 
 " Oh, mistress, don't !" implored Deborah, weep- 
 ing afresh. 
 
 " And she has been guilty of great unkindness 
 toward a stranger and a foreigner, and one of her 
 own religion," added my aunt, with emphasis; 
 " while Jeanne has perhaps been too hasty and 
 ready to take offence." 
 
 " I own it, madame," sobbed Jeanne in her 
 turn ; " I have been too hasty ; but to be called a 
 Jesuit, when I have suffered so much by them ; and 
 theft my beautiful salad, which the young master 
 used to like so much in France " 
 
 " Well, never mind," said my aunt. " I am 
 sure Deborah is sorry she called you by such an 
 ugly name ; and as to the salad, I think if we can 
 forgive the loss, you can. Come, now, let me see 
 you shake hands and make friends, like Christian 
 women ; and let me hear of no more quarrels." 
 
 The two combatants obeyed, with a very decent 
 grace on Deborah's side, and with considerable
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter. 235 
 
 effusion on that of Jeanne, who adored my aunt, and, 
 to do her justice, was always placable. Deborah 
 departed to her own dominions, and my aunt, going 
 to her own room, sent for Mrs. Betty, who did not 
 appear at dinner, and who was at least more careful 
 in her conduct for some days, though I have reason 
 to think her heart was little affected by her disgrace 
 or her mother's admonitions. It was only a few 
 days afterward that Jeanne came to her mistress 
 again, with a humble request that she would inter- 
 cede with Madame Corbet to allow her to change 
 her room. For since my mother had been so un- 
 well Jeanne had occupied a room at the end of the 
 gallery leading to our apartment, which, as I liave 
 said, was somewhat separated from the rest of the 
 house. 
 
 "Why, what is the matter with the room?'' 
 asked my mother ; " I thought it a very nice one/' 
 
 " And so it is madame, but 
 
 "But what?" 
 
 " I would rather not sleep there, rnadame." 
 
 " Some one has been telling you ghost stories," 
 said I, a sudden idea coming to me. " Is it not 
 so?" 
 
 " Ah, maniselle !" and Jeanne began to cry, as 
 usual. 
 
 " Do be reasonable," said my mother, rather 
 impatiently, for she was tired and not very well. 
 " Stop crying, aud tull me what has scared you." 
 
 It was not easy to pacify Jeanne, but we succeeded 
 ;it last, and then the truth came out. Mrs. Betty
 
 236 The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 had told her that a headless woman with fiery eyes 
 came out of a secret closet in the hall of that room, 
 which no one had been able to find, and that who- 
 ever saw her became blind. 
 
 " Where does she keep her fiery eyes, if she has 
 no head in her pocket ?" I asked, laughing at this 
 very original ghost. " Perhaps she carries them 
 on a dish before her, like St. What's-her-name in 
 the picture." 
 
 " Ah, mamselle ! do not laugh. I did indeed see 
 something two fiery eyes in the dark and my 
 eyes have not felt right since." 
 
 " The eyes of that great gray cat which is always 
 following you up-stairs and down," said my mother. 
 Then, seeing that the poor woman was really un- 
 happy, she tried to reason her out of her fears on 
 religious grounds, but, as usually happens in such 
 cases, without much success. Jeanne owned the 
 truth of all she said ; but Finally my mother gave 
 way, and asked my aunt to allow a cot-bed to be put 
 into the large light closet which opened from my 
 mother's room. 
 
 " Why, certainly, if you like to have her there," 
 said my aunt. " You know I thought it would be 
 more convenient for you, in the first place." 
 
 "It is not that exactly," replied my mother ; 
 " but Jeanne lias taken a fit of superstitious terror 
 and is afraid of, I know not what apparition, which 
 some one has told her comes out of a closet in the 
 wall of her room. I have reasoned with her, but^ 
 of course, to no purpose.
 
 The Chevalier's Daughter. 237 
 
 " Is there really such a ghost about the house, 
 aunt?" I asked. 
 
 " There used to be an old story to \Aai effect," 
 said my aunt ; " but I do not know that any one has 
 ever seen the apparition. Cornwall i famous for 
 such things. You shall hardly find an old hall or 
 mansion in the country which lias not its tale of 
 wonder." 
 
 " I think there is more of it than the.e used to 
 be in Normandy even," I remarked. " Old Dame 
 Trehorn was quite in despair about her sons yester- 
 day, because she says she heard the old shoes dance 
 of themselves in the press the night before last, and 
 she is sure their owners either are or will be 
 drowned. And Mary Hellish would not let the 
 children come to school yesterday because some one 
 heard the wish-hounds the night before." 
 
 " It is a pity the poor people would -not learn to 
 have more faith in God and less fear of apparitions 
 and the like," said my mother. 
 
 My aunt looked a little displeased. " I suppose, 
 sister Meg, you will hardly go so far as to say there 
 are no such things as ghosts and fairies and the 
 like," said she. " That would indeed be to be 
 wiser than our fathers. ' ' 
 
 " But, Aunt Amy, we are wiser than our fathers 
 in a great many things, or think we are," said I. 
 " Our fathers used to believe in purgatory, and 
 worshipping of images and the like, but we do 
 not." 
 
 My aunt deigned me no answer.
 
 258 The Chevalier s Daughter, 
 
 "As to Jeanne, sister, you will of course do as 
 you please, since she is your woman, and the apart- 
 ment is yours. I would, however, that you would 
 try to teach her to live on better terms with Deborah 
 :;nd the other woman. I am not used to these 
 quarrels below stairs." 
 
 I would have spoken, for I felt very warm in 
 defense of my foster-mother, but maman checked me 
 with a look, and said gently that she hoped not to 
 need Jeanne much longer, and after that she would 
 of course lodge with her husband at his cottage. 
 
 *' Why, there it is," said my aunt. " As soon as 
 one speaks a word, you take offence. And now that 
 we are on the subject" (she did not say what sub- 
 ject), " I must say that I cannot think it becomes 
 Yevette to remark upon my housekeeping before 
 the maids. She is not yet mistress, however she 
 may come to be, and I think young maids had best 
 learn in silence and not pass their judgment on what 
 is done by their elders. Our Catechism teaches 
 young folks.to order themselves lowly and reverently 
 to their betters, whatever yours may do in France." 
 And here my aunt stopped, having talked herself 
 quite out of breath. 
 
 " What do you mean, aunt ?" I asked, quite be- 
 wildered by this accusation. " When have 1 
 censured you ?" 
 
 " Oh, you know very well what 1 mean, I am 
 quite sure. It might be only thoughtlessness, but 
 you ought to be more careful/'
 
 The Ckevaliers Datig liter. 239 
 
 " But, aunt, indeed I do not know ; I Lave not 
 die least idea," said I, whicli was quite true. 
 
 " Will you be so kind, sister Corbet, as to tell my 
 child and her mother to what your allude ?" saul 
 my mother, with all that stateliiiess which was nat- 
 ural to her., but speaking kindly. " I assure you 
 that if my daughter hath done wrong, either wil- 
 fully or carelessly, she shall ask your pardon." 
 
 Aunt Amy had had time to cool. " Ah, well, I 
 dare say it was but thoughtlessness ; and young 
 maids must be young maids, I suppose. ' ' 
 
 " But what was it ?" my mother persisted, to my 
 secret delight, for I was not conscious of any offence. 
 
 Aunt Amy could not remember the words ; only 
 Betty had told her that I had found fault with the 
 housekeeping, and said that when I was mistress I 
 would have things thus and so. I began to see 
 daylight. 
 
 " Dear aunt, I will tell you how it was," said I. 
 "We were all gathering lavender-flowers for the 
 still, and I saw that Peggy, the still-room maid, had 
 been crying, and asked what was the matter. She 
 said the mistress had been scolding her because she 
 had on ragged stockings, and because she did not 
 keep her head neat ; and Betty asked me if I did not 
 think that was hard on the poor girl, when she had 
 so much to do. And 1 said no : if I were her mis- 
 tress I would make her knit her own hose and wear 
 a clear-starched cap every day, as the maids do in 
 Normandy. Then Meg laughed, and said I would 
 be a pattern housekeeper, no doubt ; and I said I did
 
 240 TJie Chevalier s Daug liter. 
 
 not believe I should ever be as good-natured as you 
 were. That was the whole of it. I am sure 
 nothing was farther from my thoughts than any 
 disrespect ; and as to your housekeeping, T think it 
 is as perfect as can be only, of course, many of the 
 ways are different from ours, and when I notice 
 them 'tis natural to speak of them." 
 
 " Betty made much more of the matter than 
 that," said my aunt. " Well, sister Meg, I will 
 have a cot-bed sent up, and you can place it where 
 you please. I am sure I want every one under my 
 roof to be comfortable, each in their degree. But 
 another thing I must speak of." Aunt Amy was 
 like many other easy-going folks : when she got 
 started she never knew when to stop. " I don't 
 want you, Agnes I mean Vevette, or whatever 
 your name is I don't want you turning my girls' 
 heads with romances and plays and stories of Lon- 
 don gayeties and London fine gentlemen and ladies. 
 If you have a taste for such matters, it is a pity you 
 had not stayed with your uncle, and married some 
 fine gentleman about the court, instead of poor An- 
 drew, whose estate will stand no such doings, as I 
 warn you beforehand. There, I want no answer ; 
 but don't do it again." And with that she bustled 
 away. 
 
 " What does it all mean ?" I asked, when I was 
 left alone with my mother. 
 
 " It means what I might have considered before 
 we came here that no one house was ever yet large 
 enough for two families," said my mother. " But
 
 The Chevaliers Daughter. 241 
 
 what is this about turning heads with stories about 
 London ?" 
 
 "Why, maman, you know how Rosamond is 
 how she is always longing to hear about places one 
 has seen. The night before last I said I had told 
 her everytliing I could think of about La Manche 
 and Jersey, and I should have to begin upon Lon- 
 don. So I told her of the parks and the palace and 
 other places where I went with my uncle and aunt 
 and with Mr. and Mrs. Pepys. Then Betty began 
 asking me whether my uncle and aunt did not see a 
 deal of gay company, and so I told her something 
 about that, and about the dresses in the park, and so 
 on. Rosamond did not care to hear, and went away 
 to her book, but Betty kept me telling a long 
 time. And last night she asked me about it again, 
 and whether I would 'not have liked to live with 
 my aunt Jemima in London." 
 
 " And what did you say ?" asked my mother. 
 
 " I said, l Not to leave you ; ' and besides, since I 
 had come down here and learned to know the peo- 
 ple, I liked the place ; and so I do. Only I shall 
 not like it, I am sure, if my aunt turns against me.'' 
 
 " Let us hope she will not," said my mother. 
 " Sister Amy is a good creature, but she has an 
 oddity of disposition which belongs to her family. 
 She will let herself be prejudiced against her best 
 friend by any mischief-maker who will take the 
 pains to do it. Her sister, who was my great friend 
 when we were young, was just so. She made a 
 hasty marriage, against the wishes of her father and
 
 242 The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 of her husband's family, and though they forgave 
 her afterward, she was for some time in a good deal 
 of trouble. I stood by her through all, yet she let 
 herself be altoge'ther set against me by some of her 
 husband's relations, who had themselves said the 
 most shameful things about her, even affecting her 
 reputation as a virtuous woman." 
 
 " She must have been very silly," said I. 
 
 " In that respect she certainly was. But, my 
 Yevette, let me hear no more of these talks with 
 Betty about London. They are not very good for 
 yourself, who tave, I fear, now and then a longing 
 back-look to the courts of Egypt, and I doubt their 
 being good for Betty herself. You had best avoid 
 her company, so far as you can without offence, and 
 above all do not have any confidences with her. 
 Margaret and Rosamond are as open as the day, but 
 unless I much misread poor Betty, she is a born 
 mischief-maker. " 
 
 Here the conversation ended. That evening 
 Betty began again to ask me about London > having 
 drawn me away from the rest of the young folks 
 who were assembled on the green ; but I gave her 
 short answers, and at last plainly told her that 1 
 could say no more about the matter. 
 
 "But why not?" asked Betty. "You talked 
 long enough about it last night." 
 
 " Yes, and you went and told your mother, and 
 she lectured me this morning about turning your 
 )iead with stories of London fine gentlemen." 
 
 Betty assumed an air of innocent surprise.
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter. 243 
 
 " Did you not want me to tell, then ?" said she. 
 " I never thought of that. I have no secrets from 
 my mother." 
 
 I was too angry to trust myself with a word, and 
 I turned back to where the rest of the family were 
 standing, looking at a pair of hawks which Andrew 
 had taken from the nest and trained h mself ; for, 
 sailor as he was, he was very fond of field sports, 
 specially of hawking. I placed myself at his side, 
 and began admiring and petting the hawks, which I 
 had often fed till they were fond of me. Andrew 
 looked pleased. 
 
 "I shall leave them in your care," said he; 
 " only old Joslyns must take them out now and 
 then or they will forget how to y." 
 
 " I am sure I shall like to have them," said I. 
 " And, Andrew, will you get me a new hare's-foot 
 for Dame Penaluna ? She says hers does no good 
 because it was cut off below the first joint." 
 
 " What does she want it for to paint her face 
 withal?" asked Andrew. " That is what the fine 
 ladies use them for, is it not ?" 
 
 " So I have heard," I answered, laughing ; " but 
 the dame wants hers as a spell against the colic." 
 
 " She shall have it," said Andrew, and again ho 
 looked pleased, as he always did when I made any 
 little request, which was not often, for I had grown 
 shy of him of late. " You seem to be in the confi- 
 dence of all the old women in the hamlet, from 
 what I hear. What do you do to make them like 
 you so much ?"
 
 244 The Chevalier's Daughter. 
 
 " I don't know, unless it be that I listen to their 
 stories," I answered. " I think old folks usually 
 do like that. They like to tell, and I like to 
 hearken, so we are both suited." 
 
 " "Vevette is practising her part beforehand," 
 said Betty, who had followed me back to the green. 
 " She means to be perfect in it by the time she 
 comes to be Lady of the Manor. My mother has 
 never had time to do so much listening." 
 
 Andrew shot one of his fiery glances at his sister, 
 while I was so confused and so angry both at once 
 that I could not say a word. I was going into the 
 house when he called me and asked me to walk with 
 him to the end of the lane and look out upon the 
 sea. Betty said she would go too, but Margaret 
 called her back rather sharply, to my great joy, for 
 I hardly felt like keeping terms with her, and I was 
 determined not to quarrel if I could help it. 
 
 " You must not mind poor Betty, " said Andrew. 
 (Why is the most exasperating member of a family 
 always spoken of as poor so and so ?) " She has 
 always been the contrary feather in the family nest, 
 ever since she was born." 
 
 " I do not mean to mind her," said I, "if only 
 she would not make mischief. But I think it is 
 too bad in her to lead me on to tell her about Lon- 
 don and my uncle and aunt there, and then go and 
 tell your mother, as if it had been all my doing. 
 And then but there, what is the use ?" I added. 
 ** You cannot understand, and there is no need of 
 troubling you with the matter. Only I wish we
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter. 245 
 
 had stayed in Jersey that is all," I concluded, with 
 a quiver in my voice. Andrew pressed my hand, 
 and we were silent a few minutes. Then he said, 
 " I have a favor to ask of you, Yevette." 
 
 "I am glad of it," said I, as indeed I was. 
 " What can I do for you ?" 
 
 "You are a famous knitter," said he. ""Will 
 you knit me a pair of long, warm woollen hose be- 
 fore I go?" 
 
 " Yes indeed ; but do you not want more than 
 one pair ?" 
 
 " I did not suppose you would have time for 
 more than one." 
 
 " That is a likely story !" said I. "As if I could 
 not knit more than one pair of hosen in four weeks. 
 I will begin them directly. I know Jeanne has 
 been spinning some famous yarn." 
 
 We talked a little longer about various matters 
 about the places where Andrew was going, and the 
 time when he would return and then we fell into 
 graver talk, and from that again to jesting, till I 
 had quite recovered my serenity. 
 
 The next morning was my turn at the school, and 
 I walked thither with my head quite full of schemes 
 for the improvement of my little folk which 1 
 meant to talk over with Andrew, for somehow our 
 walk and that the night before had put us in some 
 degree upon our old brotherly and sisterly footing 
 again. I found the children assembled and ready 
 to welcome me, and we had a prosperous morning. 
 When I came out, there was my mother on her
 
 246 The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 pony, with Andrew at her bridle-rein as usual. My 
 little regiment sent off quite &feu dejoie, as I may 
 gay, of bobs and courtesies, showing their black curly 
 heads and white teeth to great advantage ; for they 
 were, almost without exception, handsome. Corn- 
 wall was and is a country of handsome folk, and 
 our hamlet is no exception to the rule. 
 
 "And how does the college prosper?" asked 
 Andrew, after he had spoken to one and another of 
 the young ones, and had acknowledged the salute 
 of Peggy Hellish, who stood smiling and courtesying 
 in her clean kirtle and apron, quite a picture of a 
 young school-mistress. 
 
 " Very well," I answered ; " only just now we 
 are greatly in need of certain articles called knitting- 
 pins. There are none to be had, it seems, nearer 
 than Plymouth, if indeed they are to be found 
 there. I want to teach the elder girls to knit, but 
 I cannot if I have no pins." 
 
 " That does stand to reason," answered Andrew 
 gravely ; " but perhaps the blacksmith could make 
 some of these same pins, with a little of my assist- 
 ance. I am a bit of a smith myself." 
 
 " So you ought to be. The knights of old could 
 forge their own armor, you know. But I think you 
 are a little of everything," said I. "If ever we 
 should be cast away upon a desert island, like the 
 folks you read of yesterday, you could set up house- 
 keeping, and make yourself a great king among the 
 people." 
 
 " Jack at all trades and master at none," said
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter. 247 
 
 Andrew, looking pleased, as lie always did when I 
 made any such remark. " But here is your old 
 dame's hare's-foot. It has the needful joint, you 
 see. I cut it off myself ." 
 
 11 Many thanks. I will carry it to her if you will 
 wait for me." 
 
 " Nay, we will all go that way that is, if Andrew 
 does not mind the walk," said my mother. "I 
 have a fancy to see the old house at St. Wenna's 
 Well." 
 
 " The walk is nothing, so the ride is not too much 
 for you," answered Andrew. " As for Yevette, I 
 know she minds walking no more than the old pony 
 here." 
 
 " Very polite, to compare me to a pony," said 
 I, pretending to pout. " But I shall like to see the 
 old house. Does any one live in it ?" 
 
 " Only the woman who cares for it ; and she is 
 worth seeing too," answered Andrew. " Is not 
 this the old dame's cottage ?" 
 
 It was, and the dame was within, groaning 
 grievously with the colic ; but no sooner did she 
 take the hare's-foot into her hand, such was the vir- 
 tue of the remedy or the effect of her faith in it, 
 than she was presently quite easy. 
 
 " Do you suppose it really helped her ?" I asked, 
 when we were again on our way. 
 
 " Nay, that I cannot say," said Andrew. " 'Tis 
 an old notion, and for aught I know may have some 
 virtue in it. At all events, it hath this advantage
 
 248 ? he Chevalier s Daughter* 
 
 over some other medicaments, that if it does no 
 good it can do no harm." 
 
 " What is there so odd about the housekeeper at 
 the Well House ?" I asked, when we had gone on 
 a little. 
 
 " You will easily discover that when you see 
 her,' answered Andrew. " But aside from her 
 person there is something peculiar in the manner of 
 her appearance among us. She was found when a 
 little child, wandering upon the sea-shore early one 
 morning after a great storm of thunder and wind. 
 She was very small, but from her ways it was 
 judged she must be three or four years old, for she 
 could speak plainly, though in a language none un- 
 derstood. She was somewhat richly dressed, and 
 had about her neck a thin gold .chain and the image 
 of some bird wrought in the same metal. The folk 
 thought her a fairy changeling or else a sea-maid, 
 and were almost afraid of her ; but an old couple 
 then living in the Well House took her in and 
 brought her up as their own. She well repaid 
 their care, having been a most dutiful daughter to 
 them. A She hath never married, and now that the 
 old folks are dead she lives in the Well House, to 
 take care of it. She is an odd little body, but very 
 faithful and honest." 
 
 We had by this time come in sight of the Well 
 House, as it was called, which stood in its own little 
 coombe opening dowii to the sen at the very mouth 
 of Tre Madoc valley. It was a pretty little old house, 
 built of warm red stone and shadowed by a great
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter. 249 
 
 walnut-tree and an ash. At a little distance, and 
 indeed almost joining the house, was a very tiny 
 ruined chapel or oratory, such as one often sees by 
 the roadside in France. A small bright stream ran 
 through the garden, which was pretty though rather 
 wild and overgrown. I took a fancy to the place 
 at once. 
 
 "It hath not changed in the least," said my 
 mother ; " only the trees are grown and the old 
 chestnut is away. What hath become of it ?" 
 
 " It blew down a few years since ,in a great 
 storm," answered Andrew. "I made a cabinet 
 and table of the wood, which are now in the 
 house." 
 
 Have you any of the chestnuts we brought from 
 the Tour d'Antin ?" asked my mother, turning 
 to me. " If so, you might plant two or three here." 
 
 " I have them, but I fear they are too dry to 
 grow," said I. " However, it can do no harm to 
 try." 
 
 (Two of them did grow, and are now fine bearing 
 trees.) 
 
 " See, there is the holy well, under the arch 
 yonder," said my mother. " I wonder do the vil- 
 lage maids come on St. John's even to drop needles 
 into it that they may dream of their sweethearts ?' ' 
 
 " Yes indeed ; and the water is still sought for 
 baptisms, under the notion that no person christened 
 with that water will ever be hanged," said Andrew. 
 " See, Yevette, there is my fairy housekeeper." 
 
 A fairy indeed she looked. I never saw so small
 
 250 The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 a person not to be a dwarf, yet she was perfectly 
 well proportioned and very upright. Her hair, a 
 little touched with silver, was black as a crow's wing, 
 and her eyebrows the same. On the whole she was 
 a very handsome little creature, yet there was some- 
 thing about her so different from the country people 
 among whom she lived that I did not wonder to 
 hear that they regarded her as something not quite 
 human. She made us welcome M'ilh great polite- 
 ness, and I could but notice how well she spoke 
 English. Andrew explained our errand. 
 
 " We shall give you some trouble, I fear," said 
 my mother. 
 
 " Not at all, madame. It is a pleasure to me, 
 and you are come in good time, for I have just been 
 opening and airing the house." And indeed we 
 had observed the open windows as we came up. 
 
 " We will not trouble you to go with us," said 
 Andrew. " My aunt knows the house of old." 
 
 She courtesied and withdrew to her own special 
 domain, and we went through all the rooms, which 
 were in the best order, and certainly did credit to 
 the sea-dame's housekeeping, being as dry and airy 
 as if used all the time. In two or three of the 
 rooms fires were burning on the hearth, and there 
 was a peculiar air of cheerfulness about the whole 
 place. 1 remarked this to Andrew. 
 
 " It does not seem at all like a deserted house," 
 said I. " One would say these rooms were used to 
 pleasant company." 
 
 " The village folks would tell you that Dinah
 
 The Chevaliers Daughter. 251 
 
 entertains her friends from the sea in these apart- 
 ments," said Andrew, smiling. " They tell stories 
 of seeing the house lighted up and hea,ring music at 
 night. I determined to look into the thing, think- 
 ing possibly that the place might be the haunt of 
 smugglers ; but I found the lights came from the 
 fires Dinah had lighted to expel the damp, and the 
 music was the old harpsichon, on which she had 
 taught herself to play, by the help of some music- 
 books she had found." 
 
 " Then she can read," said my mother. 
 
 " Oh, yes, and write as well. The people who 
 took her in were of the better class. They were 
 not Cornish folk, but East Country English, who 
 came and settled here in the reign of Charles the 
 First. No one knew much about them, and I fancy 
 they might have had their own reasons for keeping 
 quiet, but my father never would allow them to be 
 molested. See, here is the cabinet I made from the 
 old chestnut-tree." 
 
 " So you are a cabinet-maker as well," said I. 
 " Another qualification for our desert island." 
 
 " That same desert island seems to take your 
 fancy," said Andrew, smiling. " Perchance if you 
 tried it, as I have done, you would not find it so 
 pleasant." 
 
 " Were you really east away ?" I asked curiously. 
 "When and where?" 
 
 ' ' About ten years ago, on one of the most lovely 
 little islets of the "West Indies. It was like a bit 
 out of paradise. We had landed for water, but a
 
 252 7^ke Chevaliers Daughter. 
 
 squall came up, and bj some blunder I was left be- 
 hind. I stayed there a week, and most thankful 
 was I to see the face of man once more. But here 
 we are in the parlor again, and I see Dinah has 
 prepared quite a feast for us." 
 
 She had indeed spread an elegant little repast of 
 bread, cream, and honey, with fruit from the gar- 
 den. Of course we did not decline it, my mother 
 eating to please the good woman, and Andrew and 
 I because we were hungry. 
 
 " What an odd name she has !" said I. 
 
 " She called herself Diane when she was found, 
 and for a long time would answer to no other, but 
 at last her foster-parents took to calling her Dinah, 
 with which she was content. Well, aunt, how do 
 you like the house, now you have seen it ?' ' 
 
 " So well that I am minded to find you a chap- 
 man," said my mother, smiling. " What say you ? 
 Will you sell the Well House to Vevette and my- 
 self ? I wish to buy a home, and would rather have 
 this than any other." 
 
 Andrew opened his eyes wide, as he was wont 
 to do when puzzled. 
 
 " What do you mean, aunt ? Are you in earnest ? 
 And why would you leave the hall ? Hath any one 
 in the family been unkind or uncivil to you ?" 
 
 " Here is a fine mouthful of questions all in a 
 breath," said my mother. u I will answer them 
 all in turn. I am quite in earnest, and mean what I 
 say. I would have the hall, because I think it will 
 be better and more convenient for me to have my
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter. 253 
 
 own household, and let your mother have hers. 
 Xo one has been uncivil to me. I have had no 
 quarrel with any one, and I mean to have none. 
 But I never saw any house that was large enough 
 for two families, and I do not believe Tre Madoa 
 Court is any exception to the rule." 
 
 My mother went on to explain her reasons more 
 at length than I shall do here. Andrew listened 
 unwillingly at first, but at last he owned that there 
 was right sense in what she said, and consented to 
 consider of the matter. 
 
 " And what will Ye-vette say ?" he asked, for I 
 had not spoken a word. 
 
 " I like it well," I answered. " 'Tis not so far 
 but I can go up to the school. Rosamond can come 
 down here with her books, and Meg with her knit- 
 ting, and I dare say even you can make it conven- 
 ient to stop sometimes when you come from your 
 fishing. ' ' 
 
 lie shook his head at me. " Well, well, we will 
 consider of it," said he. " In truth, madame, you 
 have a right to the tenancy of the house if you 
 choose to live in it. I doubt not you will find it 
 comfortable enough, and should anything be want- 
 ing I will see that it is supplied. There is a good 
 garden, a small orchard, and land enough for two 
 cows, if you choose to keep them. I think Dinah 
 has one at present. But what to do with her ! 
 She looks upon this house as her home, though of 
 course she hath no right here but on sufferance." 
 
 '' Let her remain, if she will take the post of
 
 254 The Chevaliers Daughter. 
 
 waiting gentlewoman," said my mother. " I shall 
 want some such person, and our good Jeanne is 
 hardly fitted for such a service. I like the woman's 
 appearance. There is something about her which 
 reminds me of home. Indeed, I think she is more 
 French than English in her looks." 
 
 ""Well, well, we will consider of it," said 
 Andrew again. ' ' Have you said aught to my 
 mother?" 
 
 " No, I wished first to see the house." 
 
 The project was broached to my aunt that even- 
 ing. I was not present, but my mother told me 
 that though Aunt Amy said many kind things and 
 made many hospitable objections, it was plain that 
 she was not sorry to consent. So the next day it 
 was all settled, and we began to make our arrange- 
 ments. Rosamond was struck with consternation 
 on hearing of it, and could not be reconciled till 
 my mother reminded her that she could come over 
 twice or tlirice a week to her Italian and French 
 lessons. 
 
 " But you won't give up the school, will you, 
 Yevette ?" said Meg. " I don't know what I shall 
 do without your help ?" 
 
 " Oh, no ; I can walk from the "Well House as 
 well as from here. ' ' 
 
 " But the way is very lonely, and you must pass 
 the Pisky Bank going and coming," said Mar- 
 garet. " Won't you be afraid ?" 
 
 "No, I don't believe I shall." said I. "I
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter. 255 
 
 have never disobliged the pixies, and I don't see 
 why they should disoblige me." 
 
 " But there is the place where the smuggler was 
 killed," objected Rosamond. 
 
 " Well, if he is killed he can do no harm. 1 
 should not like to meet a live smuggler, but I don't 
 see how one who was killed forty years ago can hurt 
 me." 
 
 " Yevette does not believe in ghosts," said Betty. 
 
 " I would not say that exactly," I returned. 
 " There are many such stories which seem to rest 
 on good proof. But I think we of the reformed 
 faith in France do not fear such things as much as 
 people do here. Our preachers teach us that over- 
 much terror of ghosts and the like argues some- 
 what of a distrust in the care of our Heavenly 
 Father. I have been in many very ghostly places, 
 and at ghostly hours too, as Andrew knows, but I 
 never saw anj^hing more alarming than owls, bats, 
 and spiders. We had a ghost in the chateau, but 
 I was not nearly so much afraid of the white chev- 
 alier as I was of the village priest." 
 
 " Well, I don't pretend to be above all human 
 weakness myself, ' ' said Betty. 
 
 ' ' That is a good thing, my dear, for no one would 
 believe you if you did," interrupted Andrew. 
 
 " You are very civil, to take the words out of 
 my mouth," returned Betty. " I suppose that is 
 French politeness, of which we hear so much. I 
 mean to say that I do not hold myself to be wiser 
 than all my elders, and than the rector himself , who
 
 256 The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 believes in ghosts, and is very powerful in laying 
 them. Why, lie is sent for all along the coast, even 
 to the Land's End and clear into Devonshire, for 
 that purpose." 
 
 " I should think he would clear his own parish, 
 then," said I, rather flippantly. 
 
 " But, Yevette, I really did see something on the 
 path to the Well House one evening," said Rosa- 
 mond, who had not yet spoken. " It was only last 
 Tuesday. I had been down to the shore with a 
 basket for old Madge, and was coming up again, 
 slowly, when just at the turn of the road 1 saw a 
 man and a woman walking slowly along. The 
 woman had a veil over her head and a dark gray 
 gown like Betty's homespun, and the gentleman 
 was tall and slim and wore a gray cloak. I \von- 
 dered who they could be, but I never thought of 
 their being anything uncommon till I came up near 
 them ; and behold, they were gone like a flash !" 
 
 " Perhaps they had slipped aside into the bushes," 
 said I. " There is a ruined cottage close by ; per- 
 haps they went into that. Did you look to see ?" 
 
 " Look into Torclen's cottage !" said Rosamond, 
 aghast at the very idea. " No indeed ; I ran home 
 as fast as I could." 
 
 " And wisely too," said Andrew. "But what 
 like was this ghostly gallant ?" 
 
 " I did not see his face, but he was tall and slim, 
 with a fair love-lock, which slipped out from under 
 his cloak. That was all I noticed, but somehow he 
 made me think of young Mr. Lovel."
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter. 257 
 
 " What nonsense is this !" said Betty angrily. 
 " Rosamond saw one of the village maids out cour- 
 seying with her lad. Every one knows she fears her 
 own shadows." 
 
 Betty spoke with so much heat that we all looked 
 at her in surprise, and a kind of undefined suspi- 
 cion darted through my mind and was forgotten the 
 next minute. 
 
 " Well, then, if I am afraid I will set up a rival 
 cottage down at the shore, and so put Meg's into the 
 shade," said I, laughing. ' ; There are old Madge's 
 grandchildren, and the Polwhele brood, and the 
 Widow Barker's two maids. That would make a 
 very decent school." 
 
 ' ' Yes, a pretty return that would be to Meg for 
 letting you help her," said Betty, who was 
 thoroughly out of humor, as it seemed. " I ever 
 thought she would find a cuckoo in her nest." 
 
 " Indeed, I think it would be a capital thing," 
 said Margaret. "It is a long way for the little 
 children to come, and they make every rain an ex- 
 cuse for staying away. I should hate to lose her 
 from the school at the hamlet, too." 
 
 u There is no hurry," I replied. " I have not 
 yet served out my apprenticeship. I am your 
 scholar, Meg, as much as little Peggy is mine." 
 
 " Very humble, truly," said Betty sarcastically, 
 arid there the matter ended. 
 
 When 1 was again alone Rosamond's tale and 
 Betty's discomposure thereat again recurred to my 
 mind, and I wondered what interest she could have
 
 258 The Chevalier's Daughter. 
 
 in the matter. But I finally reflected that it was 
 one of her bad days, when she was wont to find mat- 
 ter for annoyance in the simplest occurrence, and 
 dismissing the matter from my mind I fell to 
 thinking over another, much more important to me, 
 namely, whether Andrew meant to ask me once 
 more to marry him before he set sail, and if so, 
 what I should say to him.
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 THE BOOK. 
 
 T was settled that we were to remove the 
 next week, and Jeanne and Simon with 
 us, for they would by no means consent to 
 stay behind. Simon was to have charge of 
 the out-of-door matters, the cows and pony, and 
 Jeanne of the dairy, while Dinah was to fill the post 
 of housekeeper and waiting gentlewoman, with the 
 eldest girl in the village school for a maid under her. 
 This was as much of an establishment as my mother 
 thought prudent, considering our means, though 
 Aunt Amy was very pressing with us to take 
 another maid in the house. She was very kind, and 
 would have given us half the fine linen and 
 blankets at the Court, and enough of comfits, wine, 
 and other provisions for an army ; and she was 
 even inclined to be angry with my mother for ac- 
 cepting so little. However, all was settled amicably, 
 and seeing how obliging she was I ventured to pre- 
 fer a humble request that she would lend me the 
 old French cabinet in my room a request which 
 she granted with alacrity, and added thereto the
 
 260 The Chevalier s Daughter, 
 
 gift of a small Persian carpet which I greatly ad- 
 mired. 
 
 But I was not destined to leave Tre Madoc Court 
 without a more serious trouble, which trouble could 
 never have fallen upon me but for my own want of 
 frankness, and that double-niindedness which was 
 always my bane. I mentioned that my Aunt Jem had 
 given me as a parting present a book of plays and 
 poems, and that I had never showed this book to 
 my mother. In truth, my first concealment had 
 arisen rather from timidity and embarrassment than 
 from wilful deception. I did not quite know what 
 to do with the book, not liking to refuse it for fear 
 of hurting Aunt Jem, of whom I was very fond, 
 and I felt quite sure maman would not let me keep 
 it if she knew. Of course the straight road 
 would have been, as it ever is, the right one, but I 
 took that middle way of compromise, which is 
 never the right one, as I may say, and put the book 
 at the bottom of my mail, with a half resolve to 
 show it to my mother at the first opportunity. 
 But in truth, in the surprise and joy of meeting 
 Simon and Jeanne and the e:: i-itenaent of travelling 
 and settling in our new home, I quite forgot it. 
 "\Yhen I came to unpack my mail I found it. 
 Betty was in the room, and asked what it was, and 
 I told her its history. 
 
 " Have you not read it ?" she asked, seizing and 
 opening it. " It looks delightful." 
 
 " No, I have not read it, and shah 1 not till I 
 show it to maman," 1 answered.
 
 The Chevaliers Daitghter. 261 
 
 " Then let me have it do !" said Betty, turning 
 it over with eager interest ; " or we will read it 
 together. I am sure Aunt Jem would not give you 
 a wicked book, though she may not be so strait-laced 
 as my Aunt Margaret. Come, let us read it to- 
 gether. Your things are all put away, and my aunt 
 is with my mother in the still-room, so she will not 
 want you. Let us sit down in the window and 
 read." 
 
 " I did not know Betty as well then as I came to 
 know her afterward, and I really had some curiosity 
 about the book, which was partly writ by that Mr. 
 Dryden, who hath since made a great noise in the 
 world. The first poem was certainly very beautiful, 
 and innocent enough, so far as I understood it. 
 The next was a play. 
 
 " Indeed I cannot read any more, Betty," said 
 I ; " and you ought not either, till you ask your 
 mother." 
 
 " Well, let me take the book, then," said Betty. 
 " I will not hurt it, and I don't believe it will hurt 
 me." 
 
 I refused plumply, but at that moment my moth- 
 er called me to come and see some curious china- 
 ware which she had found in looking over the house 
 with my aunt. "When I returned Betty had taken 
 away the book, and 1 could not get it of her again, 
 though I had more than once asked her for it. It 
 was now returned on my hands, with a witness. 
 
 A day before we left the Court we were all sitting 
 in the cedar parlor that is, my mother, Meg, Rosa-
 
 262 The Chevaliers Daughter. 
 
 mond, and I busy in finishing a certain worked 
 coverlet which my aunt had had in hand a long 
 time, and which she wished to give my mother for 
 a parting present. Andrew was reading to us out 
 of an English chronicle, but I fear we young ones 
 cared more about the flowers on our work than 
 about the wars between the houses of York and 
 Lancaster. I can see at this moment the daisy with 
 pink edges and a yellow centre on which I was be- 
 stowing all my skill, when we were all startled by the 
 entrance of Aunt Amy, evidently in a high state of 
 excitement. I thought I should like to sink into 
 the earth when I saw in her hand that identical red 
 leather and gilded book which I had lent Betty, or 
 rather which she had taken for herself. 
 
 " So, sister D'Antin !" said my aunt, in her rare 
 tone of excitement, " this is the way your daughter 
 rewards my hospitality for I won't say you, 
 though I must say, knowing what she was, I think 
 you might have looked out for her bringing her 
 vile and* corrupting books into a decent house, and 
 lending them to my innocent maids. This is what 
 one gets for one's goodness in taking in " 
 
 " Mother!" said Andrew, more sternly than I 
 ever heard him speak to her before or afterward. 
 
 " Oh, you may say inother as much as you 
 please, son ; but I wish your father had taken my 
 advice and looked out a good honest Cornish maid 
 for you, instead of betrothing you to a French 
 mademoiselle whom none of us knew, to bring her 
 corruptions in here. Just look at this book which
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter. 263 
 
 she lent Betty, and told her not to tell her mother, 
 and which the poor child just now came and brought 
 me, confessing with shame and tears how wicked 
 she had been. Just look at it, that is all !" and she 
 flung it on the ground as if it had been a snake or 
 spider. Andrew took it up, looked at one or two 
 places, and then, with a glance I shall never forget, 
 he gave it to me. My mother took it from my un- 
 resisting hand. 
 
 " What does this mean, Yevette ?" said she. 
 " Where did this book come from ?" 
 
 ' ' My Aunt Jemima gave it to me, ' ' I answered, 
 hardly able to speak. 
 
 " And you concealed it from me ? Oh, my 
 daughter !" 
 
 " Of course she concealed it," said my aunt tri- 
 umphantly. 
 
 u Let Vevette speak, mother, since you have 
 chosen to make this matter public, in what I must 
 needs call an ill-judged manner," said Andrew, in 
 that calm voice of authority which will be heard. 
 "How was it, Yevette?" 
 
 I tried to explain, but between my own shame 
 and confusion and my aunt's interruptions I am 
 conscious that 1 made but a lame business of it. I 
 did manage to say, however, that though I sat down 
 and read the first poem with Betty, I had refused 
 to read any more, and that I had absolutely refused 
 to lend the book to Betty, who had taken it without 
 leave. 
 
 " Yes, I know all about that !" said my aunt.
 
 264 Xke Chevalier s Daiigkter, 
 
 " Betty told me herself, poor wretch, that you told 
 her you would not lend it to her ; but c;in you deny 
 that you went away and left the book in her hands ? 
 Can you deny that you were angry with her, and 
 reproached her for telling me of your private cour- 
 seying about London, and London fine gallants, and 
 other things that young maids should not know, 
 much less tell on ? You are an adder and a viper 
 that you are ! and come of viper's brood nasty, 
 frog-eating French !" 
 
 My mother rose. " With your leave, sister Cor, 
 bet, we will "withdraw," said she, assuming the 
 chatelaine, as she well knew how. " I shall not jus- 
 tify my child till I hear from her all the circum- 
 stances of this unlucky affair. Nephew Andrew, I 
 will thank you to order the pony. " 
 
 " The pony and for what ?" asked my aunt, 
 cooling down, as she always did when my mother 
 took this tone. 
 
 ' ' That I may withdraw to my own house, since I 
 am so happy as to have one," replied my mother. 
 " When this matter is cleared up, sister Corbet, you 
 shall have all proper explanations and apologies. 
 In the mean time 'tis neither for your dignity or 
 mine that I should remain longer under a roof where 
 such language has been applied to me and mine. I 
 thank you from my heart for your hospitality, but 1 
 can partake of it no, not an hour longer." 
 
 My aunt, upon this, began to cry, and to retract 
 what she had said. 
 
 " I did not mean you, sister D'Autin and per-
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter. 265 
 
 haps it was not so bad ; but you see she does not 
 deny that she had the book, and that Betty got it 
 from her and I know 1 am hasty when I am 
 roused ; and the French do eat frogs, for you told 
 me yourself ; and you said they were good you 
 know you did, sister D'Antin. And Betty is art- 
 ful, I confess ; but that does not make it right for 
 Vevette to lend her bad books, nor for Andrew to 
 look at me so, as if and I am sure I am his own 
 natural mother and not a stranger, and 'tis unknown 
 the trouble I had in rearing him, because he was a 
 May babe, and my mother said he would never be 
 lucky." 
 
 "Mother arid my aunt," said Andrew, in his 
 grave, commanding tones, ' ' will you be so good as 
 to let this matter rest for to-night ? It hath been 
 made far too public already. Aunt, if I have ever 
 done you any service, I beseech you to remain under 
 my roof till to-morrow. " (I never heard Andrew 
 say my roof before.) 
 
 " Yes, do," said my aunt, who had cooled rapidly, 
 as usual. u Indeed I regret that I was so hasty ; 
 and I will take back all I said about vipers and 
 adders." 
 
 My mother suffered herself to be prevailed upon 
 so far as to say she would remain till the time 
 originally set for her departure. Then she with- 
 drew to her room, and I followed, like one going to 
 execution. Once there she addressed me in a tone 
 which 1 had never heard from her but once before, 
 requiring me to give her a full account of this trans-
 
 266 The Chevalier s- Daitghter. 
 
 action. I fell down on my knees before her, and 
 told her the whole story from beginning to end. 
 
 " How shall I believe you ? You have already 
 deceived me," said she sadly. 
 
 " Indeed, maman, I have now told you the 
 truth, ' ' said I, weeping. ' ' I only read the first poem 
 in the book, and then I would go no farther. And 
 I did not lend it to Betty. She took it from the 
 room when you called me to look at the china, and 
 I never could get it again, though I asked her for it 
 ever so many times. Oh, maman, do believe 
 me !" 
 
 " Vevette," said she, laying her hand on my 
 shoulder, and looking me through and through as I 
 knelt before her, " as you hope ever to meet 
 your father again, tell me the truth. Have you 
 any more of these books ?" 
 
 " No, maman, not one." 
 
 * Have you ever had any of them since I forbade 
 you reading them ?" 
 
 " Yes, maman, I had two or three that my Uncle 
 Charles sent to the tower, but the day before we 
 went to the Supper in the old grange I burned 
 them, every one." 
 
 " And you have not read the rest of this book ?" 
 
 " No, maman, only the first poem, in which there 
 was no harm. Betty wanted to read on, but I 
 would not. Oh, maman, do forgive me !" 
 
 " I forgive you, my child, but you have grieved 
 me to the heart," said my mother. " Go to your 
 i, and pray for forgiveness and cleansing. Do
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter. 267 
 
 not leave it this night. By and by, when I am 
 rested, we will talk farther." 
 
 I retired to my own room, feeling as miserable 
 as any girl of my age ever felt in the world, and 
 that is saying much, for the capacities of such girls 
 for misery are very great. It seemed to me as 
 though I could never be happy again. In all my 
 little difficulties with my aunt and Betty heretofore, 
 Andrew had always been on my side ; but now he 
 too had turned against me. How plainly I could 
 see the look he gave me when he handed me that 
 detestable book a look full of anger and grief. I 
 knew that he hated lying above all things. It was 
 the only sin with which he seemed to have no pa- 
 tience. 1 had not told a lie in words, to be sure, but 
 I had been guilty of deception, and that was enough 
 for him. Now that I had lost him, or thought I 
 had, I felt how dear he was to me. I had lost his 
 respect, and I felt sure that all comfort was at an 
 end between us, even though he should feel bound 
 to fulfil his contract. One thing I made up my 
 mind to I would never be his wife if he showed 
 the least unwillingness to marry me. And then I 
 remembered how pleased he had been when I spoke 
 of our living together on a desert island, and for the 
 first time I burst into tears. 
 
 I wept for a long time, thus lightening my heart 
 a little, and then taking up my Bible I tried to read 
 myself into some sort of quietness. I had just 
 begun to breathe without sobbing when some one 
 knocked at the door. I opened it, with my heart
 
 268 The Chci'alicr's Daughter. 
 
 throbbing at the thought that it might be Andrew, 
 and there stood Betty, her eyes cast down with that 
 affectation of meekness I knew so well, and carry- 
 ing in her hands a tray laden with good things. 
 
 " I have brought you some supper,'' said she, in 
 her silver tones. " I thought perhaps you would 
 not care to come down." 
 
 " Oh, you did ! You are very considerate," I 
 said bitterly. " You did not come at all to triumph 
 in the mischief you have made by your lies." 
 
 " Why, Vevette," said she, in a tone of astonish- 
 ment ; " what do you mean ? I am sure I did 
 not mean to do you any harm, but only to relieve 
 my own mind. I can't endure to have secrets from 
 my mother. ' ' 
 
 All at once Rosamond's ghost story darted into 
 my mind. When the devil puts such a weapon into 
 the hand of a person in a passion, that person is very 
 apt to use it without thought of co: sequences. 
 
 " Oh, you cannot ! Then perhaps you have told 
 your mother of the pair of ghosts Rosamond saw 
 disappear near Torden's cottage, one of which had 
 on a gray homespun gown, and the other looked so 
 much like young Mr. Level. I think I will tell 
 Mr. Dawson about these ghosts, that he may keep a 
 lookout for them, since he is so skilful in dealing 
 with that sort of gentry." 
 
 Betty turned white, or rather gray, for a moment, 
 and nearly let her tray fall. Then she recovered 
 herself and said quietly, 
 
 " I don't think I would tell any more tales if I
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter. 269 
 
 were you. You would not be likely to gain much 
 credit just now. I came to make friends with 
 you." 
 
 " That is false !" I interrupted her. " You came 
 to triumph over me." 
 
 "I came to make friends with yon,'' she con- 
 tinued calmly ; " but if you choose to treat me as 
 an enemy, you can do so. I pity you, Yevette, and 
 I do not blame you as much as I do those who have 
 brought you up in such ways. Your conduct just 
 shows what that religion is worth of which we have 
 heard so much." 
 
 In a quarrel, the person who has no conscience 
 always has an advantage over the person who has 
 one. Betty had certainly got the best of it in this 
 case, notwithstanding the stab I had given her. 1 
 shut the door in her face, and again sat down to try 
 to compose my thoughts, but I did not find it so 
 easy. Revenge is like the little book of the proph- 
 et, in that though it may be sweet in the mouth 
 it is very bitter of digestion. I had struck a telling 
 blow, it was true, but I had gotten it back with in- 
 terest, and the worst of it was that in this instance 
 Betty had some truth on her side. I was a dis- 
 credit to the parents who had brought me up, and 
 the religion in which I had been educated. I had 
 brought shame on my dear mother as well as myself. 
 
 Betty had indeed done me a cruel mischief, and 
 that not only in the trap she had so artfully laid for 
 me, and into which I had so foolishly walked, like a 
 silly hare into a springe, but in coming to enjoy her
 
 270 The Chevaliers Daiighter. 
 
 triumph as she had just done ; for that such was her 
 motive I did not doubt then, nor do I now. She 
 had drawn toward her that anger which I had 
 hitherto directed toward mj-self , and roused in me a 
 spirit of anger and revenge. I felt as if I could 
 have killed her. In this state of mind my mother 
 found me when she came in to talk to me later in the 
 evening, nor did all her expostulations avail to draw 
 me out of it. I was ready to beg her pardon in the 
 very dust, and to make my submission to my aunt, 
 but I could not and would not forgive Betty ; nay, I 
 would not even say I would try. 
 
 " Then you must yourself remain unforgiven, my 
 poor child," said my mother ; "under the anger 
 of that Heavenly Father whom you have offended. 
 Can you afford that ? Will you still further grieve 
 that kind and tender Divine Friend whom you have 
 so deeply grieved already ?" 
 
 If I had spoken out the thought that was in my 
 heart I should have said that I did not believe that 
 Friend loved me so very much, or he M*ould not 
 have suffered this trouble to come upon me just 
 when I was trying to be so very good ; but this I did 
 not dare to say. 
 
 " I cannot help it, maman," I answered her at 
 last. " I never, never can forgive Betty for the part 
 she has acted. She has been ten times worse than 
 I, and nobody seems to blame her at all. You don't 
 mind her coming here to triumph over me bring- 
 ing me a tray forsooth ! as if I did not know that she
 
 The Chevaliers Daughter. 271 
 
 will never wait upon any one if she can help it. 
 You don't mind how much I am insulted !" 
 
 It showed how I was carried out of myself that I 
 dared speak so to my mother. I was scared when 
 the words were out of my mouth. But my mother 
 was one who knew when to reprove and punish and 
 when to soothe and comfort. She saw that I was 
 almost beside myself with anger and excitement a 
 mood, I must say, which was rare in me. 
 
 "We will talk no more to-night," said she. 
 " You had better try to calm yourself, and to 
 sleep. My poor little maid, I thought I was .bring- 
 ing you to a safe nest when I refused to leave you 
 in London. But there are temptations everywhere, 
 since there is no earthly state from which the world, 
 the flesh, and the devil can be kept out. Go to bed, 
 my Yevette, and remember, though thou canst not 
 or wilt not pray for thyself, thy mother is praying 
 forthee." 
 
 With that she kissed me and returned to her own 
 room. I burst into fresh tears, and cried till I could 
 cry no more, and then, feeling my heart a little 
 lightened, I was preparing to undress when sonic 
 one tapped softly at the door, and a low voice said, 
 
 "Vevette!" 
 
 " Who is there ?" I asked. 
 
 " Rosamond," was the answer. " Please let me 
 in. I have brought you a cup of milk and some 
 bread." 
 
 I could not resist the pleading tones, and I opened 
 the door. Rosamond had been crying as bitterly as
 
 272 The Chevaliers Daughter. 
 
 myself, and as she came into the room she set down 
 her burden and clasping me in her arms she kissed 
 me and cried again. My tears flowed too, but they 
 were cool tears now, and refreshed my burning eyes. 
 
 " Dear Rosamond, you won't turn against me, 
 will you ?" said I. 
 
 *' No indeed," she answered warmly, and then 
 added, " Of course you know I must think it was 
 wrong for you to keep the book, and to read ever 
 BO little, when you knew your mother would not 
 allow it. But every one does wrong sometimes. If 
 we were not sinners the dear Lord would not have 
 needed to come down and die for us. ' ' 
 
 Somehow these simple words did more to calm 
 my heart, and to show me my sin at the same time, 
 than anything had done before. The dear Lord 
 had died for me, and this was the way I had repaid 
 hun. He was ready to forgive me, and yet I would 
 not forgive Betty. 1 began to see things in a new 
 light." 
 
 " I know I was very wrong, 1 ' said I, " and I am 
 sorry indeed I am. But, Rosamond, it was not so 
 bad. I did not lend Betty the book : I told her she 
 should not have it ; but maman called me, and when 
 I came back she was gone. I have tried again and 
 again to get it out of her hands, and then I meant to 
 burn it up. But what is the use of talking, since 
 nobody will believe me ?" 
 
 "I believe you," said Rosamond; " I believe 
 every word you say. But don't you see that even 
 then, if you had gone to your mother and laid the
 
 The Chevaliers Daughter. 273 
 
 whole before lier, all this would not have happened ? 
 She might have been displeased, 'tis true ; but she 
 would have forgiven you and got back the book, and 
 all would have ended well by this time." 
 
 " It is true," I answered. " I wish I had done 
 as you say." 
 
 ' ' I think the very most straightforward way is 
 always the best way, especially when one is dealing 
 with one like like Betty," continued Rosamond. 
 " There is nothing which deceitful people under- 
 stand so little as truth. But, Vevette, if you are 
 sorry, it will all come right in the end. Let us 
 kneel down and say the fifty-first Psalm together, 
 and I am sure you will feel better. ' ' 
 
 We did so, and then the dear maid repeated the 
 thirty second Psalm. She was like the holy well at 
 St. Wenna's, which ran with a clear but small 
 stream, while now and then came a great rush of 
 bright water, bubbling up through the white pebbles 
 and showing for a moment the crystal depth below. 
 I had always loved her from the first of our 
 acquaintance, but from that hour began a friendship 
 which will never end. 
 
 We kissed each other on our knees and then 
 rose. 
 
 "Do eat a morsel," said Rosamond. "You 
 have had no f.iipjx-r, and you will be ill to-morrow." 
 
 I tried, in complaisance to her, but I could not 
 manage it. 
 
 " I cannot eat," said I ; " but oh, Rosamond, I 
 am so thirsty."
 
 274 The Chevaliers Darighter. 
 
 " I will bring you some cool water from the well 
 in the court," said she, and taking a jug she was 
 gone before I could object. When she came back 
 she looked startled. 
 
 " Do you know, Yevette, I am sure I saw that 
 same figure that I saw before near Torden's cot- 
 tage with the woman. It was just under the arch- 
 way, as plain as could be against the sky, and it 
 slipped away just as before. Who or what can it 
 be?" 
 
 " Some one hanging about after one of the maids, 
 perhaps," said I, though I had my own thoughts 
 upon the matter. "Now you must not stay any 
 longer or my aunt will be angry and think I am 
 corrupting you." 
 
 " Oh, no, she won't," answered Rosamond. " I 
 asked her if I might come, and she said yes, and 
 wanted me to bring you all kinds of nice things, 
 but I thought you would not care for them. I 
 think she is very sorry she made such an ado about 
 the matter, now that it is ov^er. Well, good-night, 
 dear Vevette ; I hope you will sleep." 
 
 But I could not sleep, except feverishly and by 
 snatches, till after the birds began to sing in the 
 morning. Then indeed I had a good nap, and waked 
 refreshed. I washed and dressed, and went softly 
 into my mother's room. She was already up, and 
 kneeling before the table, on which lay, always open, 
 her Bible, and the little worn prayer-book she 
 brought from France. She beckoned me to kneel 
 beside her, and we said our prayers together, as
 
 The Chevaliers Daughter. 275 
 
 usual. Then, as wo rose, she drew me to her and 
 kissed me. 
 
 " The evil spirit has gone out is it not so ?" said 
 she, looking into my face with a smile. 
 
 "Yes, maman, I hope so," I answered. "I 
 am very sorry about the book, and 1 will try to for- 
 give Betty." 
 
 ' ' That is spoken well, my child ; and now I must 
 tell you that 1 think you have been somewhat 
 hardly dealt by in this matter. Looking it over 
 coolly, I can see that I did not make enough allow- 
 ance for indecision and embarrassment on your part, 
 after you received the book." 
 
 " Indeed and truly, maman, I meant to show you 
 the book, but I quite forgot it till we came here. 
 Then when Betty carried it off I did not know what 
 to do." 
 
 ' ' There was but one thing to do, and that was to 
 come and tell me all about it," said my mother. 
 " That would have saved all the trouble." 
 
 " So Rosamond said. Oh, maman, she was so 
 good last night." 
 
 " She is a dear maid," said my mother ; "by 
 far the best of the three. ' ' 
 
 " Better than Margaret?" said I, surprised, for I 
 had looked upon Meg as a pattern of all excellence. 
 
 ' ' Yes, because she is truly humble-minded a rare 
 and most precious quality. She is truly poor in 
 spirit, while Meg, with all her good qualities but 
 we will not discuss the faults of others. Now, do 
 you know what is to be done next ?"
 
 276 The Chevalier's Daughter. 
 
 " I must go to my aunt and tell her that I am 
 sorry," said I; "but, maman, what shall I say? 
 I cannot say that I am sorry for lending Betty the 
 book, for I did not lend it to her she took it." 
 
 " Tell her just how it was, and say you are sorry 
 for bringing the book here. I will go with you if 
 it will make matters easier." 
 
 "We found my aunt in the still-room luckily 
 alone pussing over some peppermint she was dis- 
 tilling. 
 
 "Do see here, Margaret," said she, as we en- 
 tered. "What ails this peppermint? See how 
 foul it runs. ' ' 
 
 " The still is too hot, I think," said my mother, 
 examining it ; " and your peppermint is rather old. 
 I should begin again, and with some smaller shoots. 
 But, sister, Vevette hath something to say to 
 you." 
 
 "About what?" asked my aunt absently, still 
 busy with the refractory still ; and then, recollecting 
 herself, " Oh, about the book. Well, then, child, I 
 forgive you, only don't do it again. I know I was 
 warm myself, and said too much, but that is only 
 my way. There, run, that's a good maid, and cut 
 me some nice lengths of the peppermint. You 
 have more sense about gathering of herbs than any 
 of the others only don't draggle your petticoats. 
 Why, what ails the child ?" catching sight of my 
 face. " She looks as if she had had an illness." 
 
 " She has been very much distressed about this 
 affair," said my mother ; " and so have I ; but I
 
 The Chevaliers Daughter. 277 
 
 think if I were to explain the matter to you as she 
 lias done to me " 
 
 " Oh, let bygones be bygones," interrupted my 
 aunt. " I hate explanations ; and, as I said, I was 
 over- warm. Do you want to cut the herbs, child ? 
 Do just as you please." 
 
 " Yes, aunt, I shall like it," I answered, glad of 
 an excuse to get into the fresh air. I was at once 
 pleased and vexed that my aunt should make so lit- 
 tle of the matter. I went down to the peppermint- 
 bed which grew under the shade of a yew hedge, 
 and was busy choosing out the very best shoots 
 when I heard voices on the other side of the hedge. 
 
 ' ' I shall never ask her to help in the school again 
 never!" said Margaret. "I could not forgive 
 myself if she should corrupt the children." 
 
 " If it had been anything else," said Andrew, in 
 a voice of deep dejection ; ' ' anything but decep- 
 tion." 
 
 "To read such a wicked book, too," said Mar- 
 garet. 
 
 " How do you know it was so very wicked, after 
 all?" asked Rosamond. 
 
 " Oh, I looked at it last night as it lay on the 
 table," said Margaret, quite sedately. 
 
 " If I knew it was so wicked I would not have 
 looked at it at all," said Rosamond. "And you 
 know she said she only read the first poem, in which 
 there was no harm." 
 
 ' ' Yes, but who can ever believe her ? I know 1 
 shall never trust her again. When I have found
 
 278 The Chevaliers Daughter. 
 
 any one out once, there is the end of it with 
 me." 
 
 " According to your own account you are just as 
 bad as Yevette," said Rosamond ; " that is, if you 
 don't tell lies every day." 
 
 "Rosamond, what do you mean?" said Mar- 
 garet, in a voice of amazement that almost made 
 me laugh aloud. " / as bad as Yevette ?" 
 
 ' ' According to your own showing, ' ' returned 
 Rosamond, in the same matter-of-fact way. 
 " Don't you say every day of your life that you 
 have done the things you ought not to have done, 
 and left undone the things you ought to have done 
 that there is no health in you, and you are a 
 miserable sinner ? I don't know what Yevette 
 could say of herself worse than that." 
 
 " Rosamond, you are very pert," said Meg, and 
 I could tell by her voice that she was offended. 
 "Of course one says those things because they are 
 in the prayers of the church, and the Bible says we 
 are all sinners ; but I should like to know wherein 
 I fail in my duty. Do 1 ever tell lies, or read bad 
 books, or miss my church or sacrament ? Don't 
 I Here she stopped, in a little confusion as it 
 seemed, thinking, I fancy, that it was not quite 
 seemly thus to blazon her good deeds, however 
 highly she might rate them. 
 
 " Then if you never do wrong or omit to do 
 good, why do you say you do ?" persisted Rosa- 
 mond. " Is that telling the truth ? Take care, sis- 
 ter ! It was the publican who went down to hi-
 
 The Chevalier's Daughter. 279 
 
 house justified, rather than the man who thanked 
 God he was not as other men." 
 
 " You are very impertinent to lecture your elder 
 sister in this way," returned Margaret. " I shall 
 speak to my mother ;" and she walked away. 
 
 ' ' I believe you are in the right, Rosamond, ' ' 
 said Andrew. " We have been too hard on the 
 poor child. If it were anything but deception !" 
 
 " I do not read in Scripture that one sin is worse 
 than another," returned Rosamond. " The Bible 
 saith not so, but that he that offendeth in one point 
 is guilty of all. Besides " 
 
 I did not care to hear more. Indeed I had not 
 heard so much, only the yew walk was my way to 
 the house, and I had been waiting hoping they would 
 pass on. I now rose up, and passing through the 
 archway I went on my way, giving a kind good- 
 morning to Rosamond and courtesying to Andrew in 
 passing. He would have spoken, I believe, but I 
 did not give him the chance. When 1 entered the 
 still-room I heard my aunt say, in a tone of some 
 annoyance, 
 
 " Well, well, sister, we will let the matter rest. 
 It is natural you should justify your own daughter 
 as far as you can. I have told the young ones to 
 say no more, and to treat their cousin kindly. So 
 here she comes. Well, you have got a little color, 
 child, in the fresh air. Yes, that is very nice. 
 You are one who can mind what you are about, and 
 will make a good housewife for all that is come and 
 gone. There is a piece of gingerbread for you,
 
 280 
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 and yon had better take a cup of cream for your 
 breakfast ; you look but poorly. I think, sister, I 
 will give Vevette the small still, and then she will 
 XK^ J'uvget what she has learned."
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 A WEDDING. 
 
 THINK Margaret really did try to meet 
 me as usual, but of course she did not suc- 
 ceed. She had been vexed at Rosamond 
 for having so much the best of it in their 
 little argument, and I fancy too she found her usual 
 self-complacency a little disturbed ; so she was very 
 stately. Andrew did not say much, but he was 
 kind, and would have liked to help me to every- 
 thing on the table. Betty was demure and silent, 
 with eyes cast down, though I fancied I now and 
 then caught her regarding me with some anxiety. 
 I suppose she would have liked to find out how 
 much I did know, or whether I knew anything. In 
 good sooth I did not know anything, but I must 
 needs own that my suspicions were strong, and grew 
 stronger the more I considered the matter. In the 
 beginning of our acquaintance Betty had been 
 much disposed to make a confidante of me, and she 
 herself had told me that Mr. Lovel had been a 
 suitor for her hand, but that her mother had re- 
 jected him because he was a spendthrif t, and had no 
 good character in other respects, besides being a total
 
 282 The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 unbeliever a fashion just then much affected by a 
 certain class of men who wished to appear strong- 
 minded and learned at small cost. I could see that 
 Betty was well enough disposed toward him in- 
 deed she said so ; and our first breach came from my 
 saying I wondered she could think of such a person 
 for a husband. I expressed myself pretty warmly 
 on the subject, at which she was very much vexed, 
 and said some sharp things in her turn. However, 
 we made up the quarrel, but when Betty began to 
 talk of him again I, with a degree of prudence 
 rather to be wondered at, positively refused to hear, 
 telling her that since her mother and brother were 
 opposed to the match, and with such good reason, 
 she ought not to allow her thoughts to dwell upon 
 the subject, "but to conquer her regard for Mr. 
 Lovel, if she had any. This little lecture completed 
 the breach between us, and from that time Betty 
 never lost a chance of vexing and injuring me, though 
 she managed her matters with such adroitness that 
 even Andrew did not see through them, and I be- 
 gan to wonder in myself whether I was not grow- 
 ing touchy and ill-natured. 
 
 As soon as breakfast was over my mother and 
 myself retired to our apartment, to finish our prep- 
 arations for the removal to the Well House. They 
 were not many, for most of our goods were sent 
 thither already, and the house having been kept in 
 such nice order there was but little to do. My aunt, 
 on her part, was busy among her storerooms and 
 presses, and we presently saw <>M Mutt driving the
 
 The Chevalier's Daughter. 283 
 
 laden donkey before him, and carrying as many 
 baskets as would have loaded another. "We meant 
 to have gone away directly after breakfast, but aunt 
 was most earnest with us to stay to dinner and par- 
 take of the feast which had been put in hand before 
 the unlucky business of the book. So, though I at 
 least was impatient to be gone, we consented to 
 remain. What a feast it was, to be sure ! What 
 jellies and creams and tarts and pies of every soi , 
 and kind ! (The Cornish folk are famous for pies, 
 and 'tis said that the devil never dared to come into 
 Cornwall lest they should take a fancy to "a 
 devilly pie." This, however, is not true. He is 
 just as busy in Cornwall as anywhere else.) We all 
 parted good friends, and I forced myself to bid a 
 civil adieu to Betty. Aunt Amy was careful to 
 put into each of our hands a package of cakes and 
 comfits, that we might not enter our new home 
 empty-handed and thus bring scarcity upon it. 
 Andrew walked at my mother's bridle-rein, as usual, 
 and Rosamond and I walked together. Simon and 
 Jeanne had preceded us. 
 
 When we reached the house-door Andrew assist- 
 ed my mother to alight, and then he and Rosamond 
 took a kind leave of us. He saluted me as usual, 
 but there was a change in his manner toward me 
 which 1 felt bitterly enough, though I had too much 
 maidenly pride to show it. Then they returned 
 home, and we entered our new house together. 
 Dinah and Jeanne were in the hall to welcome us, 
 and had made a cheerful little fire upon the hearth
 
 284 The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 of our sitting-room, for though the summer was in 
 its prime the evening was cool, and a little mist 
 was drifting up from the sea. 
 
 " The place seems home-like, does it not, iny 
 Yevette ?" said my mother. "I must say I am 
 not sorry to be in my own house once more. All, 
 if your father were but here !" 
 
 "He is in a better home than this, maman," I 
 ventured to say. 
 
 li True, my child, and we will not wish to call 
 him back again. We shall go to him, but he will 
 not return to us." 
 
 She kissed me, and we stood a moment in silence. 
 Then my mother roused herself and proposed that 
 we should go through the house. 
 
 We found everything in beautiful order, and had 
 occasion at every step to admire my aunt's gener- 
 osity and Andrew's thoughtfulness. There was 
 abundance of fine linen and of blankets and every- 
 thing in the housekeeping h'ne that could be need- 
 ed. Dinah displayed with delight the service of 
 real china, and the silver salts, and the dredgers for 
 pepper and spices, and the pots upon pots of pre- 
 serves and honey which my aunt had provided. 
 My room opened from my mother's, and contained 
 the old French cabinet I had so much admired, and 
 also a little clock, which I knew had been one of 
 Rosamond's chief treasures. From Meg, and marked 
 with her name, was a pretty coverlet of silk patch- 
 work a kind of work very fashionable at that 
 time, and in which Meg excelled, as she did in most
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter. 285 
 
 things. From Betty there was a worked cushion, 
 which I am afraid I was spiteful enough to throw 
 into the darkest corner of the closet. From An- 
 drew 1 had some beautiful china and the loveliest 
 little work-table that could be, besides a case with 
 doors, which being opened I found to contain a por- 
 trait of himself, which I suppose he had had painted 
 in London. It was beautifully done, and looked at 
 me with his very eyes and expression a kind of 
 smiling gravity. The kitchens and offices were 
 filled up with every convenience, and we found 
 Jeanne quite in ecstasies over her little dairy and 
 her two fine cows one a long-horned Devon, the 
 other a comical little black Welsh cow with, no 
 horns at all. 
 
 " Ah, madame, had I but a Normandy brass jar for 
 milking in I should be quite happy," said the good 
 woman. " To think what beautiful milk- jars I 
 had, and how they are all fallen into the hands of 
 the Philistines, as it were !" 
 
 " Ah, my poor Jeanne, if it were only the milk- 
 jars that had fallen into the hands of the Philis- 
 tines !" said old Simon. " But we must be thank- 
 ful that we have been so kindly dealt by in this 
 strange land. Will madame come to the stable and 
 look at the horses ?" 
 
 u Horses ! what horses ?" asked my mother, in 
 surprise. 
 
 " The two saddle-horses, inadame, and the pony 
 for mamselle, and the donkey. Indeed they are 
 nice creatures. Monsieur Corbet recommended the
 
 286 The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 gray for madame's riding, and the pony is as pretty 
 and gentle a creature for a young ludy as I ever 
 saw. Monsieur has been training it for this fort- 
 night." 
 
 Of course we must go to see them, and I was in 
 ecstasies over my pony, but my mother looked a lit- 
 tle grave. 
 
 " Andrew overloads us with benefits," said she. 
 ' ' I must talk with him about these same horses. The 
 obligation is almost too great. But never mind, my 
 Vevette ; enjoy your pretty Blanche. See how 
 she stoops her head to be petted !" 
 
 We returned to the house to find supper served, 
 and Dinah, who had stepped easily enough into the 
 place of waiting gentlewoman, standing behind 
 my mother's chair. We had been a little afraid 
 Jeanne's feelings might be wounded by this arrange- 
 ment, but she fell into it more than contentedly. 
 She was born a cook, and her delight in having such 
 a neat kitchen to rule in her own way overcame every 
 other consideration. Simon had had great pleasure 
 in putting to rights the rather overgrown garden, 
 which was now a picture of neatness, and he de- 
 clared he could easily take care both of that and the 
 garden at the Court till such time as Andrew could 
 suit himself with a gardener. 
 
 The next day was mine at the school, but I did 
 not go thither, being resolved, after all I had heard, 
 never to set foot therein till Margaret came and 
 asked me. With the help of the pins Andrew Lad 
 made I had got three or four of the elder girls,
 
 The Chevalier s Daiighter. 287 
 
 along with Peggy Mellish, nicely started in knit- 
 ting. Now, as I have said, Margaret could do 
 most things better than any one else ; but she had 
 never known how to knit till she had learned it of 
 me, and she was by no means quick at it. The 
 truth was, she had expected to take up the art at 
 once and knit at the very first start as fast and as 
 well as I did, and when she found that she must 
 needs begin as slowly as one of the maids at the 
 school, and that she dropped stitches arid split 
 threads when she tried to knit fast, she was a good 
 deal out of patience. I must needs confess that it 
 gave me a little wicked pleasure to think of the 
 embarrassment she would fall into over the knit- 
 ting. 
 
 I busied myself all the morning in arranging 
 our affairs and in looking over the house and 
 grounds. 1 made various interesting discoveries of 
 an old carved spinning-wheel, which I determined 
 at once to have put to rights ; of various odd bits of 
 tapestry and hangings ; and last, but not least, a light 
 closet full of books. A great many of them were 
 books of divinity, in which I took little interest, 
 but among the other volumes I found Stowe's 
 "Annals," my old friends the "Arcadia'' and 
 Hackluyt's " Voyages," a volume of Shakespeare's 
 plays, and the whole of Spenser's " Fairy Queen," 
 of which I had read only one odd volume. Mindful 
 of my late troubles, I did not open one of these 
 books till I told my mother of them and asked her 
 consent.
 
 288 The Chevalier Daughter s. 
 
 " I will look them over and then tell you," said 
 my mother. 
 
 " You will find no ill in them, niadaine,T venture 
 to say," observed Dinah. " Those books mostly 
 belonged to my honored father, and I do not 
 believe there is one from which my young lady 
 would take any harm. ' ' 
 
 " Then, if the books belonged to your father, 
 they are yours now," I observed. 
 
 " You know he was not really my father," an- 
 swered Dinah. " I was but a foundling, and could, 
 inherit nothing, and he never made a will. I have 
 kept his books and some other things as it were in 
 trust, till the rightful heir should appear to claim 
 them. At all events, you and Mrs. Vedette are quite 
 welcome to the use of any of the books. ' ' 
 
 ' You do not remember anything of what your 
 life was before you came here, I suppose," said my 
 mother. 
 
 "No, madame, not with any distinctness. I 
 recollect dimly a fine mansion-house or castle, and 
 a room hung with tapestry. I remember a lady 
 who used to pet me and teach me verses and prayers. 
 Then 1 recollect being taken from my bed in the 
 dark, hastily wrapped in my clothes and told not to 
 cry, and being carried abroad in the night. After 
 that all is confusion till I came here." 
 
 " That is like our own escape," remarked my 
 mother. 
 
 " Yes, madame, and 1 think it likely that my 
 parents may also have been among those who had
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter. 289 
 
 
 to fly for their lives. But who they were or what 
 
 has become of them will, I suppose, always remain a 
 mystery." 
 
 " You say your mother, or the lady you remem- 
 ber, taught you verses. Can you recollect any of 
 them ?" asked my mother. 
 
 " Only a line or two, madamc," and she repeated 
 a few lines, which my mother recognized instantly. 
 * ' Why, that is the beginning of the ' Noble Lesson, ' 
 one of the most honored symbols of the Yaudois !" 
 said she. " My husband could repeat it from end 
 to end, and so can I, if I have not forgotten." And 
 she repeated a number of lines in the same language 
 which is that still spoken in the Yaudois vale?, 
 and to some extent in Provence. T never saw any 
 one more delighted than our poor little lady-in- 
 waiting at this unexpected discovery. She had 
 always liked my mother and me, but now she 
 seemed ready to kiss the very hem of our garments. 
 She showed us the little golden dove she had worn 
 around her neck. It seemed as if made to open, 
 but we could not find the way to do it. My mother 
 said a dove in silver or gold was a very common 
 ornament among the Protestants of Provence and 
 Languedoc, to some family of which she now be- 
 lieved Dinah to belong. 
 
 Of course this discovery bound us all the more 
 closely together. Jeanne was delighted, and would 
 fain have recalled for Dinah's benefit her native 
 tongue, but Dinah could only remember the few 
 words she had repeated to us.
 
 290 The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 That afternoon my mother would go down to the 
 shore and see the poor fishermen's families, several 
 of whom lived at the entrance of the cooinbe. We 
 found them rude enough in their manner of living, 
 of course, but courteous, and pleased with our visit, 
 especially old Dame Madge, who had known my 
 mother when a girl, and who was vehement in her 
 expressions of delight at having her so near. 
 
 ' ' But, do tell, madaine ; is it true that you have 
 taken Dinah to be your waiting- woman ?" 
 
 "Quite true. Why not?" asked my mother. 
 " She is most skilful with her needle, and well bred, 
 and I think myself fortunate in keeping her about 
 me." 
 
 " And do you think then, madame, that she is a 
 natural-born woman, and no sea-maid ? They say 
 down here that she can go back into the sea when- 
 ever she pleases and bring back the finest fish. 
 Why, my son-in-law and a fine good lad he is, and 
 like an own son to me, though my poor daughter, his 
 wife, only lived with him four years before she died 
 of a waste my son-in-law says that she once asked 
 him for some fish for her father, as she called him. 
 And Ben said he had none, but if the old gentle- 
 man was ill and fancied fish, he would go out and 
 try what he could do, and she thanked him and said 
 he was very kind ; and if you will believe me, mad- 
 ame, though he had had the worst of luck for ever so 
 long, that night he had the best catch ever he made. 
 1 can tell you, we were all ready to please Dinah 
 after that. And she knows more about herbs than
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter. 291 
 
 any one I ever saw more than she ought, some 
 think though she says she learned it all out of a 
 book she has. Never was anything like the medi- 
 cine she made for my poor child' s cough. ' ' 
 
 ' ' It seems, then, that she uses her knowledge to 
 good purpose," said my mother, smiling. "No, 
 dame, I do not think her a sea-dame, but the child 
 of some one wrecked upon the coast." 
 
 " Ah, well, no doubt you know best, madame. 
 Anyhow, she does naught but good that we know 
 on, and 'tis best to be on the right side of such 
 creatures." 
 
 We went next to visit Anne Barker, who was a 
 widow with two daughters, one of whom was lame 
 and confined to her bed and chair, while the other 
 was one of the best girls in Margaret's school. We 
 found the poor thing Lois was her name sitting 
 up in her great three-cornered chair, trying to knit 
 with two slender pegs which she had made from 
 wood. She had partly learned the stitch from her 
 sister, and was succeeding but indifferent well. I 
 at once sat down by her and began to give her in- 
 struction, and she soon mastered the stitch, to her 
 great delight. 
 
 "Ah, poor maid, she is pleased enough !" said 
 her mother. " She cannot take the spinning-wheel, 
 and the net- making is too hard for her, so time 
 hangs but heavily with her." 
 
 "What was the cause of her malady?" asked 
 my mother. 
 
 ( ' She was pisky-struck, madame. The very week
 
 292 The Chevalier's Daughter. 
 
 after she was born the careless woman who was 
 with me went out and left us alone, and I asleep 
 with an unchristened babe. I was waked by a great 
 noise, as of something running up the wall, and the 
 next minute I heard the babe scream, and there it 
 lay on the ground. No doubt the piskies would 
 have carried it off altogether if I had not waked 
 just in time. After that it never thrived, poor 
 dear." 
 
 " Perhaps is was hurt falling from the bed," I 
 ventured to suggest. 
 
 " But what made it fall '* No, madame, it was 
 the piskies. I had the luck to displease them by 
 accidentally treading on a fairy ring, and no doubt 
 they meant to have their revenge." 
 
 " You did not see them ?" 
 
 " No, madame, but I heard them as plain as I 
 hear you. A better maid than poor Lois never lived, 
 though I say it that shouldn't, but she can do little 
 for herself or any one else." 
 
 " Can you read ?" asked my mother of Lois. 
 
 "No, madame," was the answer. "My sister 
 nath taught me a little, but not to read a book. ' ' 
 
 " And would you like to learn ?" 
 
 " Oh, yes indeed, madame. My father could 
 read, and we have his great Bible. Dibby tells 
 me what she hears parson read in church sometimes, 
 and I often wish I could make it out for myself. ' ' 
 
 "We sat a little while longer and then took our 
 leave, promising to come again. When we were 
 outside the door my mother remarked,
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter. 293 
 
 " Well, Vevette, here is work come to your hand, 
 and of the sort you like. Why should you not 
 teach poor Lois to read ?" 
 
 " I was going to ask you if 1 might," said I. 
 " And then, perhaps, I might have some of the 
 others. Really and truly, maman, the walk is very 
 hard and long for the little ones, especially in bad 
 weather. " 
 
 " Well, well, we will see. Begin with poor Lois, 
 at all events. " 
 
 So I did, the very next day. My proposal to 
 teach her was received with rapture by both mother 
 and daughter. I had always a knack of teaching, 
 and I soon had Lois prosperously started upon a 
 pair of hose, and able, with some help, to make out 
 a chapter in the Testament. Besides, I read to her 
 every day as a reward, and I shall never forget her 
 delight over the stories in the Gospels. But a good 
 many things happened in the mean time. 
 
 Rosamond came down next day with her Italian 
 book, and we had a lesson in that and in music from 
 my mother. 
 
 The next day she came again, this time with Meg, 
 who in rather a shamefaced way asked me whether 
 I was not coming to the school any more. 
 
 " That depends," said I. "I thought you were 
 not going to allow me." Then, as Meg colored, I 
 felt sorry for her confusion, and said, " I suppose 
 you want help about the knitting." 
 
 "I can make nothing of it," answered Meg, 
 " and I thought I did not know " then she stop-
 
 294 The Chevalier's Daughter. 
 
 ped, still more confused at tlie smile I could by no 
 means repress. Rosamond came to her aid. 
 
 " Margaret, why not say at once that you are 
 sorry for \vhat you said about Vevette, and that 
 you will be glad if she will overlook it and help you 
 again. That is the easiest way out of the trouble.' ' 
 
 I expected to see Meg angry, but she was not. 
 
 " Thank you, Rosamond, that is what I mean," 
 said she. " I was too hasty in condemning Vevette, 
 and I am sorry, and shall be very glad of her help. 
 Will that be enough, cousin, or must I ask down- 
 right D unstable here to make my peace for me ?" 
 
 " That is enough, and more than enough," said I. 
 " I will help you, of course, though I have also a 
 pupil down here." And I told her about Lois. 
 She was greatly pleased, and we talked again over 
 my plan of establishing a dame-school for the little 
 ones, under the care of the widow and her lame 
 daughter. Margaret, with all her pride, had not an 
 atom of venom or malice about her. Once she 
 made up her mind to pass over a thing, that was 
 the end of it. 
 
 " And how is Betty ?" I asked. 
 
 " She is far from well, and keeps her chamber 
 the last two days," said Margaret ; " but my 
 mother cannot tell what ails her, only she is giddy 
 as soon as she sits up. She is very easily disturbed , 
 and likes to stay alone best." 
 
 " I hope it is not a fever," said I. 
 
 " No, she hath no fever, and her appetite is 
 good enough. It is only the pain and giddiness in
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter. 295 
 
 her head. Then you will come to the school to- 
 morrow ?" 
 
 " Yes, if you desire it," said I, and so the matter 
 was settled. We had not seen Andrew since we 
 parted from him at the door of the house on our 
 first arrival. Now, however, he came down to walk 
 home with his sisters. He saluted my mother and 
 myself as usual, and to mamun he was just the 
 same ; but there was a kind of sad constraint in his 
 manner to me which I felt at once. In my maid- 
 enly pride I was determined to show that I was not 
 affected by it, and I chatted on with the girls, mak- 
 ing a great deal of talk over the embroidery stitch 
 Margaret was showing me, and laughing at my own 
 stupidity while my heart swelled with mingled grief 
 and anger. I thought Andrew was hard and unjust 
 toward me, and hardness and injustice from one we 
 love and respect is very hard to bear. I was glad 
 when they all went away, and I could run up to my 
 own room and relieve myself by a few bitter tears. 
 
 The next day Andrew came again, and this time 
 with great news. There was a certain estate in 
 Devonshire which should have descended to my 
 mother by the will of her grandmother, but which 
 had long been in dispute, and had threatened to eat 
 itself up, as the saying goes, in law expenses. 
 Andrew brought word that by the discovery of 
 some new evidence a later will, I believe the 
 matter was definitely settled, and that when our 
 honest share of the expenses was paid the estate 
 would be worth no less than three hundred a year
 
 296 The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 to my mother and me. He proposed to go at once 
 to Exeter to attend to the iinal settlement, if my 
 mother wished it and would give him proper 
 powers. 
 
 " But that is hardly fair," said my mother. " It 
 will take a week or more out of your short remain- 
 ing time at home." 
 
 " That does not matter," answered Andrew 
 abruptly ; and then added, " Besides, the sailing of 
 the ship is put off another two weeks. I begin to 
 think she will never go at all." 
 
 " Are you, then, in such a hurry to be gone ?" I 
 said, without thinking. I could have bitten my 
 tongue with vexation a moment after. 
 
 " Sailors soon grow tired of life on shore," said 
 he not unkindly. " The sea never lets go of any 
 one it has once taken hold of, and you know the 
 saying is that it always draws those whose parents 
 it lias drowned." Then, after a little silence, " Ye- 
 vette, will you walk up the church-path with me ? 
 I want to show you a new plant I have found." 
 
 I was in two minds to refuse, but after a mo- 
 ment's consideration I agreed, and went to fetch 
 my mantle and hood. We walked a little while in 
 silence, enjoying the fresh evening air and the 
 breeze perfumed with that strange, sweet scent of 
 the cave and the moorland together which one 
 meets nowhere but by the sea. Then Andrew 
 said, 
 
 " Vevette, if you could tell me one thing it 
 would ease my mind wonderfully."
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter. 297 
 
 " Well," said I, " what is it ?" 
 
 " Was the other day the first time you the first 
 time" 
 
 " The first time I ever deceived my mother ?" I 
 said, to help him out. " Was that what you want 
 to know ?" Then, as he nodded assent, " .No, 
 Andrew, it was not. When I was quite a child, 
 not more than twelve years old, my Uncle Charles 
 sent my mother some tales and play-books, and I 
 stole two or three of them and read them in secret. 
 I had them till the day before we went to the sup- 
 per at the grange, and then I burned them all. 
 Since then I have read nothing of the sort till that 
 day Betty persuaded me to read with her the book 
 my Aunt Jem gave me." 
 
 " And this is the whole truth !" said he. Then, as 
 I withdrew a step and looked at him, he added 
 eagerly, ' ' Forgive me, Yevette, but this matter is 
 of such great importance to ine. So much depends 
 upon it." 
 
 " So much depends upon it !" I repeated. 
 " What ?" Then, as he did not answer, I went on 
 firmly, though with a mortal pang at my heart, 
 " Andrew, I want you to understand one thing. If 
 you have any doubt of me, any doubt whatever of 
 my being worthy, if you have any hesitation in the 
 matter, I will never consent to be your wife never, 
 for all the family compacts ever made in the 
 world." 
 
 1 spoke vehemently, yet with low voice, as I was 
 apt to do when greatly moved. We had just come
 
 .298 The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 to a turn iii the path, and before us lay the half- 
 ruined cottage Torden's cottage. It was a place 
 avoided after dark, for it had an ill name on ac- 
 count of a wrecker who had once lived there, and 
 who had died a fearful death. As we caine in 
 sight of it we saw two figures before us the two 
 whom Rosamond had described a tall slender man 
 in a cloak, and a female figure in a gray homespun 
 gown. As we drew near she turned her head a 
 very little. 
 
 Andrew gripped my hand hard. " Betty !" said 
 he, in a hoarse whisper. 
 
 " Nonsense," I whispered in return. " Did you 
 not say Betty was ill in bed ?" But at that mo- 
 ment she turned her head again and I saw her face 
 plainly. It was Betty. I laid a restraining hand 
 on my cousin's arm, but he shook it off, and one 
 stride, as it seemed, brought him to the side of the 
 two before us. They turned at his approach, and 
 stood for a moment hi speechless confusion. Then 
 Betty recovered her presence of mind, if such it 
 could be called. 
 
 u Vevette, you have betrayed us," said she. 
 " So much for trusting a French girl." 
 
 Andrew turned absolutely white as he heard these 
 words. 
 
 "How could I betray what I never knew ?" I 
 asked, finding my voice, for at first I was dum- 
 founded by the unexpected attack. " You never 
 placed any confidence in me, nor did I ever desiro 
 it."
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter. 299 
 
 What was my amazement to hear Betty declare 
 that I had been in her secret from the first, and 
 had aided her in meeting with her lover. She ap- 
 pealed to Mr. Lovel if it were not so, and he con- 
 firmed her words with an oath. Andrew turned 
 from her to me, with a face full of wrath and grief. 
 
 " What am 1 to believe ?" said he. 
 
 " Believe what you like," said I, for my blood 
 was up. ' ' Every word that Betty says is false, and 
 she knows it." 
 
 " Gently, my fair cousin that is to be," interposed 
 Mr. Lovel, with a supercilious little laugh. " I do 
 not allow such language to my betrothed bride. 
 Mr. Corbet, methinks you and I can settle this mat- 
 ter better without female witnesses. Let us attend 
 these fair ladies to their respective homes, and then 
 we will endeavor to come to an understanding." 
 
 " Charles, remember your promise," said Betty, 
 turning pale. 
 
 "Fear nothing, child. I shall not forget that 
 Mr. Corbet is your brother, nor do I think we shall 
 find it hard to come to an amicable agreement. 
 Mrs. d'Antin, shall we turn your way first ?" 
 
 " Do not discommode yourself, sir," said An- 
 drew, with lofty courtesy. " I am able to take care 
 both of my sister and my cousin. Perhaps you 
 will have the goodness to call upon me to-morrow. 
 or allow me to wait upon you wherever you are 
 staying. For the present I must say good- 
 night," 
 
 Mr. Lovel seemed at first ready to fly upon An-
 
 300 The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 drew like an angry dog, but in a moment he re- 
 strained himself, and replied, with equal courtesy, 
 
 " To-morrow, then, at ten o'clock, I will do my- 
 self the honor of waiting upon you." And raising 
 his hat he strode away toward the village, it 
 seemed for a moment that Betty meant to run after 
 him, but if so she thought better of it, and snatch- 
 ing her hand from Andrew's she fled toward home 
 like a startled deer. 
 
 4 ' Go after her ; she may do something desper- 
 ate," said I. "I can find my way home well 
 enough." 
 
 So saying, I turned from him and walked de- 
 liberately down the path till I was out of sight, 
 when I began to run, and never stopped till I found 
 myself at home and in the arms of my mother, who 
 had come to the door to look for me. 
 
 "What is it, my child?" she exclaimed, as I 
 clung to her, sobbing and out of breath. " Has 
 anything frightened you ? Where is Andrew ?" 
 
 As soon as I could recover composure enough to 
 speak, I drew her into the little parlor and told her 
 the whole story. My mother heard it in silence, 
 but with a very troubled face. 
 
 " Oh, mamaii, you do not believe what Betty 
 says," I exclaimed, as she did not speak. 
 
 " Tell me the exact truth, my child," said she. 
 " What did Betty ever say to you on the subject ? 
 Try to remember every word." 
 
 1 did so, and told her all how Betty had spoken 
 to me of Mr. Lovel, and, as J believed, had meant
 
 The Chevaliers Daughter. 301 
 
 to draw me into a confidence, which I had declined. 
 I also told her of the advice I had given on the 
 occasion. 
 
 " That was well," said my mother. " And had 
 you no suspicion that Betty was keeping up a con- 
 nection with Mr. Lovel ?" 
 
 "None at all," I told her. " The first time I ever 
 suspected anything was when Rosamond told us of 
 the two figures she had seen near Torden's cottage, 
 and which she had believed to be spectres or some- 
 what else of supernatural.' 1 
 
 "Why did you not mention your suspicion?" 
 asked my mother. 
 
 "Dear inaman, how could I?" I asked. "I 
 hardly entertained it a moment. Then when I saw 
 Betty afterward turn so white when the affair was 
 mentioned, and when that very night Rosamond 
 saw the same man's figure in the entrance to the 
 court, I did think more about it ; but I had no 
 proof, and it was no concern of mine, and afterward 
 I quite forgot it. How could I mention the affair 
 when I had no proofs, and to whom ?" 
 
 ' ' True, you could not, ' ' said my mother ; ' ' but 
 it is very unlucky, and I fear trouble will arise to 
 you from the affair. My sister will believe harm 
 of any one sooner than of her own daughters, though 
 she knows and has said as much to me, that Betty is 
 both malicious and deceitful. Well, my love, we 
 must do our best, and leave the event in other 
 hands. I believe you have been quite guiltless in 
 the whole matter ; and not only so, but that you
 
 302 The Chevaliers Daughter. 
 
 have acted with great discretion. But, coming so 
 soon after the affair of the book, I fear you will bu 
 blamed for what you have had no hand in." 
 
 " Then you do believe in me, niaman ?" I asked, 
 kissing her hand. 
 
 "Most surely I do, my child. What did An- 
 drew say ?" 
 
 " He looked at me and asked what he was to be- 
 lieve, and then I told him he could believe what he 
 pleased. He had been talking before that about 
 the book, and asked me whether it was the first 
 time, and I told him what I told you, niaman. 
 Then he did not speak again till we came upon 
 Betty and Mr. Lovel." 
 
 "Andrew shows a side of his character which 
 does not please me," remarked my mother. " With 
 all his good qualities there is a certain hardness 
 about him. It was not generous in him to bring 
 the subject up again." 
 
 I had thought the same, and I now spoke with a 
 decision and boldness which surprised myself. 
 
 " Maman, you must let me say one thing, and 
 please do not be angry. I w T ill never consent to 
 marry Andrew while he is as he is now while he 
 distrusts me, or shows such a coldness toward me. 
 Nothing shall force me to it." 
 
 " Certainly 1 shall not force you to it," returned 
 
 my mother, with equal decision. " My child shall 
 
 never go to a cold or unwilling bridegroom." 
 
 . " I wish I had never seen him," said I, and with 
 
 that I fell a-weeping with such violence that my
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter. . 303 
 
 mother was alarmed. She led me up to bed her- 
 self, administered a quieting potion, and sat by me 
 till I fell asleep. The next morning I awaked re- 
 freshed in body, but so heavily burdened in mind 
 and heart that I shut my eyes and wished the day- 
 light would never come. But daylight and dark- 
 ness do not change to suit our moods, and I reflected 
 that I must not add to my mother's cares ; so I rose 
 and dressed, and tried to be composed if I could 
 not be cheerful. "We had hardly finished our 
 breakfast when a messenger came down requesting 
 our presence at the court. We found the whole 
 family assembled in the cedar room, together with 
 Mr. Lovel. Betty was pale as death, but demure 
 and collected. Mr. Lovel was trying, with some 
 success, to play the easy fine gentleman and man of 
 the world. Andrew was stern and silent. The 
 moment we entered my aunt fell upon mo with vio- 
 lent and incoherent reproaches for leading her child 
 astray. 
 
 11 Hush, mother !" said Andrew. " Let Yevette 
 l>e heard in her own defence, if she hath anything 
 to say." 
 
 My mother drew herself up, declining the seat 
 which Andrew placed for her. " Perhaps, nephew, 
 you will allow her mother to understand why my 
 child is to be put upon her defence. Of what hath 
 she been accused, and by whom ?" 
 
 " Betty says," returned Andrew, " that Yevette 
 was in her confidence all along, and abetted her 
 
 o ' 
 
 meetings with Mr. Lovel."
 
 304 The Chevalier Daughters. 
 
 "She did," said Betty. " We talked of the 
 affair when she first came here, and afterward, when 
 she was angry about the hook, she taunted me with 
 it and threatened to tell." 
 
 u What have you to say, Vevette ?" asked my 
 m other. 
 
 I simply repeated the story just as it was. 
 
 ' ' Can you deny that you taunted me that night 
 with meeting Mr. Lovel ?" asked Betty. 
 
 " I did not taunt you with meeting him, for I 
 never knew for certain that you did meet him. A 
 suspicion came into my mind, and in my anger I 
 spoke it out. ' ' 
 
 Betty smiled superior. 
 
 " Well, all I can say is, that it was an unlucky 
 day when you ever darkened my doors, and still more 
 when you were betrothed to my son," said my 
 aunt, who was one of those persons that say first 
 and think afterward. 
 
 " Oh, mother !" said Margaret. Andrew never 
 spoke. 
 
 " Ay, and oh mother again !" retorted my aunt. 
 " I say it was an unlucky day, and I u -ill say so. It 
 is she who has led my child astray and poisoned her 
 mind with her play-books and her fine stories of Lon- 
 don, to an innocent country maid who had no chance 
 to learn aught of such wickedness. She has ruined 
 my Betty, and she will ruin my son." 
 
 "Have no fears for your son, sister Corbet," 
 said my mother, now fully roused. " The engage- 
 ment between him arid my daughter is from this
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter. 305 
 
 moment at an end. I leave jour house, nor will T 
 or my daughter ever again enter its doors till you 
 have taken hack your words. Mr. Lovel, I will 
 thank you to see that my horse and servant are at 
 the door." 
 
 Mr. Lovel obeyed with all courtesy. Andrew 
 started forward, but my mother rejected his hand 
 with a stately bow, and leaning on my arm she left 
 the room. Mr. Lovel assisted us both to mount 
 for I had ridden my pony and proffered his ser- 
 vices to see us safe home, which my mother de- 
 clined. 
 
 " Not a word was spoken on the way. When 
 we arrived I would have entered upon the subject, 
 but my mother declined it. 
 
 11 Not at present, my child. Let us both be a 
 Utle cooler before we talk it over. My poor Ye- 
 vette, if we had but stayed in Jersey ! 'It was my 
 self-willed determination to come hither which has 
 brought all this upon you." 
 
 "No, mainan, I think not so," T answered. "If 
 Andrew hath such a temper so jealous and dis- 
 trustful it is well to know it in time. But who 
 would have guessed it in Normandy ?" 
 
 " Who indeed ! But there was nothing to bring 
 it out. However, we will talk more another time." 
 
 The next morning Margaret and Rosamond ap- 
 peared early. I dreaded meeting them ; but they 
 both kissed me cordially. 
 
 " We do not suspect you neither Rosamond nor 
 I," said Meg. " Now that my eyes are opened I
 
 506 The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 can see a hundred things which might have roused 
 my suspicions with regard to Betty, if I had not 
 been blind as an owl. As to Rosamond, she never 
 sees anything." 
 
 " But I did see something, and told yoti what it 
 was, and you did not suspect more than I," returned 
 Rosamond. u Don't you remember how confused 
 and angry Betty was ?" 
 
 ' But how is it to end ?" I asked. 
 
 " Oh, they are to be married. There is no other 
 way, after the scandal that has been raised. Just 
 think that they made Lucy Trehorn their go-be- 
 tween, and they have been meeting at her mother's 
 cottage the old witch !" 
 
 " And they are to be married !" said my mother. 
 " Well, perhaps it is the only way, but it does not 
 seem a well-omened beginning of married life. 
 When is the wedding to be ?" 
 
 " The week after next. My mother is already 
 consulting with Deborah about the wedding-clothes 
 and so on. She was saying this morning it was a 
 pity you and Andrew should not be married at the 
 same time, since she has linen enough ready for 
 both of you." 
 
 " She can give it all to Betty," said I ; "I shall 
 not need it." 
 
 " Are you really in earnest ?" said Rosamond. 
 
 u I am," I answered firmly. The girls both 
 looked at maman. 
 
 " Yes, it is best so," said my mother. " T can- 
 not give my child to one who could have her accused
 
 The Chevaliers Daughter. 307 
 
 as Andrew did yesterday nay, who could himself 
 put her on the defence, as if she were the culprit, 
 and never say a word in her behalf." 
 
 " I don't blame you, and yet I am sorry," said 
 Meg. " I think Andrew greatly to blame, and I 
 believe now he thinks so himself. " 
 
 " His thoughts come rather late," said my 
 mother. "If he thinks so, why does he not say 
 so ? But we will not discuss the matter. So Betty 
 and Mr. Lovel are to be married. Where are they 
 to live?" 
 
 " With his father for the present," answered 
 Margaret. ' ' The old man now lives quite alone in 
 his great house at Allinstree, and I believe will be 
 glad of anything which will keep his son at home. 
 I do not know at all how he and Betty vill agree, 
 for he is a great Puritan." 
 
 " Oh, they will agree well enough so long as 
 Betty has anything to gain," said I, and then recol- 
 lecting myself, as I saw my mother look at me, " I 
 crave your pardon, Meg. I should remember that 
 she is your sister. ' ' 
 
 " She is no sister of mine," said Margaret. " I 
 will never own her as such again. She has dis- 
 graced us all." 
 
 " She is your sister, and you cannot help it," 
 said Rosamond, in that trenchant fashion of hers. 
 ' ' You cannot reverse the decrees of Heaven because 
 you are displeased. Betty hath acted a base, 
 treacherous part toward us all, and especially toward
 
 30^ The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 Vevette, but still she is our sister, and as such we 
 must needs treat her." 
 
 " Very true, Rosamond," said my mother. 
 " Betty hath cruelly injured me and mine as well 
 as you, her sisters, hut we must try to forgive her. ' ' 
 
 Margaret was silent, but I saAV in her face the 
 hard expression I knew so well in Andrew's. I 
 suppose my mother thought there was no use in 
 argument, for after a moment's silence she began 
 to talk of somewhat else, and then she proposed that 
 we should have a music lesson to quiet our spirits. 
 The girls agreed, and we got out our music and 
 sang several hymns and songs, and practised some 
 new chants and anthems which my mother had got 
 in a parcel from London. For my Uncle Charles 
 and Aunt Jem still continued their kindness toward 
 us, though they were a little vexed that my mother 
 should have refused their offer, and only a few days 
 before we had received from them a great parcel 
 containing books, music, tea and coffee and choco- 
 late, and I know not what pretty trinkets and laces for 
 me. Then, when we were in rather a better frame, 
 my mother talked to us in her gentle, serious way 
 of those consolations which were so dear to her own 
 heart, and of that inward experience of the presence 
 and the love of the dear Lord which was able to 
 support and console under all trials. Rosamond 
 drank in the discourse like water, but 1 could see 
 that Meg was impatient under it. The truth was 
 that her religion at that time was all outward a 
 matter of forms and ceremonies, of fasts and feasts.
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter. 309 
 
 She made a merit of always using tlie right collect 
 on tlie right day, and never reading the Psalms but 
 in their appointed order ; but to tlie spiritual treas- 
 ures concealed in those Psalms and collects her 
 eyes were not at that time opened. This she has 
 since told me herself. 
 
 That evening Andrew came down to our house 
 and had a long audience with my mother. I did 
 not see him, but maman told me tlie substance of 
 the conversation. He wished to renew the engage- 
 ment, and have thiny. placed upon their former 
 footing, but this my mother positively refused. 
 Andrew begged to see me, and my mother came to 
 tell me so, but I would not go down. 
 
 " I cannot see him now. Perhaps I may after a 
 time, but at present it is impossible. Tell him that 
 I agree to all you have said, but I cannot see him." 
 
 " I do not myself think it best," said my mother. 
 " Let matters rest for the present." So Andrew 
 went away and I did not see him. 
 
 Looking back at this time, 1 must say I think I 
 behaved pretty well. I was as nearly broken-heart- 
 ed as any poor girl ever was, but I strove against 
 my sorrow, and tried in every way to keep myself 
 occupied that I need not have time to brood. I 
 had very bitter thoughts of Andrew, of his family, 
 and even of Providence itself, .but I did strive 
 against them. I went to my school, and to Mar- 
 garet's also twice in the week, for she could not 
 quite manage the knitting, though she was improv- 
 ing. I read to poor Lois, and to an old blind sailor
 
 310 The Chevaliers Daughter. 
 
 who lived in one of the cottages, and in every way 
 strove to keep my thoughts occupied. My mother 
 was all judicious kindness, knowing just when to help 
 and when to let me alone ; but with all my efforts 
 and helps I passed many sad hours. I used to go 
 constantly to church, and found comfort therein ; 
 but oh, how I wished for one of our old pastors, to 
 whom I might open my heart ! Mr. Dobson made 
 a conscience of having daily prayers in the church, 
 and of reading one sermon of a Sunday ; but aside 
 from that he gave no more heed to his parish than 
 he did to the moon, I was going to say ; but in- 
 deed he took much more interest in the moon than 
 he did in his next-door neighbors. He was wrapped 
 up in his studies chemistry, or rather alchemy, as 
 I fancy, astronomy, and physics. He was looked 
 upon with the greatest awe by the country people, 
 as one who had powers over the unseen world, and 
 I doubt not he himself fully believed in these 
 powers. 
 
 Before the wedding we had another guest none 
 & the r than our cousin Lord Stan toun, from Stantoun 
 Court, in Devonshire. We had the first news of his 
 approach from a riding servant whom he sent on 
 before him. My mother, of course, at once sent up 
 word to the great house, and presently we were sur- 
 prised by a visit from my aunt, who came down to 
 hear further particulars, and to ask advice as to how 
 she should receive the great man. She came in and 
 greeted my mother and me just as if nothing had 
 happened, for she was always one of those people
 
 The Chevaliers Daughter. 31 I 
 
 who forget their own hard words as soon as they are 
 spoken, and wonder that any one else should remem- 
 ber them. 
 
 " Well, and so my lord is really going to honor us 
 with a visit," said she, when she had praised my 
 work and admired the cosiness of the house. " 'Tis 
 .in honor, no doubt, but one I would dispense with 
 just now that I have so much on my hands." 
 
 u I believe my lord intends to lodge here," said 
 my mother. " I gathered as much from his let- 
 ter." 
 
 u Here !" said my aunt, staring, as was her way. 
 " Why, how will you put him up or entertain him 
 or his retinue ?' ' 
 
 " As to putting him up, we have plenty of spare 
 chambers, and, thanks to your kindness, abundance 
 of linen and the like. As to entertainment, he 
 will be content, I dare say, to fare as we do. As 
 to his retinue, he has with him but two men-ser- 
 vants, who will lodge in the cottage." 
 
 " Well, I don't envy you your trouble," said my 
 aunt. ' ' I am sure you are welcome. Will he stay 
 to the wedding, think you ?" 
 
 " I dare say he will if he is asked," replied my 
 mother. " He was always a well-natured gentle- 
 man." 
 
 " Now if you would only let Vevette be married 
 at the same time, what a fine wedding we should 
 have ! She is young, to be sure, but ' ' and here 
 she stopped, arrested by something in my mother's 
 face.
 
 312 The Chevaliers Daughter. 
 
 11 Have you already forgotten, sister Corbet, 
 how you said before your whole family that it was 
 an ill day when my daughter darkened your doors 
 how you declared that she would ruin your son as 
 she had ruined your daughter ?" asked my mother. 
 
 " But I was angry then," answered my aunt. 
 "I did not mean half I said. Sure you won't 
 break off with my poor son on that account. Why, 
 he loves Vevette as the apple of his eye." 
 
 " He took a strange way to show it, I must needs 
 say," returned my mother. "No, Amy, for the 
 present any engagement between them is at an end. 
 Should he wish to renew his suit when he returns 
 he can do so, but meantime my daughter is quite at 
 liberty." 
 
 My aunt remonstrated, and even cried, but my 
 mother was firm, and when my aunt appealed to 
 ine I seconded her. 
 
 " Well, well, I suppose there is no use in saying 
 more," said my aunt, wiping her eyes. *' Let us 
 hope all will yet turn out well. I only wish my 
 Betty were half as docile as Vevette, though I can't 
 think it was right ; however, we will let by-gones be 
 by-goncs." And she began asking my mother's 
 advice about certain details of the wedding advice 
 which she gave very readily, for she had no mind 
 to keep up a quarrel. 
 
 11 And you won't tell my lord of all poor Betty's 
 misbehavior, will you ?" said my aunt as she rose 
 to go. " It would be such a disadvantage to her." 
 
 " Certainly not ; why should I ?" returned my
 
 The Chevaliers Daughter. 313 
 
 mother. " I have no wish to injure Betty, and I 
 am not given to spreading tales of scandal, whether 
 true or false." 
 
 " I am sure that is true, and I only wish my 
 tongue were as well governed as yours. And you 
 won't mention the matter to my lord ?" 
 
 My mother promised again, and my aunt went 
 away content. I may as well say that my lord had 
 not been an hour in our house before she had told 
 him the whole story herself. 
 
 My lord came that evening and took up his 
 abode with us. lie was a fine, courtly gentleman, 
 with something about him that reminded me of my 
 father, though he was much older, and was indeed 
 an old man. He greeted my mother in brotherly 
 fashion, and kissed me on both cheeks, with a com- 
 pliment to my good looks, such as old gentlemen 
 give to young ladies as a matter of course. He 
 expressed himself as delighted with the house and 
 his accommodations, and we found him a most 
 agreeable guest. He had come mostly upon busi- 
 ness with my mother, concerning the estate I have 
 mentioned. It seems this estate lay like a wedge 
 between two farms of his own, and he wished to 
 make some sort of exchange with my mother ; but 
 as he would not have her act in the dark he 
 brought my mother and myself an invitation, warmly 
 seconded by a most kind note from my lady, to 
 make him a visit at Stantoun Court, which invita- 
 tion my mother, after some consideration, accepted. 
 She thought the change would be good for me, and
 
 314 The Chevaliers Daughter. 
 
 I believe also she wished to make friends for mo in 
 my lord's family. My lord also brought us some 
 three hundred ponnds in ready money, which was a 
 very welcome supply. 
 
 Meg and Rosamond were in despair at our going 
 away. My aunt alternately rejoiced in onr good 
 fortune and lamented my obstinacy in not accom- 
 modating matters with Andrew an obstinacy which 
 both she and Betty laid to the account of onr in- 
 creased riches, which had as much to do with it as 
 the flight of the birds. Betty was quite herself 
 again, demure and graceful, satisfied with herself 
 and her lover. She fished hard for an invitation to 
 Stantoun for herself and Mr. Lovel, but without 
 success. 
 
 "No, I will not have them," was my lord's 
 comment to my mother. " He is a fool, and she is, 
 above all others, the kind of girl I hate so sly and 
 silky. The others are nice maids enough, but I 
 will have none of Betty." 
 
 However, he made Betty a present, and was very 
 agreeable at the wedding, which we all attended. I 
 would have given a great deal .to stay away, but my 
 pride would not let me : so I went. All went off 
 very well, only that Mr. Dobson, in his absent-mind- 
 edness, said in the ceremony, " That which God 
 hath put asunder, let no man join together," which 
 methought was an ill omen. But, indeed, it was 
 but an ill-omened affair from first to last. Betty 
 looked very handsome I must say, and so did her 
 bridegroom. Rosamond was glum and Margaret
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter. 3 i 5 
 
 ill at ease, while Andrew was cold, black, and stiff 
 as one of the stone pillars out on the moor. My 
 aunt, on the contrary, was as easy and as much 
 pleased as if everything had come about in the best 
 manner possible. But for her and for my lord, who 
 exerted himself in the most amiable way, it would 
 have been a sour wedding-party. 
 
 The next day Andrew again came to see my 
 mother, and to beg a renewal of the engagement . 
 He had talked with Mr. Lovel, now that they were 
 upon more friendly terms, and Mr. Lovel had quite 
 exculpated me from any knowledge of or part in his 
 affairs arid Betty's, saying with his easy laugh that 
 he had only confirmed Betty's words because he 
 would not see the lady he loved put down. Andrew 
 was most earnest with my mother to overlook his 
 p~st conduct, which he now confessed to be faulty, 
 and to let him begin again. 
 
 " Ko, my fair sou," said maman ; "it would 
 not be best. I can never forget what we owe you 
 and yours ; but my gratitude must be shown in 
 some other way than by giving you my child under 
 present circumstances. She is not to be thrown 
 away and picked up again like a toy, to be cast 
 down again the moment you see or fancy a flaw in 
 her. You say this is your last voyage. When you 
 return, if Vevette is still free and you choose to 
 make your addresses to her, well and good, but for 
 the present matters must remain as they are." 
 
 Then Andrew begged my lord's intercession, but 
 my lord, when he heard the story, declared my
 
 316 The Chevaliers Daughter, 
 
 mother was right, and that he would do the same 
 in her place. 
 
 " What ! would you see the lady you loved so 
 accused, and never so much as take her part never 
 say a word for her ? I vow and declare, I like 
 Level's way the better of the two. No, no, wait, 
 and learn the worth of a fine young lady. 1 ' 
 
 Then Andrew watched and met me on my way 
 home from the school, and pleaded his own cause. 
 But maman had laid her commands upon me, and I 
 was bound to obey them. I did not deny that I 
 loved him, and he would have drawn from me a 
 promise not to marry any one else. 
 
 " I cannot give such a promise," said I. "It 
 would be '"he same as an engagement, which my 
 mother has forbidden ; but I am quite sure I shall 
 never wish to wed any one." 
 
 " So you say now ; but how will it be when you 
 are among the gay gallants of Stantoun Court ?" said 
 Andrew. ' ' Confess, now ; has not the prospect of 
 shining there some share in your decision ?" 
 
 "Why, there it is again !" I returned. "You 
 beg my pardon for one false suspicion, and the very 
 next moment you begin on another. You cannot 
 trust me, and how should I ever trust you ? If we 
 were to be married before you go away, you would 
 always be wondering whether I were not somehow 
 wronging you. No, no, Andrew. Let things be 
 as they are at present. It is the best way, though 
 it is hard." 
 
 And with that I fell to weeping, and he to try to
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter. 317 
 
 comfort me alternately with accusing himself of all 
 the meanness in the world, and with having thrown 
 away his happiness and mine ; so that at the last I 
 was fain to turn comforter myself. At last we 
 agreed to abide by my mother's decision. We ex- 
 changed gifts : Andrew gave me his seal ring which 
 he had had cut at Jerusalem with the Hebrew word 
 Mispeh 
 
 " For he said, * The Lord watch between thee 
 and me when we are absent one from the other,' ' 
 said he solemnly ; and surely the prayer was heard. 
 
 I gave him a little gold locket I had always worn, 
 with the gold chain which sustained it, and he put 
 it round his neck, saying it should never leave him. 
 Indeed he wears it to this day. 
 
 For two or three days we were very busy arrang- 
 ing for our departure. My mother had insisted on 
 giving full value for the house and land, which my 
 lord approved as a good investment, and what I 
 think made Andrew feel more than ever what he 
 had done on paying for the horses and cows he 
 had provided for us. Dinah was to go with us as 
 waiting-woman. Jeanne and Simon were to live in 
 the house, take care of it and the garden, and have 
 all in readiness for our return. We looked forward 
 at that time to living at the Well House for many 
 years, my mother's health being to all appearance 
 quite restored, and Aunt Amy very desirous of 
 having us for neighbors. She did truly love both 
 my mother and me in her way, and she had sense
 
 318 The Chevaliers Daughter. 
 
 enough to value what my mother was doing for 
 Meg and Rosamond. 
 
 All was done at last, and we bade farewell with 
 all the kindness in the world. Betty was not there, 
 having gone with her 1 husband to Allinstree. "We 
 set out in pleasant weather, and arrived safely at our 
 journey's end.
 
 CHAPTER XY. 
 
 STANTOUN COURT. 
 
 TANTOUN" COURT was and is a magnifi- 
 cent pile of building. The oldest part, a 
 great grim tower, was built about the time 
 of the Conqueror or such, at least, is the 
 family tradition but the main building, and that 
 which gives character to the whole, belongs to the 
 early days of Elizabeth. The fact that the same 
 material a warmly tinted red stone is used 
 throughout gives a kind of unity to the whole. 
 The gardens have always been very fine, being en- 
 riched, like ours at Tre Madoc, with all sorts of 
 exotic trees and plants, brought home from foreign 
 parts by those wandering Corbets. There is also an 
 orangery and green-house, which at that time had 
 been but lately erected, and was a special hobby of 
 my lady's. 
 
 There was a good deal of company staying in the 
 house, for my lord was fond of society, and made 
 his two step-daughters an excuse for filling his house 
 with young men. Martha, the elder, was already 
 engaged, and was to be married before long. We
 
 320 T/ie Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 were warmly welcomed by my lady, a kind and 
 motherly woman, and by Theo, her second daugh- 
 ter. Mrs. Martha was just decently civil, and that 
 was all. She looked at every one as if she were 
 mentally taking their measure. I took a dislike to 
 her from the first moment I ever saw her, and I 
 have never seen occasion to change my mind. 
 
 We had a delightful apartment assigned to us 
 a large, airy room, with an adjacent sitting-room, all 
 prettily fitted up, for my mother, and a turret- room 
 near by for me. My lady made an excuse for giv- 
 ing me so small a lodging, saying that some of the 
 bedrooms were being refitted in preparation for her 
 daughter's marriage. " Pray make no excuses," 
 said my mother. " I venture to say this is just the 
 sort of room my daughter would choose." 
 
 " Yes, indeed," I added, as my lady turned to 
 me ; "I love a turret-room above all things." 
 
 " Then we are alt suited," said my lady kindly ; 
 " but you are not looking quite well, sweetheart." 
 
 I assured her that I was well and only tired with 
 my journey, and so with more kind words she left 
 us to ourselves. We unpacked our mails and 
 dressed ourselves, arid then at the summons of a 
 waiting-gentlewoman, we descended to the with- 
 drawing-room, my mother having first recommend- 
 ed Dinah to the attention of this same gentlewoman, 
 who said she would show her to the. room of Mrs. 
 Carey, the housekeeper. 
 
 " And is Mrs. Carey still living ?" asked my 
 mother, " She must be very old."
 
 The Chevaliers Daughter. 321 
 
 " She is so, madame," answered the waiting- 
 damsel ; " but she is still hale and active, and does 
 all the work my lady will allow. This way, 
 madame, if yon please." 
 
 She conducted us to the open door of my lady's 
 withdrawing-room, which was very splendidly fitted 
 up quite as fine as anything I had seen in London 
 and now filled with company. "We were led into 
 the room by my lord himself, who espied us in a 
 moment, and placed in seats of honor. Indeed, both 
 he and my lady seemed to think they could not 
 show my mother too much respect. A great many 
 people were presented to us, among them Mrs. Mar- 
 tha' s servant Captain Bernard, a fine young gentle- 
 man, with a good, serious, kindly face. The young 
 ladies presently made their appearance, to be chid 
 by their mother for their delay, to which Mrs. Theo 
 returned a smiling excuse, and Mrs. Martha none at 
 all. There were several ladies and gentlemen 
 present from the neighborhood, some of whom my 
 mother had formerly known, and we were for 
 a while quite the centre of attraction, a condition of 
 things which did not seern to please Mrs. Martha at 
 all, to judge by her black looks. She would hardly 
 even give a civil answer to poor Captain Bernard 
 when he addressed her, and as I looked at her I 
 wondered what he could have seen in her to wish 
 to make her his wife. But I found out long ago 
 that there is no use in trying to account for such 
 matters. Mrs. Theo was pleased with everything 
 and everybody, herself included. She was uncom-
 
 322 The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 monly pretty, and dressed herself with great taste. 
 She was not very deep, but what there was of her 
 was good and sweet, and she was always kind, even 
 to self-sacrifice when needful. She did not care 
 for study, and had no special tastes for anything 
 but embroidery, in which, indeed, she excelled any 
 person I ever saw. We were soon the best of 
 friends, and have always remained so. 
 
 The evening passed pleasantly enough, what with 
 music and conversation, cards and tables for the 
 elders, and a little dance among the young folks. I 
 had never learned any dances except those of the 
 peasant folks in Normandy, and at present I was in 
 no spirits for any such amusement, but I exerted 
 myself to sing and play, and though a good deal 
 confused, I believe I acquitted myself fairly. 
 "When we returned to our room \ve found Mrs. 
 Dinah well pleased with the manner in which she 
 had been treated by Mrs. Carey, but full of right- 
 eous indignation at the light conduct of the gentle- 
 men's gentlemen, one of whom, it seems, had actu- 
 ally offered to kiss her. My mother soothed and 
 comforted her, and told her she had better sit in 
 our room or else with Mrs. Carey, and then she 
 would be out of the way of the men servants. 
 
 " Oh, they are not all alike, madame," answered 
 Dinah quickly. " There is the steward, Mr. Mat- 
 teson, who is as sober and well conducted a man as 
 any one would wish to see." 
 
 " Well, well, T am glad there is one exception to 
 the rule," said my mother. " Now we will have
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter. 323 
 
 our reading and go quickly to rest, for I ain very 
 tired, and my head is quite in a whirl. It is long 
 since I have spent so gay an evening. 1 ' 
 
 For two or three days my mother was quite un- 
 well, and I was of course with her most of the 
 time, though I went out to walk two or three times 
 with Mrs. Theo, who also showed me the house 
 and pictures, which were very fine. As to Mrs. 
 Martha, she never troubled herself about me in any 
 way, and that was all I asked of her. 
 
 " You must not mind Martha," said Theo to me 
 one day, when she had very shortly declined an in- 
 vitation to walk with us. " She goes on her own 
 way for all any one else, and she is always busy." 
 
 " What does she do ?" I asked. 
 
 " Oh, she reads a great deal, especially in 
 divinity, and she sews for the poor and visits them 
 very often. She does twice as much for them as I 
 do, and yet I don't know how it is, they are always 
 glad to see mother and me, and they do not seem 
 ever pleased to see her. I think sometimes they do 
 not like so much advice. Do you not think that 
 may be it ?' ' she asked, raising her pretty eyebrows, 
 and looking at me reflectively. 
 
 " Perhaps so," said I, with a smile, for I was 
 much amused. " Then you do not give them ad- 
 vice ?" 
 
 " I, Cousin Vevette ?" with an air of great aston- 
 ishment. " How could I do that ? I do riot know 
 half as much as they do. Why, what advice could 
 1 give those poor women about their households
 
 324 The Chevaliers Daughter. 
 
 and their children, when I never brought up a 
 child or cooked a dinner in all my life ? I do some- 
 times just hint to them about washing a babe's face 
 clean or mending its hose, but just in a pleasant 
 talking kind of way. you know. And I must say 
 they are usually ready to listen. But I never could 
 go into their houses when they are at meals and re- 
 mark upon their waste in eating fresh butter, or 
 anything like that. Why, I should not like it my- 
 self, would you ?" 
 
 " Decidedly not !" I answered. " But I think 
 it is pleasant to drop into cottages and talk with 
 the women when they are at leisure, and play with 
 the babes, don't you ?" 
 
 " Oh, yes, and to make christening frocks for 
 them, and the like. Come, we- wil] go and see the 
 old folks at the almshouses." 
 
 "We spent three or four weeks very pleasantly at 
 Stantoun Court. My lord was fond of music, and 
 took much pleasure in our singing and playing. 
 My mother excused herself from returning visits, as 
 her health was so delicate, but she was always in 
 the parlor of an evening to help my lady in enter- 
 taining her guests. I soon came to enjoy these 
 evenings very much, nor was I at all averse to the 
 attentions 1 received from my lord's young visitors. 
 I had one letter from Andrew, written from Ply 
 mouth before he sailed. He told me he had hoped 
 to bid me farewell in person, but that had been made 
 impossible. His ship was to go up to Chatham, 'aud 
 he would write from thence so soon as he knew his
 
 The Chevalier's Daughter. 325 
 
 destination ; but lie believed that lie should go to 
 the West and not to the East Indies after all. 
 
 I shed many tears over this letter, which was as 
 kind and tender as possible, and as my lord was 
 sending post to London, I answered it with my 
 mother's permission, and sent Andrew a watch- 
 chain which I hud learned to make from gold cord. 
 Long afterward I heard that he had written again, 
 but I never received the letter. 
 
 My mother concluded her business with my lord, 
 greatly to the satisfaction, and I believe to the ad- 
 vantage of both parties, since the property she 
 took in exchange was more immediately productive, 
 and more convenient for a woman to hold. One 
 morning after a long private conference with our 
 host and hostess, my mother told me that she had 
 made Lord Stanton my guardian in case of her 
 dying before 1 was settled in life. 
 
 " Dear maman, do not speak of dying," said I. 
 " You are looking so well." 
 
 " And I am well better than I ever expected to 
 1)0," she answered me ; " but no one knows what 
 may happen, and I shall not die the sooner for hav- 
 ing settled my affairs. My lord and lady are good 
 people, and will do well by you." 
 
 I was well content with the arrangement, for I 
 liked both my lord and my lady. The latter was one 
 of the most evenly good women I ever saw. She 
 was not one who ever made great demonstrations of 
 affection even to her own children, but she was 
 almost always the same. As Dinah said, one always
 
 326 The Chevaliers Daiighter. 
 
 knew where to have her. My lord was somewhat 
 choleric, and had a knack of exasperating himself 
 over trifles which sometimes made one ashamed for 
 him ; but still he was a fine, good-natured gentle- 
 man, who would have died before he would do a 
 mean or cruel action, and his manners were perfect, 
 specially to women. I never saw him speak even to 
 a maid servant without lifting his hat. He was 
 greatly annoyed by the freedom taken by some of 
 his young gentlemen visitors with the village maids 
 and the servants ; and when one of these fine sparks 
 came to complain of a ducking in the sea which he 
 got from one of the Lees " down to Cove" for mak- 
 ing too free with his young wife, my lord said 
 bluntly it served him right, and he would have done 
 the same if he had been there. The youth blus- 
 tered, and I believe would have challenged my lord, 
 but thought better of it and took himself away. 
 
 But a great sorrow was hanging over my head, 
 though I never suspected it. My mother's health 
 had wonderfully improved of late, and there seemed 
 no reason why she should not live out the usual 
 term of years. She told me one evening that she 
 had not felt so well in all respects since she was a 
 young girl. 
 
 " It is not only in bodily health," said she, " but 
 I am sensible of a greafr improvement in ray spirits 
 not elation exactly, but a kind of joyfulness as if 
 I were in certain expectation of good news, and 1 
 constantly dream of your father and of our old 
 home in France which I have never done before."
 
 The Chevaliers Daughter. 327 
 
 I saw Mrs. Dinah shake her head and look grave 
 upon this, but I knew she had her full share of 
 Cornish superstitions. I myself thought the im- 
 provement in my mother's health and spirits arose 
 from the change of air and scene, and from the 
 enjoyment of cheerful company. I little thought 
 what was that joyful news she was soon to hear 
 joyful to her, but sad beyond conception to me. 
 
 The very next morning, as I was finishing dress- 
 ing, Dinah came to me, quite calm as usual, but 
 pale as ashes. 
 
 " "Will you come to your mother at once ?" said 
 she. " She is very ill." 
 
 I did not need a second summons. My mother 
 lay in her bed, her eyes closed, breathing in soft 
 sighs, and only at long intervals. My lady was 
 already with her, applying salts to her nose and 
 strong essences to her forehead, while old Mrs. 
 Carey was rubbing the soles of her feet. They 
 made way for me with looks of solemn compassion. 
 Even then 1 was not alarmed. 
 
 " It is a fainting fit," said I. "She used to 
 have them in France." I bent over and kissed 
 her, calling upon her name. She opened her eyes 
 with a look of unutterable tenderness, and her lips 
 moved. Then she drew one more sigh and all was 
 still. 
 
 " Come away, my dear child," said my lady, dis- 
 engaging my hand from my mother's and taking it 
 in her own. " Your dear mother is at rest." 
 
 Even then I could not believe it, and I would
 
 328 The Chevalier's Daughter. 
 
 have them try again and again to revive her, but 
 soon the deathly chill of the hand and brow and the 
 white lips convinced even me, and I suffered my 
 lady to lead me away. 
 
 The} T were all very kind. My lady took me to 
 her dressing-room, and strove to win me to tears, 
 for I was at first like one ptunned. At last Theo's 
 tearful caresses opened the flood-gates, and i wept 
 myself into quietness. N.y lady left me to myself 
 as much as was good for me, and no more. Mr. 
 Penrose, the rector, came and prayed with me, and 
 as I was able to bear it, he talked with me in a gen- 
 tle and consoling way, which did me all the good in 
 the world. He was a dry-looking, quiet elderly 
 man, a native of Cornwall, and had remained in his 
 parish through all the troubles and changes of the 
 civil wars. My lord was greatly attached to him, 
 though he thought him needlessly strict in some 
 matters. He was a fine scholar, and the best 
 preacher I had heard since 1 left France. 
 
 My mother was buried in the churchyard of the 
 old priory church among our ancestors for many 
 generations. It was a lovely place, all green and 
 fair with grass and great trees, and luxuriant ivy 
 mantling the old nuns. Oh, how I wept as I 
 thought of my father's dishonored grave. How I 
 wished they could have slept together ! But it was 
 an idle wish. What signifies what distance divides 
 our worn-out bodies, if only our better part our 
 real selves are resting together in the Paradise of 
 God?
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter. 329 
 
 Of course word was sent to the friends at Tre 
 Madoc, and I received a most kind letter from my 
 aunt, asking me to make her house my home. The 
 invitation was warmly seconded by the girls, but 
 my lorL and lady would have me stay with them 
 for the present, and indeed it was my own desire. 
 I did not feel that I could return to Tre Madoc 
 where all was so changed, nor, knowing my aunt as 
 I did, could I wish to reside in her family, specially 
 as matters were so altered between Andrew and me. 
 I wrote as kindly as I could, specially recommend- 
 ing to my aunt's care our old friends Jeanne and 
 Simon. One good reason is as good as a hundred, 
 and I gave no other for remaining where I was 
 than the wish of my guardian. 
 
 I spent the autumn and winter quietly enough at 
 Stantoun Court. At first, of course, I kept myself 
 quite in retirement, but by degrees I began once 
 more to mix with the rest of the family, and to 
 take my share in what was going on. My aunt 
 would have me take music lessons of a gentleman 
 in Biddeford, who came to our house every week 
 for that purpose, and at last took up his residence 
 there altogether. He improved me very much in 
 music, both singing and playing, and I also learned 
 some arithmetic of him, especially such as relates to 
 the keeping of accounts a knowledge I have since 
 found very useful. 
 
 There was a school at Stantoun Court, known as 
 Lady Rosamond's school, which had been endowed 
 by some former Lady Stantoun out of the revenues
 
 330 The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 of tlie suppressed priory. This school had been 
 closed for some time, and the house had fallen into 
 disrepair, but Mr. Penrose was very desirous of 
 having it opened again, and he had at last per- 
 suaded my lord to put the house in order and to 
 settle a school-mistress once more. This last was 
 more easily said than done, since no one could be 
 found who came up to Mr. Penrose's ideas of what 
 was desirable. At last I was the means of supply- 
 ing the need, though at a considerable sacrifice to 
 myself. My lady was one day admiring some 
 work of Dinah's, and saying what a treasure she 
 was. 
 
 " Oh, my lady, why would she not make a good 
 mistress for the new school ?" I exclaimed, struck 
 with a sudden thought. My lady looked surprised, 
 but by no means displeased. 
 
 "I believe that is a bright thought," said she. 
 " But hath Dinah the needful knowledge ?" 
 
 " She can read and write beautifully," said I, 
 " and she hath some knowledge of figures. There 
 is no sort of work she does not understand, and she 
 is very apt to teach." 
 
 ' ' But can you spare her ?' ' asked my lady. 
 
 " I shall not like to spare her, that is the truth, 
 my lady ; but if it is for the good of the school, 1 
 will not be selfish," 1 replied. " I think the place 
 is as well fitted for her as she is for it, and I believe 
 it will please her well to have a. home of her own." 
 
 " Well, I will mention the matter to my lord, 
 and do you talk it over with Mr. Penrose, and we
 
 The Chevaliers Daughter. 331 
 
 will see what is to be done," said my lady ; " I shall 
 have to depend upon you a good deal in this busi- 
 ness of the school, Vevette. Yon know I am no 
 great walker. Theo has no turn for such work, and 
 I know not how it is" and she sighed " Martha 
 does manage so to set every one against her." 
 
 " I am sure I shall like the work," I said ; " sup- 
 pose I go down directly and consult with Mr. and 
 Mrs. Penrose ?' ' 
 
 ' ' Do so if you will, and ask them to come to 
 supper to-night." 
 
 "When Theo heard where I was going, she said 
 she would walk with me. "We had a pleasant ram- 
 ble through the wood and down the Coombe to the 
 village, and were most hospitably received by good 
 Mrs. Penrose, and entertained with cakes and cream, 
 Mr. Penrose was well pleased with the idea, and 
 said he would himself talk with Dinah and find out 
 her qualifications. 
 
 " I should like to be a parson's wife," said Theo, 
 as we walked homeward. 
 
 " Tou Theo !" I exclaimed, in amazement. 
 " You of all people." 
 
 " Yes, I of all people," she returned gayly. 
 
 " It seems to me such a useful, pleasant, quiet 
 life." 
 
 " But I thought you did not like quiet," I said. 
 *' You always seem to enjoy company so much." 
 
 " "Well, so I do ; and 1 like to dress prettily, just 
 as I like everything to be pretty and neat ; but 
 my head is not set on such matters no, not so
 
 33 2 The Chevaliers Daughter. 
 
 much as Martha's, though she is so demure. Per- 
 haps not so much as yours is." 
 
 " You would make a good parson's wife in many 
 ways, I am sure of that," said I. " You would 
 make every one like you." 
 
 " I know I am not so very bright," said Theo ; 
 " I cannot sing and play like you, nor read great 
 books like Martha, nor do any other grand things. 
 But I like to help people enjoy themselves in their 
 own way, and to comfort them in trouble if I can." 
 
 " 1 am sure you do," said I. " Janey Lee said 
 the other day when her child died it was a comfort 
 just to have you come in." 
 
 " Did she ? I am very glad ," said Theo. " But 
 I don't know what I did, only to sit by her, and let 
 her weep, and by and by draw her on to talk of the 
 poor babe and its little pretty ways. 1 never can 
 preach to people in trouble. It seems somehow 
 unfeeling to talk to them of judgments and so on 
 No, if I should marry a parson I shouM let him do 
 .ill the preaching, you may be sure of that. I should 
 content myself with making his house pleasant, and 
 cooking up messes for the poor, and making baby 
 tilings for the lying-in women. That is my idea of 
 a happy life." 
 
 It seemed as if Theo's idea of a happy life 
 was like enough to be fulfilled. She went on a 
 little visit to her godmother, my lord's sister, an 
 elderly lady who had a house near Exeter, where she 
 maintained several young ladies of reduced circum- 
 stances but good family, giving them a suitable
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter. 333 
 
 education, and a small dowry whenever they settled 
 in life. Here she made the acquaintance of the 
 Dean of Exeter, a man, of course, a good deal older 
 than herself, but of fine presence and agreeable 
 manners. He had always been a good deal of a stick, 
 ler for the celibacy of the clergy ; but it seems Theo 
 found means to change his mind, for she had not 
 been at home a week before he followed her, and 
 asked her of her father in marriage. It was one of 
 those happy matches to which there seenh> no ob- 
 jection on any side. The dean was rich and greatly 
 respected. He had beside his deanery a cure in the 
 same parish where my lady Jemina, my lord's sister, 
 resided, and a beautiful rectory, where in Theo might 
 concoct sick messes and make baby linen to her 
 heart's content. She had a small property of her 
 own, and my lord gave her a portion as to his own 
 daughter. Mrs. Martha's wedding (which I should 
 have mentioned in its proper place) was celebrated 
 very quietly, as we were all in recent mourning for 
 my mother ; but my lord was determined that Theo 
 should have a grand wedding. So she did, indeed, 
 with all proper ceremony from the first going to 
 church to the bedding of the bride. Matters of that 
 sort have greatly changed since that time, and I 
 cannot but think for the better, though I do hold 
 that weddings should be celebrated publicly and 
 joyfully, not huddled up as if they were something 
 to be ashamed of. If matters go on as they have 
 begun, I expect my granddaughters will jump into 
 i carriage at the church door, and drive off to get
 
 334 The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 as far as possible from all tlieir friends. However, 
 Theo's wedding was public enough. We had the 
 house full of guests, and among them two whom I 
 had no wish to see, and beheld with dread as birds 
 of ill omen, and so indeed they were. These were 
 no other than my cousin Betty and her husband. 
 They had come to the neighborhood to visit a 
 cousin of Mr. Lovel's, and my lady meeting them 
 and learning who they were, thought she could do 
 no less than invite them to the wedding. My lord 
 did not look too well pleased when he heard of it, 
 for he had taken a great dislike to Betty upon their 
 first meeting, but he could not treat her otherwise 
 than courteously in his own house. As to Mr. 
 Lovel he never seemed to me to have any character, 
 but to be a mere lay figure for the display of what- 
 ever mode in clothes or manners happened to be 
 uppermost. 
 
 Betty had not been one evening in the house be- 
 fore she began exercising her powers. My lord 
 was praising up the institution of marriage, of 
 which he was a great promoter, and my lady, smiling, 
 called him a match-maker. 
 
 " Well, I am a match -maker, I don't deny it," 
 said he ; " would you be ashamed of it if you were 
 me, cousin Lovel ?" 
 
 Betty had been sitting rather silent, and I sup- 
 pose he meant to include her in the conversation. 
 She answered at once, 
 
 " No, indeed, my lord. It is a good vocation. I 
 am sure I have always thanked Vevette for betray-
 
 The Chevaliers Daughter. 335 
 
 ing me to my brother, and so bringing my marriage 
 to pass sooner than I could have done." 
 
 She spoke in those clear silver tones of hers, which 
 always commanded attention, and several people 
 turned to look at us. As may be guessed, I was 
 covered with confusion, but I made shift to an- 
 swer. ' ' 
 
 " You certainly owe me no thanks, Betty, for 
 what I never did. I knew nothing of your affairs, 
 and therefore could not betray them, had I been so 
 inclined." 
 
 " Oh, I beg your pardon !" said she, with her 
 mocking, superior smile, and then presently to me in 
 a kind of stage aside which every one about us could 
 hear, 
 
 11 "What is the use of keeping up that stale pre- 
 tence ? I suppose you did what you thought right, 
 and I don't blame you ; but why deny what you 
 and I know to be true ?" 
 
 To this I made no answer whatever, and my lady 
 presently called upon me to sing. I by and by saw 
 Betty in close conference with Mrs. Bernard, and 
 I had no doubt from the looks Martha cast at me 
 that I was the subject of their conference. 
 
 The next day brought home my lord's son, whom 
 I had not yet seen. He had been travelling abroad 
 for some years, but meeting the news of his sister- 
 in-law's approaching marriage in London, he had 
 hurried home to be present on the occasion. He 
 was a fine, grave, soldierly-looking young man, 
 and very much like Andrew in the fact;, though
 
 336 The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 taller and with much more of courtly grace in his 
 manner. He was warmly welcomed by all, and 
 especially by Mrs. Bernard. I never saw her soften 
 so much toward any one, and, indeed, I believe he 
 was the only person she ever really loved. He was 
 very polite and kind to me, and I naturally liked 
 him because he was so much like Andrew. He was 
 musical, like all his family, and we sang together a 
 good deal. One morning, as we were practising a 
 song together, Betty peeped into the room. I 
 believe she thought I did not see her, for she slip- 
 ped out and presently returned with my lady, whom 
 I have no doubt she brought on purpose. They 
 stood listening a few minutes, and then Betty said 
 half under her breath, and with a sigh, 
 
 " Ah, my poor brother, 1 see his cake is dough ; 
 but no doubt it is all for the best." 
 
 "We stopped singing at this, and my lady asked 
 me with some sharpness whether I had been at the 
 school that morning. I told her no, and she at once 
 thought of errands for me, both there and at the 
 village, which would keep me busy all the morning. 
 
 " I will walk with you, cousin,' 1 said my young 
 lord. " I want to go down to the Cove and see 
 Will Atkins." 
 
 Certainly, my lady had not mended matters for 
 herself or me. I got rid of my cousin as soon as I 
 could, telling him that I should be a long time at 
 the school-house, and after that had some poor peo- 
 ple to visit. He was rather unwilling to leave me, 
 but I insisted, and he had to yield.
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter. 337 
 
 Betty staid two days longer, and then went back 
 to Allinstree, leaving mischief enough behind her. 
 I do believe my lady meant to be just to me, but it 
 was hard to resist the force of Betty's constant and 
 artful insinuations, and she really came to think 
 that I was angling for her step-son. It was not long, 
 of course, before my lord took up the same idea, and 
 what was worst of all, my young lord soon showed 
 that he had no kind of objection to being angled 
 for, and in fact was very ready and even anxious to 
 be caught. 
 
 From this time my life at the castle was not at all 
 comfortable. I missed the companionship of Theo, 
 of whom I had grown very fond, though she never 
 tilled Rosamond's place to me. I missed my 
 mother more and more. Besides, my conscience 
 was not easy. My lord and lady were good people, 
 as 1 have said ; but the times were times of great 
 laxity. It was the fashion to profess great abhor- 
 rence of the Puritans and their ways, and immense 
 devotion to the Church of England, and a good 
 many people showed their devotion by deviating as 
 far as possible from the ways of the precisians, as 
 they were called. We professed to observe Sunday 
 that is, we all went to church in the morning, and 
 my lady was very careful to see that all the servants 
 \vere present at prayers ; but my lord yawned over a 
 play or romance all the evening when ho had no one 
 to take a hand at cards or tables with, and when we 
 had company staying in the house the Sunday even- 
 ing was as gay as any other. My young lord had
 
 338 The Chevalier s Datighter. 
 
 taken up the kind of infidel notions by which, as I 
 said, some young men tried to appear intellectual at 
 a cheap rate, and he had brought down some books 
 of Mr. Hobbes with him which he would fain have 
 had me read ; but that I refused. I had been 
 brought up to a strict observance of Sunday as a day 
 of worship and of sacred rest, and at first I was 
 shocked at what I saw. While my mother lived we 
 usually spent our Sunday evenings together in her 
 own room, but after her death, and especially after 
 Dinah went away, I was easily drawn into whatever 
 was going on below stairs, even to playing at tables 
 with my lord, when he had no one else to amuse 
 him. Then my old pleasure in dreams of wealth 
 and consequence revived. I was something of 
 an heiress, though my income was wholly dependent 
 upon my lord's pleasure or discretion till I should 
 be of age, and so I had plenty of attention. I began 
 again to let the world come into my mind, and, of 
 course, is soon gained a foothold there and ruled for 
 the most part supreme. Now and then, especially 
 when anything strongly reminded me of my 
 mother, my better self that self which loved An- 
 drew came uppermost, but at such times I suffered 
 so much from the reproaches of conscience that I 
 strove by every means to stifle its voice. I said to 
 myself that my father and mother had been brought 
 by the circumstances in which they were placed to 
 take a gloomy view of religion and its require- 
 ments. That the strictness which they had incul- 
 cated was not needful at present, and that it tended
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter. 339 
 
 (a favorite argument this with the devil) to make 
 religion unamiable. That a man or woman might 
 be a Christian and yet allow themselves many diver- 
 sions which the stricter sort denied. In fine, my 
 thought was, not how much I could do for my 
 Lord, but how much of the world I could safely 
 keep for myself. I was like a man who in time of 
 war, instead of fleeing to the safe hills in the interior 
 of the country, chooses to live as near the border as 
 he can for the advantage of keeping up a trade with 
 the enemy. Instead of simply shutting my ears to 
 my cousin's infidel reasonings and declining the 
 subject, I allowed myself to listen to him, and to 
 be influenced by him to think that so long as a man 
 lived a good life, forms and doctrines mattered very 
 little, and I did not ask myself on what this good 
 life was to be founded. In short, 1 grew more and 
 more conformed to the world, which in the bottom 
 of my heart I had always loved, and in proportion 
 as I did so, the remembrance of my father and 
 mother, and of their teachings faded from my mind. 
 I still loved Andrew enough to reject with consider- 
 able vivacity a proposal made me by young Mr. 
 Champernoun, a gentleman of the neighborhood, 
 with a good fortune, and I must say a personable 
 and pleasing man, though grave beyond his years. 
 My lord and lady were very much vexed at my re- 
 fusal, and used every argument to make me change 
 my resolution, saying that Mr. Champernoun was a 
 much better match than Andrew could ever be 
 which was true so far as fortune went and that I
 
 340 The Chevalier a Daughter. 
 
 should perhaps never have so good a chance to set- 
 tle in life again. 
 
 " Well, well !" said my lord at last. " Wilful 
 must have her way. An I had not promised your 
 honored mother never to force your inclinations in 
 any such matter, I should not use so much cere- 
 mony with you, mistress ! You should he made to 
 do what was best for you, whether you liked it or 
 not." 
 
 He could not let the matter rest, but must needs 
 take it up again when his son was present. 
 
 " Vevette is right, " said my young lord. " Were 
 I in her place I would not marry black Basil 
 Champernoun either a sour Puritan and precisian 
 whose father was in the favor of Old Noll as long 
 as he lived. I wonder, my lord, that you could 
 think of such a thing." 
 
 " Aye, aye, you would fain find her a husband, 
 T dare say ; but mind, I will have none of that. If 
 Yevette is flying at any such game she may as well 
 come down at once." 
 
 " I am not flying at any game that I know of," 
 said I, feeling my cheeks flame, as what lady's would 
 not. 
 
 "Your face tells another tale," returned my 
 lord. " Such blushes do not come for nothing." 
 
 " One may blush for others as well as for one's 
 self," said I, rising from the tables where I had 
 been playing with my lord, and in my confusion 
 oversetting the board. And I betook myself to my 
 own room, nor did I leave it all the next day, say-
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter* 341 
 
 ing that I was ill at ease, which was the truth, and 
 wished to be quiet. Lewis must needs make mat- 
 ters worse by coming to my door to inquire for me, 
 and though I did not see him, but sent him a mes- 
 sage by Lucy, rriy new little maid, his doing so did 
 not help me with his father and mother. 
 
 When I came down-stairs again, I found my 
 lord had gotten over his pet and was as gracious as 
 before, but my lady was very cool to me. She 
 loved Lewis as her own son, and was ambitious for 
 him. The insinuations of Betty had not been with- 
 out their effect, and Mrs. Bernard, who was settled 
 in the neighborhood, threw all her influence on the 
 same side. In short, I was very unhappy, and as I 
 had about that time an opportunity of writing to 
 my Aunt Jemima in London, I told her my 
 troubles, and added that I knew not what to do. 
 The result was an immediate invitation from her 
 and my uncle to come to them in London, and make 
 their house my home. My uncle also wrote a let- 
 ter to my lord, which I did not see, but which I sup- 
 pose satisfied him, for he made no objection to my 
 going, and my lady decidedly forwarded it. Lewis 
 had a great deal to say against it, but it may be 
 guessed that his arguments had no great weight. 
 It was settled that I was to travel with Theo and 
 her husband, who were going up in a week or two, 
 and my lady was directly in a great bustle to get 
 me ready ; now that there was a chance of getting 
 me off her hands she was all kindness once more. 
 
 The evening before I was to go to join Theo at
 
 342 The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 Exeter, 1 sought out my lady in her dressing-room 
 and asked to speak with her in private. I thanked 
 her for her kindness to me, and assured her that I 
 had had no desire to displease her in any way, and 
 least of all by marrying Lewis. Then as she gave 
 me a kind though somewhat embarrassed answer, I 
 ventured to ask her what Betty had said about me. 
 She would not tell me at first, but presently changed 
 her purpose, and when I heard the cunning tale 
 which Betty had imposed upon her I no longer 
 wondered so much at her change toward me. It 
 was not only in the matter of the meeting with Mr. 
 Lovel, that she had misrepresented me, but she had 
 told my lady that I had avowed to her a settled pur- 
 pose to make myself the wife of some great man, 
 and to that very end had persuaded my mother to 
 break off the match with Andrew, at the very time 
 that the change in my fortunes made it likely that I 
 should go to Stantoun Court. 
 
 I explained the whole matter to my lady from 
 beginning to end, and she wao pleased to say that I 
 had wholly exculpated myself, and to take shame 
 to herself for being so ready to believe evil. She 
 kissed me and said she was sorry I was going away, 
 and bade me always think of Stantoun Court as my 
 home. She had been very generous to me before, 
 and she now gave me a gold watch and a beautiful 
 set of pearl ornaments which she had bought in 
 Exeter. I believe she talked my lord over that 
 night, for the next day he told me he was sorry I 
 was going away, and if I would even now give up
 
 The Chevalier's Daughter. 343 
 
 the plan I should have a home at the court as long 
 as I liked, and he would not tease me to marry any 
 one. But the die was cast. The step was taken 
 which was the beginning of a long journey far 
 longer indeed, than any of us thought, and I had 
 no mind to turn back.
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 LONDON. 
 
 HE next day I went to Exeter, from which 
 place we were to set out for London in a 
 few days. I found Theo living in a noble 
 house, with everything pleasant about her, 
 and enjoying herself to the full. She had no fancy 
 for the journey to London, and would, I believe, 
 much have preferred going to the country rectory, 
 whither Mr. Dean usually retired in summer. We 
 rode out to see the place, and truly I did not wonder 
 at her love for it all about it was so beautiful. 
 There were no gentlemen's houses very near, but 
 my Lady Jemima, my lord's sister, lived, as I have 
 said, in an old mansion which had once been a con- 
 vent of gray nuns. The house stood on a rising 
 ground, and was beautifully embosomed in very 
 ancient timber and a part of this same wood reached 
 even to the walls of the rectory itself. 
 
 We visited the little village school, taught by a 
 charming old dame, and where Theo distributed 
 buns, gingerbread, and comfits with a lavish hand. 
 Then we went into the house, where all was in
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter. 345 
 
 order, and where the old housekeeper and her 
 blooming neat maids welcomed us with evident, 
 pleasure at seeing their mistress. We also called 
 upon my Lady Jemima, who was as great a contrast 
 to my own Aunt Jem as could well be conceived. 
 She was sitting at work among her family of 
 maidens, who were all busy with their fingers, 
 while one read aloud. There were six of them, all 
 dressed alike in gray gowns and white caps with 
 blue ribbons, and I must say they looked very 
 bright and happy. Lady Jemima was a plain 
 woman, with none of the family beauty of color, 
 but she had a most sweet expression, at once benign 
 and commanding. She sent away her young ladies 
 to walk, and then sat down to talk with us. 
 
 " You have married off the last of your old 
 family, have you not ?" asked Theo. 
 
 " Yes, only a month ago, and the child hath 
 done well, I think. Another has gone to be a gov' 
 erness in the family of a distant cousin of ours, a 
 rich sugar refiner's wife in Bristol, and in one way 
 or another they are all scattered and doing well for 
 themselves. But my house is nearly full again." 
 
 " Not quite full, I hope, for I have a petition to 
 make for a poor maid, the eldest child of Mr. 
 Brown, the vicar of Torton," said Theo, and she 
 proceeded to unfold the matter, saying that the 
 curate was very poor, with a large family, and this 
 daughter being lame, was not fit for service. 
 
 11 Are they so very poor ?" asked Lady Jemima. 
 
 " They are poorer than they need be if the wife
 
 346 The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 were a better manager," replied the dean's lady ; 
 " but she hath been a waiting-gentlewoman to my 
 Lady Saville, and still sets herself up on her gentility, 
 forsooth, cannot possibly work with her hands, and 
 talks of how she hath come down in the world. The 
 aunt, who is a good plain farmer's wife, with a 
 small army of children, tells me that this maid's 
 lameness hath come, she verily believes, from work- 
 ing beyond her strength to make up her mother's 
 deficiencies. She is her father's greatest comfort, 
 poor man, but he will willingly spare her for the 
 chance of having her recover her health. ' ' 
 
 "Will you send him to see me?" asked Lady 
 Jemima. " I would talk the matter over with him 
 myself, for no disparagement to you, Theo," she 
 added with a smile, " you are one of those soft- 
 hearted people who think everybody ought to have 
 everything, and as my means are limited, I must 
 make a discrimination, and not use them to encour- 
 age idleness or improvidence." 
 
 Theo smiled in her turn, and admitted that she 
 was easily imposed upon. " But I am learning 
 something, I assure you," said she. " I have found 
 out that all the clean people are not saints and all 
 the dirty ones reprobates, which was the notion I 
 at first set out witl;." 
 
 After a little more talk we had dinner with Lady 
 Jemima and the young ladies, and set out on our 
 way home, calling at the house of the curate I have 
 mentioned. Such a house showing in every cor- 
 ner the results of sluttishness and improvidence.
 
 The Clicvalici 's Daughter. 347 
 
 The poor man, into whose study we were shown, 
 sat in a ragged cassock, writing with one hand and 
 holding a sleeping infant on the other arm, while 
 his lame daughter was resting upon a rude couch or 
 settle a hard resting-place it looked keeping two 
 more little ones quiet by telling them a story, though 
 her feverish cheeks and bright heavy -lidded eyes 
 showed how much she needed rest. Another girl 
 about twelve was clearing r. table of the remains of 
 what certainly looked like a very scanty meal. Theo 
 at once took possession of the children, and distrib- 
 uted some cakes imong them, which they devoured 
 in a way that showed their dinner had still left 
 them with an appetite. She had also brought new 
 gowns for the elder girls, at sight of which the 
 somewhat sullen face of the second girl brightened, 
 and she looked really pretty. The father eaid just 
 enough and not too much by way of thanks, and 
 promised that he would go to see Lady Jemima 
 next day. Just as we were about going madame 
 sailed into the room, having evidently been busy 
 attiring herself in the remains of her old waiting - 
 gentlewoman's finery. She was loud in her thanks 
 and praise of the gowns, and equally loud in her 
 lamentations over the state of her own wardrobe, a 
 hint of which Theo took no notice. 
 
 " I little thought I should live to receive charity," 
 said the foolish woman ; " but when one weds be- 
 neath one's station, there is no knowing what cue 
 will come to." 
 
 "As to that, I dare say your husband was so
 
 348 The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 much in love as to think you capable of lilling any 
 station," returned Theo, wilfully misunderstanding 
 her ; whereat she tossed her head, and looked ready 
 to bite, but made no reply. 
 
 " I dare say she will make up the gowns for her- 
 self," said Theo, when we had taken leave. " It is 
 a wonderful thing to see what sort of people little 
 children are sent to, is it not ?" 
 
 I agreed with her. I may as well say that the 
 woman flatly refused at first to let Sally go to Lady 
 Jemima, declaring that her lameness was more than 
 half a pretence to get rid of work. But the father 
 had his way for once, and poor Sally, if she did not 
 recover, at least spent her last days in peace. 
 
 In a day or two we went up to London, in the 
 dean's coach, with outriders, and spare saddle horses 
 for one of us to ride now and then. It was a toil- 
 some journey worse by far than it is now, and that 
 is saying a great deal. More than once the coach 
 was fairly stuck, and we had to borrow oxen from 
 the neighboring fanners to drag it out of the mire, 
 and once we just missed an attack from highway- 
 men. They thought our party too strong, it seems, 
 and let us pass, but a gentleman with whom we had 
 spent the evening before at an inn, was stripped of 
 all his own and his wife's valuables and received a 
 severe wound in the arm. However, in spite of 
 dangers and detentions we arrived safely in London 
 at last, and I was left at my uncle's new house in 
 Covent Garden, whither he had removed at the
 
 The Chevaliers Daughter. 349 
 
 death of my Aunt Jem's father, who had left her 
 quite a fortune. 
 
 My uncle and aunt were not at home, but I re- 
 ceived every attention from my aunt's waiting- 
 gentlewoman, and was installed in a pleasant room 
 and treated to a cup of chocolate. I was glad to 
 go to rest early, as I was very tired with the jour- 
 ney, and Mrs. Mercer said her lady would not be at 
 home till quite late. It was long before I could fall 
 asleep, there was such a noise in the street, but 
 weariness overcame me at last. I slept soundly and 
 awoke refreshed, though still somewhat stiff with 
 the jolting I had endured. I had meant to begin 
 the day with reading and devotion, but I was hur- 
 ried and a good deal in awe of the new waiting- 
 damsel my aunt had provided for me. I was afraid 
 I should keep my aunt waiting breakfast, and so 
 went down without any prayer whatever. Thus I 
 began my new life with a false step. 
 
 I found my uncle much changed, and not for the 
 better. He received me very kindly, as did my 
 aunt, but he looked haggard, had grown older, and 
 had a hard, worn expression, as if he lived under 
 the stress of some habitual excitement. My aunt 
 too looked older, and had lost a good deal of her 
 beautiful bloom. They both welcomed me kindly, 
 and my aunt began at once to talk of taking me out 
 to the theatre and the park so soon as I should be 
 provided with new clothes. My uncle said very little, 
 and went out immediately after breakfast. I saw 
 his wife take him aside and ask him some question,
 
 350 The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 to which, judging from her face, she did not receive 
 a favorable answer. 
 
 " But the child must have new clothes ! I can- 
 not take her out with me till she is fit to be seen, ' ' 
 I heard her say. 
 
 " "Well, well. I suppose Lord Stantoun has sent 
 me some money by the dean. I shall wait upon 
 him as soon as it is late enough. Meantime I can 
 spare you this, ' ' putting some gold into her hands. 
 " It is a part of my winnings last night." 
 
 * ' Ah, Charles, if you would but quit gaming, "said 
 my aunt, in a low tone, but not so low but that I 
 heard her. 
 
 " How can I, child, when the king sets the ex- 
 ample, unless I withdraw from court altogether, 
 and I suppose you would not have me do that ?" 
 
 " No, you cannot do that," replied my aunt, 
 " but then" 
 
 "Don't trouble thy head about the matter," 
 interrupted my Uncle Charles. " If I lose one 
 day, why I gain the next. So it is all even. You 
 will be an old woman before your time, and have to 
 take to painting, like my Lady Castlemaine or to 
 devotion, which I should like still less." 
 
 So saying he kissed her and went away, and she 
 came back to me with a little line of vexation be- 
 tween her arched brows. 
 
 " Well, well ! Men will be men. Come up- 
 stairs, child, and we will look over your wardrobe 
 and see what you need. ' ' 
 
 I ventured to say that my Lady Stantoun had
 
 The Chevaliers Daughter. 351 
 
 provided me with everything she thought need- 
 ful. 
 
 " Yes, I dare say, according to her notions. Buf 
 she has not been in London these seven years, and 
 I dare say she has not changed the fashion of her 
 dress since that time." 
 
 My new maid had unpacked all my things by 
 this time, and my aunt, though she criticised unmer- 
 cifully the fashion of my gowns and petticoats, yet 
 allowed that Lady Stantoun had been very liberal. 
 
 " This may do well enough with a silk petticoat 
 laid with silver," said she, laying aside what was 
 meant for my best gown ; " but you must have 
 another and some lace whisks and a hat and riding 
 coat, and Mercer must curl your hair." 
 
 " It curls of itself," said I, " but I have always 
 worn a cap." 
 
 " Nonsense, child ; what do you want of a cap ? 
 Come, I shall allow you no free will in this matter 
 of dressing. You must needs confess that I am the 
 best judge, and be ruled by me. You shall wear 
 my t'other hat and mantle, and we will drive to the 
 Royal Exchange and buy .you some gloves and 
 stockings and a fan and so on." 
 
 " ' But, Aunt Jem, I am in mourning, ' ' I ventured 
 to say. 
 
 " Well, and so am I, child. Don't you see I am 
 all in black?" 
 
 Certainly she was in black, but I should never 
 have guessed she was in mourning, she wore so 
 much lace and fine cut work. However, I prom-
 
 35 2 The Chevaliers Daughter, 
 
 ised to be guided by her judgment in all such 
 matters, as indeed was no more than fitting, seeing 
 I had come to be under her care. We presently 
 went out in my uncle's coach, and were busy shop- 
 ping all the morning. I thought I never could use 
 all the things my aunt bought for me, and my head 
 fairly whirled with the excitement of seeing so 
 many new places and people. My aunt was in the 
 very heart of the gayest society about the court, 
 and many were the salutes she received from this 
 and that great lady even from my Lady Castlemaine 
 herself and another very handsome woman whom 
 she said was Mrs. Stewart, a great favorite of the 
 king's. When we had finished our shopping, we 
 went into the park, and here I saw the king and 
 queen, the latter of whom I had never beheld be- 
 fore. I thought her very sad-looking, and re- 
 marked upon it to my aunt. 
 
 " Yes, poor thing, she is sad enough, and no 
 wonder, since she is silly enough to love her hus- 
 band," said my aunt. 
 
 ' ' Do you think it silly for a woman to love her 
 husband, aunt ?" I asked. 
 
 " Yes, when he does not love her. But in truth, 
 the queen is too grave and too devout to please a 
 merry monarch like King Charles. 
 
 11 Perhaps she finds comfort in devotion," I ven- 
 tured to remark. 
 
 " Yes, I dare say. 'Tis the refuge of disap- 
 pointed wives and faded widows. Perhaps I may 
 take to it some day who knows ?"
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter. 353 
 
 I thought within myself that my mother always 
 found comfort in devotion, though she was by no 
 means faded, and that devotion when it was taken 
 up in that way as a last resort, was not like to afford 
 any great solace ; but I did not venture to speak 
 my thoughts. I had already learned to be ashamed 
 of being thoaght devout. 
 
 ' ' And who is that young lady in attendance upon 
 the queen ?" I asked. 
 
 " That ! Oh, that is Mrs. Godolphin," was my 
 aunt's reply, with a curious change of tone. ' ' She 
 is a true saint, if you please. I do not believe the 
 smile or frown of any or all the kings in Europe 
 would make her turn a hair's breadth to the right 
 hand or the left, in any matter of duty or religion. 
 We used to be great friends when we were young 
 chits together at school," and she sighed. 
 ' ' And are you not friends now ?' ' I asked. 
 " We have never quarrelled, child, if that is 
 what you mean, but she has gone her way, and I. 
 mine. There, we won't talk of it. See there is 
 the coach of the French ambassador. Is it not fine ? 
 He has some fine lady and gentleman visiting him 
 from France. I dare say we shall meet them to- 
 morrow night. But we must be going home to din- 
 ner." 
 
 My uncle was not at dinner, being in attendance 
 upon the Duke of York in some capacity or other. 
 1 forget what. When the meal was over my aunt 
 said she meant to take a rest, and she dared to say I 
 would like to do the same. I took the hint and re-
 
 354 The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 tired to my own room. Here was a chance for the 
 devotions I had neglected in the morning, but it 
 may be guessed that I was in no promising frame 
 for them. However, I read a chapter and hurried 
 over a few forms, and then spent the rest of the 
 afternoon reading a French romance I had found 
 on my table, and in practising upon the harpsicon 
 my uncle had sent home for me. He was very fond 
 of music, and wished me above all things to culti- 
 vate it and to improve my voice. In the evening 
 my aunt entertained a small company of her friends, 
 and she would have me sing for them. I received 
 many compliments, both upon my voice and my 
 playing, with which my aunt was honestly pleased, 
 for she was; never one to envy another's success. 
 When I went up to my room I found Mercer wait- 
 ing to undress me and curl my hair. She had also 
 a new gown and petticoat ready for me to try on, 
 and I actually forgot all about my prayers till I was 
 in bed and the light out. So ended iny first day in 
 London. 
 
 Next morning I received a message to come to 
 my aunt's bedroom as soon as I was dressed. 
 
 " Is my aunt ill ?" I asked of Mercer, who was 
 waiting to show me the way. 
 
 '" Oh, no, Mrs. d'Antin. She wishes to intro- 
 duce you to your teacher of music." 
 
 I actually did not know where to look when I 
 entered my aunt's room and found her lying in bed 
 half raised upon a heap of laced pillows, with only 
 a light mantle thrown over her night dress, while a
 
 The Chevaliers Daughter. 355 
 
 very smart gentleman stood talking by the bedside. 
 It was the first time I had seen such a reception, 
 but I soon grew accustomed to it, as one does to 
 everything. 
 
 My aunt introduced me to Mr. Goodgroome, who 
 tried my voice, and pronounced it a good one and 
 well managed, though lacking in finish and execu- 
 tion ; and as this was all the fault he could find I 
 suppose I must have acquitted myself pretty well, 
 since I have observed that it is very hard for any 
 one of his profession to allow merit in the pupils of 
 another. 
 
 " You must learn Italian as fast as you can, so as 
 to learn the Italian manner of singing," said my 
 aunt, at which Mr. Goodgroome frowned but did 
 not speak. 
 
 " I know something of the language already," 
 said I. " My mother and father botli spoke it." 
 
 " Why, you are quite an accomplished young 
 lady," said my aunt playfully. " Can you draw at 
 all ?" 
 
 "Yes, aunt, a little." 
 
 " You must have lessons of Browne by and by, 
 but not at present, I think. I don't wish you to 
 spend too much time at lessons. What hours can 
 you give her, Mr. Goodgroome ?" 
 
 Mr. Goodgroome pulled out his table-book, and 
 after some consideration decided that he could give 
 me from eight to nine on Tuesdays and Fridays. 
 
 " Why, that is rather early," said my aunt. 
 
 ' ' I cannot make it later, ' ' replied the professor,
 
 356 The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 with an air of importance. " I must go to my 
 Lady Sandwich's young daughters at nine, and to 
 AY hi tehall at eleven. But I can take from five to 
 six in the afternoon if it will suit better." 
 
 " Nay, that is worse than the other," replied my 
 aunt ; so it was settled that I should begin my les- 
 sons at eight on Tuesday morning. 1 inwardly 
 determined that I would spend as much as possible 
 of the intervening time in diligently practising my 
 fingering scales and trillos, so as not to discredit my 
 mother's teaching. 
 
 I soon found, however, that 1 should have little 
 time to practise. My Aunt Jem was one of those 
 people who find quiet the most intolerable of all 
 things. "When she was not out herself, she would 
 have company at home, and when she had no one 
 else to amuse her, I must devote myself to that 
 purpose. Not that she was either selfish or un- 
 kind. She had the making of a noble woman in 
 her, had poor Aunt Jem, and even the world for 
 which she lived had not quite spoiled her. But re- 
 flection was not agreeable to her, and diversion was 
 her very life. Our usual course of life was this : 
 When my uncle was at home we breakfasted in my 
 aunt's dressing-room ; when he was not, in her bed- 
 room, which she seldom quitted till ten or eleven 
 o'clock, and where she would give audience to such 
 tradespeople as it was convenient for her to see. 
 Dressing was a work of time, thought, and much 
 care, for, as my aunt herself observed, she was 
 growing older, and as natural beauty waned ona
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter. 357 
 
 must supply its place by art. The position of a 
 patch was a subject of five minutes' consideration, 
 and the rising of a pimple a cause for grave alarm. 
 When the important business was at last concluded, 
 we usually went out shopping. In one of these 
 excursions we met my old acquaintance Mr. Pepys, 
 a meeting which resulted in his being invited with 
 his wife to dine in Covent Garden. 
 
 " He is a rising man and in a good deal of esti- 
 mation at court," said my aunt, when we parted, 
 " and his wife is a genteel, harmless little body. 
 Besides, he was kind to your mother, and one must 
 not forget old friends." 
 
 I was much pleased, both at the attention shown 
 to the good man for my sake, and also because I 
 hoped I might hear news of Andrew, to whom my 
 better self still clung. But Mr. Pepys could tell 
 me little more than I knew already that the ship had 
 gone to the "West Indies, and would probably also 
 visit New England before her return, which would 
 occur in about six months. My Uncle Charles was 
 at home and we had a very pleasant party. I sung 
 for Mr. Pepys and with him, for he was a good deal 
 of a musician, and my aunt took his opinion as to 
 her choice of a teacher which he commended. 
 
 In the afternoon we usually went into the park, 
 paid visits, or attended some show or exposition of 
 china or pictures, or we went to some auction or 
 other. In the evening we either went out or enter- 
 tained company at home, in which case we had 
 cards, and not ^infrequently the play ran pretty
 
 35 8 The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 high. The dean and Theo came to one of these 
 entertainments, which indeed was made expressly 
 for them ; but I think they were not very well 
 pleased with what they saw, for Theo sent for me 
 t he next day and was earnest for me to return home 
 vv-ith her to Exeter. 
 
 I told her with many thanks that I could not 
 think of it that my aunt needed me, and that I was 
 happy with her. 
 
 " That is the worst of it," said Theo gravely 
 " You like the life, and that makes it the more 
 dangerous for you." 
 
 " But you used to like it yourself," said I. 
 
 "Not such company as we see here," she 
 answered, and then after a little she added in a low 
 voice, " Vevette, what would your mother advise if 
 she were here ? "WTiat would she say ?" 
 
 I was vexed at being reminded of what was one 
 of my chief drawbacks in my present life, and 
 answered pettishly, that my mother's former life 
 and circumstances had naturally made her rather 
 strict and melancholy in her notions, and that I 
 could not think any one was a better Christian for 
 always wearing a solemn face and denying one's self 
 every pleasure. Theo looked very grave, but she 
 said no more, nor did she again ask me to return 
 with her. 
 
 About a fortnight after I came to London I went 
 with my aunt to a grand entertainment at the house 
 of the French ambassador. I had an entirely new 
 dress for the occasion, and wore my pearl necklace
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter. 359 
 
 which my lady had given me. My aunt was very 
 solicitous that I should look my best, but when she 
 saw me, she professed herself quite satisfied, and 
 presented me to my uncle with no little pride. We 
 found the street filled with carriages, and the usual 
 crush and confusion prevailing horses backing and 
 rearing, coachmen swearing and wheels interlocking 
 but we reached the door at last, and made our 
 way through the ranks of splendidly dressed ladies 
 and gentlemen to the saloon where the ambassador 
 received his guests. He was a very courtly man, 
 with a smile and a compliment for all, and one of 
 the handsomest and most crafty faces I ever saw. 
 
 " And this is my young countrywoman of whom 
 I have heard," said he, addressing himself to me. 
 " I must by and by present her to a friend. I am 
 proud of my countrywoman, madame. Indeed, 
 she would be a credit to any nation on earth." 
 
 " There, Vevette, your fame is established as a 
 beauty," whispered my aunt, as the crowd pushed 
 us on, ' ' since monsieur the count hath pronounced 
 such an eulogium upon it. Is not this a splendid 
 scene ?" 
 
 It was indeed, and my eyes wandered from one 
 gay group to another, till they were suddenly arrested 
 by a sight which for a moment almost made my 
 blood stand still. "Was it my father himself, or was 
 it his ghost that handsome gentleman in the 
 blazing French uniform who stood regarding me 
 with such an eager gaze ? Could it be that he had 
 not been killed after all ? My eyes grew dim for a
 
 360 The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 moment, and when I looked again the gentleman 
 had disappeared. 
 
 " What ails yon, Yevettc ?" said my aunt, in 
 alarm ; " yon are as white as your dress ! Gentle- 
 men, make way for us, 1 beg, my niece is not well." 
 
 "Way was made to a window, and I was placed on 
 a seat while one gentleman brought water and 
 another wine, and ladies proffered essence bottles, 
 and vinaigrettes. I recovered myself with a great 
 effort, for I was quite ashamed of the commotion I 
 had made. However, my aunt would not have me 
 move at once, but took a seat near me, and we were 
 soon surrounded by a circle of gallants. Into this 
 circle presently came my Uncle Charles leading the 
 very gentle Jiian whose resemblance to my father 
 had upset me. It was not so close, now that I saw 
 him near, though it was still very striking. I saw 
 that^he was older than my father, and instantly 
 guessed who he was before my TJncle Charles pre- 
 sented him. It was my father's oldest brother, the 
 Marquis de Fayrolles. 
 
 "And this is my niece," said he, in a tone of 
 great affection, as he bent over me and took my 
 hand. " My dear Genevieve, I am more delighted 
 than I can express at this meeting. 1 supposed 
 from what I heard that yon and your poor mother 
 had perished in your attempt to escape from the 
 sack of the Tour d'Antin. I came down the next 
 day but one, too late to save the life of my unfor- 
 tunate brother, but not too late, I am glad to tell 
 you, to do justice to his murderers."
 
 The Chevaliers Daughter. 361 
 
 Then my uncle had come to our rescue after all. 
 This was the conclusion I jumped to. I made my 
 return to his salutation, and inquired after Madame 
 La Marquise. 
 
 " She is not at all well, I regret to say," was the 
 reply. " I begin to fear the climate of England 
 does not agree with her. I hope to make you 
 acquainted with her another day. This is not the 
 place for family affairs, so I trust you, madame," 
 bowing profoundly to Aunt Jem, " will allow our 
 kinswoman to visit my wife to-morrow." 
 
 My aunt at once assented, and the marquis 
 chatted on easily in French about the court, the 
 parks, and all those little nothings which make up 
 talk in such places. He led my aunt and myself to 
 the supper table, and placed himself between us, 
 paying us every attention. It was impossible to 
 withstand his manner, which had all my father's 
 heartiness with the grace which can only be acquired 
 by habitual converse with the best society. My 
 aunt was the envy of all her fine acquaintance for 
 being so distinguished, and when she returned home 
 she pulled a fine diamond ring from her finger and 
 bestowed it upon me, saying I deserved a re- 
 ward for the way I had comported myself in this, 
 my first real appearance in the great world. 
 
 " You have had a real success, and there is not 
 one girl in ten of your age who would have borne it 
 so well," said she ; " but what upset you so ? Was 
 it the heat, or are your stays uneasy ? You must
 
 362 The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 not let Mercer dress you too tight. It will make 
 your skin look muddy and your nose red." 
 
 " It was not that," said I, laughing a little ner- 
 vously, for I was very tired. " I saw the marquis 
 in the crowd, and thought it was my father." 
 
 " There, there, child, don't give way," said my 
 aunt, alarmed as I began to sob. " You are quite 
 overwrought. Put her to bed, Mercer, and give 
 her some sal- volatile and lavender." 
 
 Mercer obeyed, and would have stayed by me till 
 I fell asleep, but this I would not allow. I wanted 
 to be alone. I cried awhile, but the composing 
 draught at last took effect, and I fell asleep to 
 dream about ambassadors, balls, and my new-found 
 uncle, who was strangely and uncomfortably mixed 
 up with my father, and who was now burying me 
 alive in the vault under the old chapel, while Andrew 
 held the light, and now asking Betty about me, who 
 was telling him all sorts of monstrous fictions.
 
 CHAPTEK XVII. 
 
 ready 
 
 MY NEW FRIENDS. 
 
 AWOKE in the morning tired enough ; 
 but dressing and a cup of coffee refreshed 
 me, and by the time my uncle's carriage 
 and servants came for me I was quite 
 to attend him. The Vevette of a year ago 
 
 would perhaps have breathed a prayer for guidance 
 under such difficult circumstances, but I never even 
 thought of it. I was carried to the ambassador's 
 residence, and led thorough more than one grand 
 apartment to the room where my new uncle and 
 aunt were awaiting me. 
 
 My aunt, Madame de Fayrolles, was a woman of 
 forty or thereabout, elegantly dressed and rouged 
 in a way that made me open my eyes at first. 
 Rouge was not then commonly worn in England 
 scarcely at all, in truth, save by such kind of 
 madams as Lady Castlemaine but in France it 
 was a regular part of the toilette of a lady of 
 quality, and was worn without any disguise. She 
 received me kindly, kissing me on both cheeks, and 
 then presenting me to a gentleman in a semi-clerical
 
 364 The Chevalier's Daughter. 
 
 dress, whom she called Father Martien. I felt 
 some of my old childish terror of a priest revive, as 
 the gentleman bowed to me, but of course I re- 
 turned his salute politely. After a few words he 
 quitted the room, saying that he hoped to meet me 
 again and know me better. 
 
 " That is a distinguished man," said madame, as 
 he closed the door behind him. " He is the am- 
 bassador's confessor, and very high in his order. 
 Men say he is as like to be general." 
 
 " General of what ?" I asked. My aunt stared. 
 
 u Of the Jesuits, of course what else ? But I 
 forget, you know nothing of these matters. My poor 
 brother-in-law ! Ah, what a pity he was so obsti- 
 nate ! But we will not talk of that now,*' catching 
 a warning glance from her husband. u Tell me, 
 petite, how old art thou ?" 
 
 I told her. 
 
 " And they have not yet settled thee in life ? Ah 
 well, so much the better. And now what shall we 
 do to amuse you ?" 
 
 I could not help thinking my aunt very charm- 
 ing, in spite of the rouge which had so shocked me 
 at first. She had all the brightness and sparkle, all 
 the grace of manner of a genuine French woman, 
 and when she desired to please she was certainly 
 irresistible. She set to work at once to reform my 
 dress, and the manner of wearing my hair, ex- 
 changing with her waiting-damsel many comments 
 upon my good looks. Then she would turn out all 
 her jewels for my amusement, and bestowed several
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter. 365 
 
 elegant trifles upon me, besides a box of beautiful 
 perfumed gloves. 
 
 " I will divide these with Aunt Jemima," said 
 I ; " she has beautiful hands." 
 
 " I^ay, keep them for yourself, I have a little 
 cadeau for the good aunt what did you call her ?" 
 
 " Jemima," I replied. 
 
 " All, what a horror of a name ! But no mat- 
 ter, so she is kind to thee. " And my aunt began, 
 while displaying all her fans and other trinkets, to 
 question me about my own affairs. My uncle, who 
 came in, soon joined in the conversation, and by 
 easy degrees, and almost without knowing it, they 
 won from me my whole family history, from be- 
 ginning to end. Then my uncle in his turn, began 
 to explain matters, as he said. I cannot, at this dis- 
 tance of time, recall what he said exactly, but he 
 made it clearly appear that his conversion to the 
 Romish Church was a matter of deep conviction, 
 and an act of quite disinterested faith, which had 
 brought upon him most unmerited obloquy and per- 
 secution. He told me he had been on his way to 
 the Tour d'Antin to visit my father, when he had 
 been met by the news of the demolition of the cha- 
 teau. 
 
 "I hurried down at once," said he. "I had 
 hoped to induce my dear brother, if not to conform, 
 which indeed, knowing his disposition, I hardly 
 dared to expect, at least to withdraw quietly and in 
 safety either to Jersey or Geneva, from which places 
 he could easily be recalled had it been desirable.
 
 366 The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 Judge, my dear Genevieve, of my feelings when I 
 found my brother dead, his house a mass of ruins, 
 and his wife and child fled no one knew whither. 
 It was believed that you had put to sea under the 
 guidance of the young English gentleman, and that 
 you had all perished together. A fisherman, who 
 had been driven over to Jersey by the storm, re- 
 ported seeing a boat bottom upward and some 
 floating articles of female apparel which con- 
 firmed me in the idea, and I mourned you as dead 
 till I met you last night. I was at once struck with 
 your resemblance to our family, and on inquiry 
 found that you were indeed my niece." 
 
 I need not repeat all that was said to me that 
 day. Suffice it to say that I returned home at 
 night completely bewitched by these new relatives. 
 I found Aunt Jem a little out of humor at my stay- 
 ing away so long, but she was easily pacified by my 
 excuses, and delighted by the boxes of gloves and 
 of French comfits I had brought her from my Aunt 
 Zenobie. French gloves were then, as they are 
 now, very much better than any made in Eng- 
 land. 
 
 This was the first of many succeeding visits, in 
 the course of which Monsieur and Madame de Fay- 
 rolles gained more and more of my confidence and 
 regard. They were very attentive to Aunt Join 
 also, but she did not like them as well as I did. I 
 well remember a remark of hers with which her 
 husband was not at all pleased. 
 
 " They are fishing for you, Vevette. They mean
 
 Chevaliers Daughter. 367 
 
 to make a convert of you, and then what will the 
 sailor say ?' ' 
 
 "Nonsense, Jem," said my Uncle Charles 
 sharply. " What interest have they in the mat- 
 ter ? Why should you wish to set Yevette against 
 her father's family ?" 
 
 " I do not wish it," returned Aunt Jem, looking 
 at once hart and surprised, for Uncle Charles, 
 though often moody, was seldom anytliing but kind 
 to his wife, of whom he was both fond and proud. 
 " I am sure it is but natural they should wish to 
 bring the child to their own way of thinking. I 
 am not sure but I should like to be of that way 
 myself," she added, sighing a little. "It is a 
 comfortable kind of faith after all. One puts 
 one's self into the hands of a priest, and then one is 
 sure of salvation. ' ' 
 
 I might have answered that this salvation was a 
 thing that a devout Roman Catholic never could be 
 sure of, since his salvation depends not alone upon 
 the all-perfect Saviour, but upon the offices of a 
 man like himself who may be altogether a sacrile- 
 gious person ; but I had become very shy of speak- 
 ing upon religious subjects. I still, it is true, kept 
 up a form of devotion morning and evening, but 
 with my conscience constantly burdened by unre- 
 pented sins which I would not even confess to be 
 sins, my prayers could be only the emptiest of 
 forms. My Bible lay unread day after day, and 
 though I did indeed go to church once every Sun- 
 day, I did not greatly profit by that. It was a time
 
 368 7^ he Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 of great dead ness in spiritual matters in the Church 
 of England, though there were a few faithful 
 preachers who shone as lights in a dark place. But 
 o;ir parish clergyman was not one of them. Some- 
 times he gave us a disquisition on the heresies of 
 the first ages in the church, but his sermons in gen- 
 eral were either upon the divine right of kings and 
 the wickedness of those who ventured in anything 
 to oppose them, or else dry lectures upon morals to 
 the effect that vice was bad and virtue was good. 
 I heard about the Thcban legionaries till I wished 
 they had been massacred long before they were, so 
 that they might have been lost in the mists of an- 
 tiquity. As to the moral lectures which formed a 
 great part of the preaching of the day, they were 
 not like to have any great influence so long as peo- 
 ple saw the king, an open and shameless conterrmer 
 of the laws of God and man, publicly receiving the 
 sacrament, while his attendants meantime laughed 
 and chatted among themselves as if they had been 
 in a playhouse, the Duke of York himself setting the 
 example. As I said, there were glorious exceptions 
 men who shunned not fearlessly to declare the 
 whole council of God, and to rebuke sin wherever 
 they found it, but these were not the rule, and they 
 aid not come in my way. Sunday was a long day 
 to us at my aunt's, though we did our best to 
 shorten it by reading romance and plays, playing at 
 tables, and seeing company at home. 
 
 My visit to Madame de Fayrolles was soon re- 
 peated, and it'came to be an understood tiling that
 
 The Chevalier s Da^tghter. 369 
 
 I should spend at least two days in the week with 
 her. I made the acquaintance of Father Martien, 
 as he was called, and found him a very polished, 
 agreeable gentleman. He was a Frenchman by 
 birth, but educated in Florence. "We soon fel] 
 upon the subject of Italian literature, and he ven- 
 tured gently to criticise my pronunciation, and 
 offered his services to correct it by reading with me 
 two or three times a week. I had always been fond 
 of the language, and accepted the offer with enthu- 
 siasm. I hardly know how we began upon the sub- 
 ject of religion, but we were in the midst of it be- 
 fore I was aware. I had been well furnished, like 
 every Huguenot child, with abundance of answers to 
 every argument that could be brought forward upon 
 the Romish side ; but, alas, the armor was loose and 
 dented from neglect, and the sword rusty and out of 
 use. My faith in - Christianity itself had been in 
 some degree shaken by the sneers and arguments I 
 had heard from Lewis, and also from my Uncle 
 Charles, who was a worshipper of Mr. Hobbes. I 
 had come to think that one form of faith was per- 
 haps as good as another that so long as men led 
 good lives, their opinions did not very much mat- 
 ter, and so forth. When I tried to recall my old 
 arguments I remembered other tilings which roused 
 my conscience, and made rue wretched, that I was 
 glad to let them rest again. I was persuaded to 
 hear mass in the chapel of the French ambassador, 
 that I might enjoy the music. Aunt Jem herself 
 went to the chapel of the queen for the same rea-
 
 37 The Chevaliers Daughter. 
 
 son, and I soon discovered that she was leaning 
 the same way as myself. 
 
 " Surely in vain the net is spread in the sight of 
 any bird." One might think so certainly, and yet 
 how often do we see nets spread in plain daylight, 
 and the silly birds walking straight into them. 
 Every day I grew more and more indifferent to the 
 faith in which I had been educated, and for which 
 my father had died. Every da}' I saw new reason 
 to regret the bigotry so I learned to call it which 
 had brought so many misfortunes upon our family. 
 Every day I grew more attached to my uncle and 
 aunt, and came more under their influence. My 
 Aunt Jem even grew a little jealous, and murmured 
 that it was rather hard she should have so little 
 of my company, when she had been the means of 
 my coming to town in the first place ; but a little 
 attention from the ambassador's family, and a few 
 introductions to great people, and cards to great 
 entertainments, eoon reconciled her to the state of 
 things. As to my Uncle Charles, I am sorry to 
 write it, but I have good reason to believe that he 
 was playing into the hands of Monsieur de Fayrolles 
 all the time. He was deep in debt, and embarrass- 
 ments of all sorts, caused by his high play and 
 extravagant style of living, and I believe that he 
 deliberately turned me o /cr to my French relations 
 in consideration of being relieved of some of the 
 most pressing of these liabilities. 
 
 One thing held me back from taking the last step 
 to which I was now being gently urged and per-
 
 The- Chevalier s Daicghter. 371 
 
 suaded and that one thing was my love for An- 
 drew. I still wore his ring, and still watched 
 vainly and with the sickness of hope deferred for 
 news of him. The news came at last. 
 
 I was breakfasting in my aunt's bedroom as usual, 
 for Aunt Jem grew more and more indolent in her 
 habits and often did not rise till noon. Her health 
 was failing even then, and she had very bad nights, 
 but she would never confess that she was ill. She 
 had, however, so far yielded to pain and weakness 
 as to remain at home for a day or two. I was 
 breakfasting with her, as I said, and trying to en- 
 tertain her with accounts of what I had seen and 
 heard when out with Madame de Fayrolles the day 
 before, when my uncle entered the room. He 
 saluted my aunt with his usual kindness, and then 
 asked me for a cup of coffee. 
 
 " And what is the news at court ?'' said my aunt. 
 
 " ^Nothing very special, that I know of. One of 
 our ships from the West Indies has come in, and by 
 the way, Yevette, I heard of an old friend of 
 yours " 
 
 My heart beat fast, and my hand trembled so that 
 I Aras fain to set down my cup of chocolate. 
 
 II Your old friend and flame, our good cousin, 
 has done a very wise thing," he continued, playing 
 the while with my aunt's little dog. " He has 
 married the daughter of a rich planter with I know 
 not how many thousand slaves and acres, and means 
 to settle in those parts so soon as he can arrange his
 
 372 The Chevalier Daughters. 
 
 affairs. What say yon, chick ? Shall I bespeak a 
 willow garland for you ?" 
 
 " I have no occasion for it, thank you," 1 
 answered, with a calmness which surprised myself. 
 That affair was broken off by my mother long ago." 
 
 " Of course," said my aunt ; " Vevette has too 
 much sense to regret that her cousin should look 
 out for himself. I hope to see her make a much 
 better marriage than that. She has improved won- 
 derfully of late, and would grace any station." 
 
 " But are you quite sure this news is true?" I 
 asked quietly. " It will be a great grief to An- 
 drew's mother and sisters if he should settle 
 abroad." 
 
 " I dare say they will reconcile themselves, see 
 ing how much he gains by it," replied my uncle 
 carelessly. " Besides, he may not remain abroad 
 always. I dare say in time he will return to Eng- 
 land, rebuild the old tumble-down court at Tre 
 Madoc, and found a great estate. Report says the 
 young lady is beautiful as well as rich, and that it 
 was quite a love match. They believe iu such 
 things out there it seems." 
 
 " You believed in them once," said my aunt. 
 
 " Yes, in old days when you were young, my 
 love ; but there are no such things now, because 
 there are no more such women." 
 
 My poor aunt brightened at this speech and the 
 caress which accompanied it. All of her that was 
 not spoiled by the world clung to her husband. 
 
 Sorrow in itself has no power for good, but only
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter. 373 
 
 for evil. It is only while we look not at the things 
 that are seen, but at those which are unseen, that it 
 works for us a far more exceeding and eternal 
 weight of glory. The things unseen had become 
 to me more unreal than any dream, and conse- 
 quently this great blow only hardened and embit- 
 tered instead of softening my heart. I said to my- 
 self that there was no truth or trust in anything 
 that Andrew was no better than the rest. I cast 
 myself loose from all the considerations which 
 had hitherto restrained me, and gave myself wholly 
 over to the influence of Monsieur and Madame 
 do Fayrolles, and especially of Father Martien. 
 Aunt Zenobie, with that consummate tact which dis- 
 tinguished her, and which I have sometimes even 
 thought served her instead of a soul, never alluded 
 to the subject of Andrew's marriage, and never 
 showed that she had even heard of it, except by re- 
 doubling the amount of petting and caresses she 
 bestowed on me. Father Martien, on the other 
 hand, hinted delicately at similar sorrows he had 
 himself undergone in early life, and spoke of the 
 consolations the church had to offer to wounded 
 hearts, of the tender sympathy of the mother of 
 God, and the comfort of having a woman like my- 
 self to whom I might confide all my sorrows, and 
 who could understand my heart. I might have 
 said that he who made the woman's heart was at 
 least as likely to understand it as any one else, and 
 that women were not, as a general thing, more 
 tender to women than the other sex. But the truth
 
 374 The Chevaliers Daughter. 
 
 was I was eager to be 1 will not say convinced, 
 but persuaded. My soul was a fountain of bitter 
 waters -a spring of boiling rebellion against 
 Heaven, and anger against man. I only wished to 
 divide myself as far as possible from Andrew and 
 to go where I never need hear his name. I allowed 
 myself to go constantly to mass with my aunt, to 
 listen to Father Martien's arguments with compla- 
 cency, and to give good hopes to my French friends 
 that I meant to return to the bosom of the true 
 church. 
 
 Another event occurred about this time, which 
 had the effect of throwing me still more completely 
 into the hands of Madame de Fayrolles. My Aunt 
 Jemima died. As I have before hinted, she had 
 long been ailing, though she had striven against her 
 malady, and concealed its ravages with all the force 
 of her will. But no human will is of any avail 
 when death knocks at the door. The day came 
 when she was obliged to keep her bed and acknowl- 
 edge herself ill, and from that time her decay was 
 very rapid. It was most pitiable to see how she 
 clung to that world which was slipping away from 
 her to the miserable crumbling idols which she 
 had worshipped, but in which there was no help. 
 She would be partly dressed every day, would see 
 those they were not many who called upon her 
 would hear all the news of the court and the 
 town. Her gentlewoman Mercer, who was some- 
 thing of a religious person in her way, wished her to 
 have a clergyman come to read prayers, but Aunt
 
 The Chevaliers Daughter. 375 
 
 Jem refused. She was not as bad as that, she said ; 
 there was plenty of time ; she was not going to die. 
 She would be better when spring came in truth, 
 she was much better already. Alas, poor lady, her 
 death-warrant was signed and the messenger was at 
 the door. Her end came very suddenly at last. 
 There was barely time to send for a clergyman, and 
 when he came, her speech was gone, though she had 
 her senses and her eyes wandered from one face to 
 another in agonized appeal for the help which no 
 mortal could give. Mercer in her hurry had 
 brought not our parish clergyman, but her own, a 
 serious and I believe truly religious young man, 
 who tried to direct my aunt's thoughts and hopes to 
 the only sure foundation, but she hardly attended, 
 and we could not be sure even that she understood. 
 Surely there is no sight of martyrdom for the truth's 
 sake so terrible, so pitiable, as the death-bed of one 
 who, having given his whole heart and mind to the 
 world, is called upon to leave it forever.
 
 CHAPTER XYIII. 
 
 A GREAT STEP. 
 
 Y Aunt Jem's death was, of course, a great 
 shock to me, and might well have opened 
 iny eyes as to the course wherein I was 
 walking, but I would not have them 
 opened. In the state of mind I was at that time, it 
 seemed to me only a new injury. I was like one 
 possessed. In the midst of all my worldliness and 
 backsliding my heart had clung to Andrew, and I 
 had believed in his faithfulness and uprightness. 
 Now he turned out no better than the rest. There 
 was no truth, in anything. My father and mother 
 had served the Lord faithfully, and how had they 
 been rewarded ? If they had indeed served him 
 aright, would he not have stretched forth his hand 
 to help and deliver them ? Thus I reasoned, con- 
 temning the generation of his children, and wilfully 
 shutting my eyes to the fact that the Lord nowhere 
 in the New Testament promises exemption from 
 sorrow and the cross in this world as a reward fo/ 
 faithful service. There is no person so open to the 
 attacks of Satan as a professed and enlightened 
 Christian who is living in known and wilful sin.
 
 The Chevaliers Daughter. 377 
 
 The first effect of my aunt's death was to throw 
 me more completely into the hands of Madame de 
 Fayrolles. I was very unwell after the funeral, and 
 indeed kept my bed for several days. As soon as I 
 was able to be up, madame came to me full of 
 affection and of caresses. She informed me that 
 she and her husband were going to travel to Bath 
 and to several other watering-places, and that she 
 had arranged to take me with her. My health and 
 spirits would be all the better for the change, and 
 my uncle had given his consent. 
 
 " So you have nothing to do but to get ready, 
 and we will set out in a few days," she concluded. 
 " Have you an attendant, or shall I provide one ?" 
 
 Kow Mercer had waited upon me since my aunt's 
 death, my own damsel having gone to a more lucra- 
 tive place. She had tended me with the most de- 
 voted kindness, and I had become greatly attached 
 to her ; but when I asked her whether she would 
 accompany me on my journey, to uiy surprise and 
 chagrin she flatly refused. 
 
 ''But why?" I asked. 
 
 "Well, Mrs, d'Antin, .the truth is this," said 
 Mercer : " I am fond of travelling, it is true, and 
 1 like you. You have alawys been a good young 
 lady to me. But 1 mean no disrespect I do not 
 like that French lady, and I like her attendants still 
 less. Besides " 
 
 " Well, besides what?" I asked a little impa- 
 tiently ; " besides is always the real reason, I find." 
 
 " Besides, madame, I should not think it right,"
 
 3/8 The Chevaliers Daughter. 
 
 added Mercer, turning very red, though she spoke 
 with great resolution. " I have lived too much for 
 the follies of this world as it is. I know I have a 
 liking for them, and am therefore best out of their 
 way. Some words your blessed mother said to me 
 \vhen she was here, and I was waiting upon her, 
 stuck in my mind and first made me think of some- 
 thing beyond this life, and my poor dear lady's 
 death has been another warning to me about living 
 for this world. My sister has a ladies' boarding- 
 school at Hackney, in which I can invest my sav- 
 ings, and I can be a help to her in teaching the 
 ladies to work and in looking after their dress and 
 manners. She will be very glad to have me with 
 her, and I hope I shall be able to do some good in 
 the world before I leave it." 
 
 "Oh, very well," I said petulantly, "if you 
 prefer teaching cross and satin stitch to stupid girls, 
 and seeing that they comb their hair and put on 
 clean linen, to attending upon and travelling with 
 me" 
 
 " I do not prefer it, madam," answered Mercer. 
 " J choose it because I know that I shall be putting 
 :uyself out of the way of temptation, and into the 
 way of doing good. Besides, madame, I am a sim- 
 ple unlearned woman who does not know how to 
 answer for her faith, and to say the truth I would not 
 like to trust myself among a family all made up of 
 Papists." 
 
 "You are very bigoted," said I, in a superior 
 tone. " Don't you suppose there are as good
 
 The Chevalier s Daiig liter. 379 
 
 Christians among Papists as you call them, as there 
 are among Protestants ? Don't you believe a 
 Papist can be saved ?" 
 
 "As to that," answered Mercer readily, "that 
 there are those among them that live up to their 
 lights, such as they are, I don't deny, but I don't 
 say nor believe that they are as good Christians as 
 they would be if their lights were brighter. As to 
 their being saved, that is no business of mine. I 
 know that the Scriptures are very hard upon idola- 
 ters, especially those idolators who might know bet- 
 ter." 
 
 ' ' But the Papists do not worship images, ' ' I said. 
 " The veneration of holy images is permitted be- 
 cause this veneration is not paid to the image itself, 
 but to that which it represents. ' ' 
 
 " But the second commandment is explicit about 
 that," returned Mercer. " That very veneration 
 is forbidden, because we are not to bow down to 
 them. Besides if there is nothing in the image it- 
 self, why do they venerate one image so much more 
 than another ?" 
 
 " Oh, you are a great casuist," said I. "I won- 
 der you do not take orders instead of going into a 
 school. The long and the short of it is, you think it 
 will be a fine thing to set up for yourself and to 
 have a parcel of young ladies to govern." 
 
 " You are mistaken, madainc," answered Mercer, 
 with enough of dignity to make me ashamed of my 
 petulance. " If you were to remain here in Lon- 
 don or to go into the country, even down to that
 
 380- The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 barbarous Cornwall, that mj poor dear lady dreaded 
 so much, I would give up all thoughts of going 
 into the school, and stay with you as long as you 
 wished, and that for your dear mother's sake as 
 well as your own ; but into the family of Madame 
 de Fayrolles I will not go. And I do beg and en- 
 treat you, Mrs. Yevette, to think twice before you 
 do so. Think of what your mother would say 
 think !" 
 
 But the conversation was here interrupted by a 
 call from my aunt. She did not seem at all dis- 
 pleased when I told her of Mercer's decision. 
 
 "It is just as well," said she. " Of course, if 
 you wished for the good woman, and she desired to 
 come, I should say nothing against it ; but it would 
 not have been comfortable for her or you. But I 
 wonder she should refuse so good an offer. ' ' 
 
 " It was a case of conscience, I believe," said I. 
 " She was afraid of being converted." 
 
 " Oh, I understand. Well, petite, it is just as 
 well. I shall have no difficulty. You shall take 
 my second svoman, who has been well trained and 
 is an accomplished seamstress and hair-dresser. So, 
 Mrs. Mercer," as that damsel entered the room 
 " you will not go with your young lady because you 
 are afraid of being converted. Does not that in 
 itself show you how weak your cause is, and how 
 conscious you are of its weakness ?" 
 
 Madame spoke smilingly, and Mercer answered 
 also with a twinkle of the eye. 
 
 " If I might venture to put a case, madame ?"
 
 The Chevaliers Daughter. 381 
 
 " Go on," said my aunt. 
 
 " Suppose, madame, one of your own family, a 
 woman neither very bright nor very learned, should 
 be offered a service in a Protestant family, where 
 she would be likely all the time to hear her own 
 faith attacked by an accomplished Protestant minis- 
 ter what would your ladyship advise her to do ?" 
 
 " Fairly posed," returned my aunt, laughing 
 good-naturedly. " Well, well, I will not urge 
 you. But at least accept this little remembrance 
 from me," she added, drawing out a very elegant 
 little etui, with pencil tablets and all complete. 
 " It will be useful to you and is valuable in itself." 
 
 Mercer accepted the present with many thanks, 
 and retired. 
 
 " That is a good soul," said my aunt. " What 
 a pity she is not a Catholic ? She might have a 
 real vocation. ' ' 
 
 The next day I removed to the lodgings which 
 my uncle and aunt had been inhabiting for some 
 time, and my uncle's establishment was broken up. 
 He gave me all my poor aunt's wardrobe, except 
 her most valuable jewels, and I in turn bestowed 
 upon Mercer such of the things as were likely to be 
 useful to her, together with a number of books of 
 devotion which had belonged to Aunt Jem's 
 mother. Mercer was profuse in her thanks, and 
 we parted the best of friends. I visited the good 
 woman many years afterward, and found her at the 
 head of the school which she had entered, and 
 though an old lady, still hale and strong, and ruling
 
 382 The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 her little kingdom with a wise and vigorous hand. 
 I took from among her young ladies, one to be 
 waiting-gentlewoman to myself and my eldest 
 daughter, and I have never had reason to regret 
 the choice. 
 
 I had written to my Lord Stantoun asking per- * 
 mission to stay for a while with Madame de Fay- 
 rolles, and received a speedy answer, as some one 
 from the neighborhood was coming direct to Lon- 
 don. My lord evidently wrote in a good deal of 
 irritation, and his letter was to the effect that he 
 had not the least objection to my residing with 
 Madame de Fayrolles since from all he could hear, 
 she was a woman of reputation. He only hoped 
 she had no sons to be bewitched this sentence was 
 scratched out, but I could read it. He sent me 
 some money for my private purse and would remit 
 more if I needed it. In short, it was plain that my 
 lord dreaded nothing so much just now as having 
 me returned on his hands. Theo, on the contrary, 
 who wrote at the same time, gave me a most warm 
 and pressing invitation to make my home with her, 
 as long as I pleased, and she begged me to think 
 twice before placing myself wholly in the hands of , 
 Madame de Fayrolles. I shall not repeat her argu- 
 ments, though they were all good and wise. In- 
 deed, I hardly read them myself. I could not en- 
 dure the idea of returning to Devonshire on any 
 terms. 
 
 I found a luxurious apartment prepared for me 
 in the house Monsieur de Fayrolles had taken for
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter. 383 
 
 the season, and here I remained for some two or 
 three weeks, coaxed and flattered to the top of my 
 bent. Every means was used to attach me to my 
 new friends, and separate me from old ones. 
 Neither my lord nor Theo said a word about An- 
 drew, and I had not heard a word from Tre Madoc 
 in a long time. I had asked Mr. Pepys about An- 
 drew, and he admitted that he had heard the story 
 of his approaching marriage from excellent author- 
 ity, and believed it to be true. 
 
 From this time I became like one desperate. I 
 put away my French Bible, so dear as having been 
 my mother's, and the little brown English prayer- 
 book she had carried off in our hasty flight from 
 the Tour d'Antin. I could not make up my mind 
 to destroy them, so I made them into a package, 
 sealed them up, and committed them to Mercer's 
 care, from whom I reclaimed them long afterward. 
 I read only the books of controversy and devotion 
 supplied to me by Father Martien. I began to use a 
 rosary, and to fancy that I found comfort and help 
 in praying to the virgin. I was quite ready to 
 have made a profession of my new faith at this 
 time, but to my surprise and disappointment, 
 Father Martien put me off. He said I had not had 
 time to know my own mind or to receive proper in- 
 struction. The truth was, I believe, he did not 
 think it would be very safe either for my uncle or 
 himself. There was in England a growing jealousy 
 of Roman Catholics and their influence, a jealousy 
 well founded enough in itself, though it culminated
 
 384 The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 afterward in the follies and wickedness of the so- 
 called Popish plot. It would be dangerous to have 
 it known that a young lady of good family, a ward 
 of my Lord Stantoun's, had been induced to abandon 
 the English for the Romish Church. 
 
 This refusal, however, only increased my eager- 
 ness. I really persuaded myself that I embraced 
 all those dogmas which I had been educated to re- 
 gard with horror, as monstrous and profane. My 
 aunt, while greatly edified by my devotion, was a 
 little alarmed at it. It was at that time no part of 
 her plan to have me become a religious, as she 
 called it. She took me out with her a great deal, 
 and paid great attention to my dress and manners. 
 Both she and my uncle were very kind and indul- 
 gent, but they contrived to keep me in a kind of 
 honorable restraint a restraint so gentle that I 
 never felt it at all. I was not permitted to visit by 
 myself any of the young ladies of my own age 
 whose acquaintance I had made at my Aunt 
 Jemima's, and though my friends were made wel- 
 come and treated with great courtesy, yet some- 
 how their visits gradually fell off, and I saw them 
 no more. 
 
 In a few weeks we visited the Bath, as my aunt 
 had proposed, and remained for some time seeing a 
 good deal of gay company. From thence we went 
 to Epsom, at which place the king was residing, 
 though he kept no court and had very few about 
 him, save the very most dissolute of his courtiers, 
 for he had by this time thrown off all pretence to
 
 The Chevalier s Daitghttr. 385 
 
 decency of conduct. It was at Epsom that Mon- 
 sieur de Fajrolles received a summons to return at 
 once to France. It seems lie had some sort of com- 
 mand over the household guards, from which com- 
 mand he had been absent longer than his royal mas- 
 ter approved. 
 
 My uncle received this notice in the morning at 
 the hands of Father Harden, who had come down 
 with some letters from the French ambassador. In 
 the evening my gentlewoman came to me with a 
 message desiring my immediate presence in my 
 aunt's room. I found her seated beside her hus- 
 band, while Father Martien stood behind her chair. 
 The faces of all three wore a very solemn expres- 
 sion, and I trembled, I hardly knew why. My 
 aunt bade me be seated. Zelie placed a chair for 
 me and then at a sign from her mistress withdrew. 
 
 " Genevieve," said my uncle seriously, "the 
 time has come for you to make a decisive choice as 
 to your future conduct. We are obliged to return 
 to France immediately. Will you return with us, 
 embrace the true Catholic faith, and be to us as a 
 daughter, or will you remain in this land of here- 
 tics, and return to my Lord Stantoun, or to his 
 daughter who has invited you ?" 
 
 " Nay, my friend, state the case fairly that 
 jnight not be the alternative," said madame. 
 " Yevette might undoubtedly be married before we 
 leave England, since Mr. Cunningham has made 
 application for her hand already. Besides, her 
 cousin, Mr. Corbet, is as we hear just about to re
 
 386 The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 turn with his bride, and I dare say they would not 
 be sorry to give Vevette a home." 
 
 This last news I hope I do my aunt no injustice 
 when I say I believe she made it up for the occa- 
 sion decided me. I was not a moment in saying 
 that if monsieur pleased I would return to France 
 with him. 
 
 " But if you return with us it must be as a 
 Catholic," said my uncle. " I do not profess to be 
 bigoted, but I cannot, I dare not, take an open 
 heretic to the court of the most Christian king." 
 
 " Mademoiselle has already confessed to me her 
 desire of being admitted into the bosom of our holy 
 mother church," said Father Martien. "Is it not 
 so, my daughter ?" 
 
 " It is so," I answered quite calmly and re- 
 solvedly. " I am ready to make a profession at any 
 time." 
 
 The priest and my aunt were loud in their ex- 
 pressions of gratitude to all the saints. My uncle 
 merely said : 
 
 " That settles the matter then. "We shall go to 
 London to-morrow and from thence set out at once 
 for Paris. There is no time to consult my Lord 
 Stantoun, nor is there any need of doing so since 
 he has given his consent to your residing with us." 
 The next day we went to London, where we re- 
 mained less than a week, settling up affairs, paying 
 off servants and tradespeople, and taking leave of 
 our friends. I was in a high state of excitement, 
 and it did not strike me at the time, but I well re-
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter. 387 
 
 member now that I was hardly left to myself a mo- 
 ment, and that care was taken that I should never 
 have the opportunity of speaking alone with any of 
 my Protestant friends. My good Mercer came to 
 see me, but she was not admitted, nor did I know 
 of her visit till long afterward. There was no 
 need, however, of all these precautions. I was 
 possessed of only one idea to separate myself as 
 far as possible from Andrew, and to get out of the 
 country before he came into it. I felt as if I could 
 have gone to the ends of the earth to avoid him. 
 Besides I was delighted with the prospect of seeing 
 Paris and Versailles, and that court my aunt de- 
 scribed to me in such glowing colors. I conceived 
 that I should be a person of a good deal of impor- 
 tance, and even began to have dreams of a grand 
 alliance. As to love, I said to myself it was all sen- 
 timental nonsense, just fit for boys and girls. I 
 had got over all that. In short, my heart was given 
 to the world. That was the god of my idolatry, 
 and it paid me the wages it usually bestows upon its 
 votaries. 
 
 We were favored with a passage in a king's ship, 
 and therefore fared better than most people do in 
 crossing the channel, but we had a rough time. 
 Every member of oar party was sick but myself, 
 and I had my hands full with waiting upon my 
 aunt, who fell into all sorts of terrors and fits of the 
 nerves, and was sure we were going to be drowned. 
 However, we reached Calais in safety, and after
 
 388 The Chevalier Daughter's. 
 
 waiting a day or two to refresh ourselves we took 
 the way to Paris. 
 
 Whether it was that I had been so long away 
 from France that I had forgotten how it looked, or 
 that Normandy had been in a more flourishing con- 
 dition than the other provinces, or finally, that I 
 contrasted what I now saw with what I had seen in 
 England, I cannot tell ; but certainly the country 
 looked terribly forlorn to me. There was little 
 tillage, and what there was seemed by no means 
 flourishing ; the people had a crushed, oppressed, 
 half -fed look which was very sad to see. Even 
 when the vintage was going on there seemed very 
 little rejoicing. Once, taking a by-road to avoid a 
 hill, we came upon what must have been a flourish- 
 ing vineyard a day or two before, but the vines 
 were crushed and torn from their supports, and lay 
 withering upon the ground, the beautiful grapes 
 were scattered and spoiled, while two or three 
 women with faces of blank despair were trying to 
 rescue some of the fruit from the general destruc- 
 tion. 
 
 11 Oh, the poor people !" I exclaimed ; " what 
 has happened to them ?" 
 
 " A boar hunt probably," said my uncle in- 
 differently. 
 
 " But why should that have wrought such ruin ?" 
 I asked. 
 
 " Because, little simpleton, the boar would as 
 soon go through a vineyard as anywhere else, and 
 when he does it is needful that the hunt should fol-
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter. 389 
 
 low him, which is not very good for the vine- 
 yards." 
 
 " And so for the sake of some great man's pleas- 
 ure of an hour or two the poor man's heritage is 
 destroyed," said I indignantly. " What a shame ! 
 What wickedness !" 
 
 " Tut, tut ! petite ! Remember that we are not 
 now in England where every clown can bring his 
 lord to justice, but in France where nobles have 
 privileges. But I wonder where the owner is. 
 Where is your husband, my good woman?" he 
 called out, as we came opposite the workers. 
 
 " Alas, monsieur, I do not know," answered the 
 poor woman, with streaming eyes. ' ' Monsieur the 
 marquis was hunting yesterday and took a short 
 cut through our vineyard to arrive the sooner, and 
 my husband was so ill-advised as to utter some harsh 
 words and maledictions which the marquis over- 
 heard ; so he bade the huntsmen take him away and 
 teach him better manners. Since then I have not 
 seen him, and Heaven knows what has become of 
 him. Oh, monsieur, if you would but intercede 
 for us ; I am sure my husband meant no harm." 
 
 " He should be more careful with his words," 
 returned my uncle. " My good woman, I am not 
 acquainted with your marquis, and cannot therefore 
 take the liberty of speaking for your husband ; but 
 there is some money for you. Drive on, postil- 
 ion." 
 
 My heart was sick with the injustice and tyranny, 
 the effects of which I had just seen, but my aunt
 
 390 The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 ainl uncle seemed to think little of it, and indeed 1 
 saw enough more sights of the same kind before we 
 reached Paris. The simple truth was and is that in 
 France the common people have no rights whatever, 
 but are absolutely at the mercy of their lord. 
 Their crops, the honor of their families, their very 
 lives, depend upon his humor, and how great so- 
 ever may be the wrong, there is no redress. I had 
 seen little of this sort of thing in Normandy. The 
 only great proprietor near the tour, besides my 
 father and Monsieur Le Roy, who were both Hu- 
 guenots, was a gentleman of great kindness, and one 
 who made a conscience of dealing justly with his 
 people. I was heart-sick before we reached our 
 destination, and wished twenty times J. were back 
 in England. 
 
 We arrived in Paris at last, and I found myself 
 dazzled by the splendid buildings and the grand 
 equipages which met my eyes on every hand. The 
 streets, it was true, were quite as dirty as London, 
 but there was no fog or coal smoke to obscure the 
 air or blacken the house fronts. My aunt was in 
 the best of spirits at being once more in her dear 
 native city, but I could not help thinking my uncle 
 rather grave and preoccupied. As to Father Mar- 
 tien he was always the same under every circum- 
 stance, and I have no doubt would have preserved 
 the same calm countenance whether he were watch- 
 ing the agonies of a heretic on the wheel, or being 
 himself served with the same sauce by the Iroquois. 
 
 My uncle had a fine hotel in a fashionable situa-
 
 Tke Ckevaliers Daughter. 391 
 
 tion, and as a courier had been sent before us we 
 found everything ready for our reception. I was 
 assigned a small room which looked into a court, 
 and had no exit but through my aunt's reception- 
 room. It was prettily furnished enough, but I took 
 a dislike to it from the first, because it reminded 
 me of my little turret-room at the Tour d'Antin, 
 which I would have preferred of all things to for- 
 get. 
 
 I had looked forward to Paris as a scene of gayety 
 and splendor far beyond anything I had ever seen, and 
 so it was, but I very soon found that the gayety and 
 splendor were not for me. It was not that my aunt 
 meant to be unkind ; on the contrary, at that time 
 she was amiability itself , but in France a young lady 
 of good family lives before her marriage in a state 
 of as much seclusion as if she were in a convent. 
 In fact almost every French young lady is placed 
 in a convent at a very early age, from which she 
 only emerges to be married to the man not of her 
 own, but of her parents' choice, whom she perhaps 
 never saw more than twice and never a moment 
 alone, till she was married to him. 
 
 I could not complain of being treated as other 
 girls were, but I must confess I found the life a 
 very dull one. My aunt lost no time in securing 
 for me the services of a music and a dancing mas- 
 ter, and she often took me out with her in the 
 coach, but I had no companions of my own age. I 
 was not at all well. I had been accustomed to a great 
 deal of exercise all my life, and that in the fresh air,
 
 39 2 The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 and the state of excitement in which I had been 
 kept for such a length of time began to tell on me. 
 I slept very little and was troubled by frightful 
 dreams, which almost always took me back to the 
 Tour d'Antin, and the dangers I had undergone 
 there, or, what was still worse, I read and worked 
 and prayed with my mother, and then waked to an 
 intolerable sense of want and desolation. I told 
 Father Martien of these dreams. He looked grave, 
 pronounced them direct temptations of the devil, 
 and said he feared I had some sin or some conceal- 
 ment yet upon my conscience which gave the evil 
 spirit power over me. I assured him that such was 
 not the case ; but he still looked grave, bade me 
 search my conscience anew, advised a retreat, and 
 gave me to read the " Four Weeks' Meditations of 
 Saint Ignatius." This retreat and course of study 
 were to be my final preparation for the public pro- 
 fession which I was to make. In the course of it I 
 secluded myself entirely in my room, which was so 
 far darkened that I had only light enough to read. 
 I fasted rigorously, saw no company, was allowed 
 no recreation, and no employment save my rosary 
 and my book of meditations. And such medita- 
 tionsfull of the grossest and most material images 
 of death and its consequences the decay of the 
 senses, the desolation of the sick-room and the 
 dying-bed, the corruption of the body, the flames 
 and brimstone, the wheels and spits of purgatory 
 and hell ! In the midst of all this the penitent is 
 invited to pause and resolve seriously upon his or
 
 The Chevalier's Daiig liter. 393 
 
 her vocation, just at the time and in the state when 
 she is most incapable of judging reasonably of any- 
 thing. No wonder the book has been instrumental 
 in leading so many into the cloister. 
 
 I finished my month's retreat and was admitted 
 into the fold of the Holy Catholic Church, as she 
 dares to call herself, in the chapel of the king him- 
 self, who had taken a great interest in my story. I 
 should like to give my reader an account of this im- 
 portant passage of my life, but in truth I remember 
 very little about it. I have an indistinct recol- 
 lection of knocking at a closed door and requesting 
 admission to the church, of various chants and 
 prayers, of censers and waxen tapers, but it is all 
 like a confused dream. In fact, I was already very 
 ill, though nobody suspected it. I recollect receiv- 
 ing a great many congratulations, and being saluted 
 by the king himself, who, having been converted 
 himself (save the mark), took a great interest in all 
 converts. The next morning found me in the 
 stupor of such a fever as I had suffered in Jersey, 
 and for two or three weeks I lay between life and 
 death, unconscious of everything. At last, how- 
 ever, the disease took a turn, and I was pronounced 
 out of danger. For some time longer I lay quietly 
 in my bed, slowly gaining strength and the ability 
 to think connectedly. I was indeed like one waking 
 from a long dream, and I began to realize what I 
 had done. All the instructions I had received in 
 my youth the very psalms I had learned from my 
 foster-mother returned upon me, and would not
 
 394 The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 be put aside. My eyes were opened, and I was 
 compelled to see and to own that I had deliberately 
 sold myself to the world, and that unless I could 
 find a place of repentance which did not yet ap. 
 pear to me I must reckon upon paying the price 
 of the bargain, namely, my immortal soul. Little 
 did my aunt and my nurse guess, while I lay so 
 quietly with closed eyes, what was going on within. 
 I would have given worlds to weep, but I had no 
 tears. Neither could I pray. My heart was dry as 
 dust, and the unmeaning repetitions which had 
 served me instead of prayers now inspired me with 
 nothing but weariness and disgust. Oh, how I 
 hated that image of the Virgin which stood opposite 
 my bed, dressed in laces and satin, and wearing my 
 own mother's pearl clasp ! I had myself given it 
 away for this purpose in one of my fits of devotion. 
 If I had dared I would have crushed the simper- 
 ing waxen baby under my feet. The stronger I 
 grew, the more wretched I found myself. 1 was 
 obliged to go to confession, but Father Martien's 
 threats and cajoleries had no more effect upon me 
 tli an to make me hate him, as the one who had led 
 me into the snare from which I could see no escape, 
 unless it were such a martyrdom as my father's, or 
 the slower hidden agonies of a convent prison. For 
 these I was by no means prepared, and I well knew 
 they were what awaited me if I allowed my change 
 of feeling to become known. The king, as I have 
 hinted, had been converted by the jubilee which 
 had taken place some years before. He was still in
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter. 395 
 
 the fervor of his first love, and as his spiritual 
 guides could not succeed in making him give up 
 Madame de Montespan and company, they com- 
 promised by urging him on to more and greater acts 
 of severity against the so-called heretics. One 
 might be an unbeliever even to denying the exist- 
 ence of a God at all, but to be a Huguenot, or even a 
 Jansenist, was an unpardonable sin. Two or three 
 great men, indeed, who were necessary to him by 
 their talents as soldiers or statesmen, were allotted a 
 sort of protection, but even these soon found their 
 lives unbearable, and either conformed like Turenne 
 afterward, or fled from the kingdom. For a young 
 girl like myself, away from all near friends, and, 
 above all, one who had only lately conformed, there 
 would be no hope. Even a suspicion of relapse 
 would lead at once to a convent with all its possible 
 horrors. No, there was no escape. I had left my 
 Lord, and he had left me. I had denied him, and 
 he would deny me. I must go on as I had begun, 
 and that to the bitter end. 
 
 It was not one of the least of my troubles that I 
 felt all my love for Andrew revive again. I began 
 to doubt the truth of the stories I had heard, and 
 to wonder whether they had not been invented for 
 the very sake of entrapping me. Doubt soon grew 
 into conviction, and, reasonably or unreasonably, I 
 no more believed that Andrew was married than 
 that I was. No, he would return in a year return 
 to claim me and to find that I was lost to him, to 
 truth, and heaven forever. It was in the church
 
 396 The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 where 1 was kneeling for the first time since my ill- 
 ness that this thought came to me, and I cast myself 
 on the ground and groaned almost aloud. My aunt 
 observed the movement, as indeed nothing escaped 
 her eyes, and when she returned she remarked upon 
 it, saying that such a display of devotion, however 
 commendable in private, was not in good taste in 
 such a public place, and that I would do well to 
 restrain myself. About this time Father Martien 
 was called away, and I made my confessions to a fat 
 old priest at our parish church, who, I am per- 
 suaded, used to doze through half the time of con- 
 fession and take snuff the other half. He was very 
 kind, however, and gave me easy penances and 
 plentiful absolutions. My religion had by this time 
 become the merest form, kept up to save appear- 
 ances, but now and then would recur the thought 
 that perhaps Father Martien was right after all, and 
 if so why I was living in mortal sin, a sacrilegious 
 person for whom millions of ages in purgatory 
 would be of no avail. Thus I was tossed from one 
 doubt to another, and found comfort nowhere. 
 
 The discomfort of my mind could not but react 
 upon my body. I grew pale, sallow, and was miser- 
 ably unwell. My aunt lamented the loss of my 
 beauty, and predicted that I should never find a 
 husband. A husband indeed was what I now feared 
 most of all. I determined tli;it I would die before I 
 would accept one, and then came the thought thai, 
 not death would be the alternative but a convent. 
 No, there was no hope anywhere.
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 ANOTHER CHANGE. 
 
 E remained in the neighborhood of Paris 
 all that winter, sometimes at Fontaine- 
 bleau, sometimes in the city itself, for, as 
 I have said, my uncle had some office or 
 command which kept him about the court. My 
 aunt had her balls and assemblies, her grand banquets 
 and little suppers, and must have spent a great deal 
 of money. I rarely saw anything of this gayety, 
 though I went out with my aunt in the carriage, and 
 now and then, when she had a small assembly, I was 
 allowed to sit at her elbow and look on, though I was 
 not expected to speak unless spoken to, and then only 
 in the shortest, most restrained manner. Of the 
 court I saw nothing. My aunt had hoped, I be- 
 lieve, to procure some place for herself, but in that 
 she did not succeed. Still she was often at the 
 court, and was liked by the king for her wit and 
 sprightliness. When she was away my only society 
 was my maid Zelie, whom I had never liked, and 
 now thoroughly distrusted, believing her to be a 
 spy upon me, my aunt's lapdog and her parrot.
 
 398 The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 My only recreation was in reading the very few 
 books which were thought proper for a young lady, 
 my music, and my embroidery, and I only went out 
 to go to church, whither I was attended by Zelie or 
 an older woman who had been my aunt's nurse, 
 and who, having been a Huguenot' in her youth and 
 then converted, was of course doubly zealous and 
 devoted. Oh, to what a slavery had I brought my- 
 self ! With what impassioned longing I looked 
 back to the days when I used to climb the hill at 
 Tre Madoc to attend to my little school or run 
 down to the beach to watch the pilchard-fishing, 
 and of those earlier times in Normandy when I 
 played with Lucille and David in the orchards, or 
 helped to pile up the golden and rosy apples for the 
 cider-mill ! I would gladly have changed places 
 with the poorest old woman in Cornwall for the 
 privilege of walking abroad unfettered, and weep- 
 ing my fill unwatched. I would have given all the 
 costly furniture of our hotel, had it been mine, for 
 half a dozen loose leaves of my mother's old prayer- 
 book, for it was one of my great troubles that I 
 could not remember the words of Scripture. I sup- 
 pose it might have been some odd effect of my ill- 
 ness, but while my memory had become clear as 
 to other things, it was in that respect almost a 
 blank. In the state of mind I then was, I regard- 
 ed this forgetfulness as a direct judgment from 
 Heaven, and an express proof and mark of my rep- 
 robation. I thirsted for the water of life. I read 
 again and again the few psalms and meagre bits of
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter, 399 
 
 scripture contained in my books of devotion. That 
 fountain was to be once more unsealed for me, but 
 not till I had drank my fill of the bitter waters and 
 broken cisterns for which I had forsaken it. 
 
 Meantime affairs were not going well with my 
 uncle. I was told nothing, but I gathered from 
 things that I overheard and from hints dropped in 
 my presence that he had lost the favor of his royal 
 master in the first place by outstaying his leave in 
 England, and though he had hoped to make his peace 
 by the presentation of a new convert to the Catho- 
 lic faith, the offering had not been altogether suffi- 
 cient. Court favor is of all earthly things one of 
 the most uncertain. My uncle had been a friend of 
 the unhappy Madame de Yalliere, who, at this time 
 under the name of Sister Louise de la Misericorde, 
 was striving to expiate her errors by a life of more 
 than ordinary austerity among the Carmelite nuns 
 of Paris. He had had the imprudence to speak 
 contemptuously of Madame de Montespan, and his 
 remarks had been carried to the lady's ears by one 
 of those tale-bearers who flourish at court. Of 
 course madame became his enemy. She had great 
 influence with the king, though not so much as 
 Madame de Maintenon came to have afterward. 
 My uncle's disgrace grew more and more apparent 
 every day, and at last he received peremptory orders 
 to retire to his chateau in Provence, where he held 
 some sort of office under government. He was 
 allowed, however, to remain in Paris for two or
 
 400 The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 three weeks, to settle up his affairs there, which 
 were, I imagine, in no little confusion. 
 
 MY aunt was in despair. To be banished from 
 court was to be cast out of heaven in her estima- 
 tion. She hated the country, and went thither even 
 for a few weeks with unwillingness. She wept and 
 went into fits of the nerves, as she usually did under 
 any disturbance of mind or body. The poor lady 
 was really very ill for a few days, and as I was the 
 only person who had the least control over her in 
 her paroxysms I had my hands full. However, she 
 had an elastic constitution of mind and body, and 
 she soon recovered, and began planning all sorts of 
 amusements, one of which, I remember, was to be 
 the refurnishing of the Chateau de Fayrolles from 
 top to bottom. I was glad to see her diverted by 
 anything, and I listened to all her schemes, and 
 being ready with my pencil was able to afford her 
 pleasure by sketching designs for furniture, hang- 
 ings, and the like, which even my uncle declared to 
 be very clever. 
 
 One day, being left to myself while my aunt en- 
 tertained a visitor, I began drawing from memory a 
 sketch of my old home, the Tour d'Antin. I be- 
 came so interested in my work as to take no note 
 of the time, till I was surprised by the entrance of 
 my uncle and Father Martien. I had not seen the 
 latter gentleman for some weeks, nor was I at all 
 glad to behold him now. My religion had become 
 to me more and more an empty profession, and 
 though I still went regularly to mass and confes-
 
 T/ie Chevaliers Daughter. 401 
 
 sion, my attendance was the merest form. At mass 
 and vespers, though I kept my book open, I 
 thought of anything rather than the services, and 
 as to my confessions, if 1 had repeated the Confiteor 
 correctly, and then gone on in the orthodox devout 
 whisper to say that I had become a Moslem and the 
 fifteenth wife of the Grand Bashaw, good old Father 
 Le Moyiie would have been none the wiser, but 
 would have given me absolution in his usual gentle, 
 nasal sing-song. I had learned to love and respect 
 the old man, for though indolent to a degree, he 
 was kind and fatherly, and did not disgrace himself 
 with wine or worse things, and it was with real dis- 
 may that I contemplated exchanging him for the 
 sharp-sighted, cold Father Martieu. 
 
 My uncle looked at the sketch and commended it, 
 saying that it showed real talent. He then began 
 asking me questions about it, sitting down with the 
 drawing in his hand. At last, 
 
 " There is one thing, Vevette, which I have hes- 
 itated to ask you about, not wishing to revive pain- 
 ful memories ; but the time has arrived when such 
 an inquiry becomes necessary. Where did your 
 father conceal his treasure ?" 
 
 " His treasure !" I repeated ; " I don't under- 
 stand." 
 
 My uncle contracted his brows. 
 
 " Do not trifle with me," said he sternly. " I 
 am well informed that my unhappy brother invested 
 a great deal of the money which he acquired in one 
 way and another in plate and jewels. "What did he
 
 402 The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 do with them ? 1 know that he left them concealed 
 somewhere about the estate ; but where ?" 
 
 "I do not know," I answered, with perfect 
 truth ; "I know that he and my cousin" I could 
 not bring myself to say Andrew " hid away a part 
 of what silver there was, but I never heard what 
 they did with it. lie sold a good deal, I know." 
 
 " And what disposition did he make of the 
 money ?" 
 
 " He turned a large part of it into diamonds. 
 The rest he left with my foster-father, Simon Sablot, 
 who afterward brought it to my mother in Eng- 
 land." 
 
 " And the jewels, my daughter, what of them ?" 
 asked Father Martien. 
 
 " Oh, we carried them to England with us," I 
 answered, inwardly rejoicing to give an answer so 
 little satisfactory. ' ' My mother sold them in Lon- 
 don, and invested a part of the money in a little es- 
 tate at Tre Madoc the Welles House. The rest is 
 in the hands of my lord, unless he has put it into 
 land." 
 
 My uncle stamped his foot and bit his lip with 
 vexation. It seems he thought his brother had left 
 bis treasures concealed, and hoped by my means to 
 lay hands upon them. No doubt they would have 
 made a very welcome supply at that tune. 
 
 "Are you telling the exact truth, daughter?" 
 asked Father Martien sternly. 
 
 " I am telling the exact truth, so far as I know 
 it," I answered, with some spirit. " There may
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter. 403 
 
 be some of the silver still concealed at the Tour 
 d'Antin, but if so I do not know where it is." 
 
 " Where should you think it would be most 
 likely to be hidden ?' ' was the next question. 
 
 " That I cannot tell either," I answered ; " but 
 I suppose the vault under the tower would be as 
 probable a place as any." 
 
 " Is there not a vault under the old chapel ?" 
 asked Father Martien. 
 
 " Yes," I answered ; " a burial vault." 
 
 " Have you ever been in it ?" 
 
 " Yes, once ; at the burial of one of our ser- 
 vants," I replied, availing myself of the orthodox 
 Jesuit doctrine of mental reservation. 
 
 " Do you think your father would be likely to 
 place the treasure in that vault ?" was the next 
 question. 
 
 '*' I do not know as to that," I answered. " I 
 suppose he might. But I rather imagine that what 
 silver there was was buried somewhere about the 
 orchard." 
 
 My uncle continued questioning me for some 
 time, but as I could not tell him what I did not 
 know, he was not much the wiser for my replies. 
 He did not half believe that we had carried off the 
 jewels, and declared that he meant to write to Lord 
 Stantoun on the subject of " my property," as I 
 called it. 
 
 "It is mine," I replied indignantly; "my 
 mother left it to me." 
 
 My uncle laughed contemptuously.
 
 404 The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 " Your mother had no more right to it than you 
 have," said he. " Being married to your father, 
 as they presume to say, by a Protestant minister, 
 the marriage is no marriage by law. It was not 
 worth a pin. You are an illegitimate child, and as 
 such have no rights whatever. My brother's suc- 
 cession belongs to me, and I intend to have it." 
 
 "It is the truth, my daughter," said Father 
 Martien, as I looked at him. " The blasphemous 
 parody of the holy sacrament of marriage with 
 which your wretched and guilty parents were 
 united was not only invalid but was of itself a 
 grievous crime in the eye of the law as well as of 
 the Church." 
 
 If I had had the power of life and death in my 
 hands I should at that moment have laid both of 
 these men dead at my feet. In my rage I actually 
 looked around for a weapon, and it was well for ail 
 parties that there was none at hand. Then, as the 
 conviction of my utter helplessness and desolation 
 came over me, I burst into an agony of tears. 
 
 " Hush, my daughter !" said the priest. " These 
 tears do not become you. Let your natural affec- 
 tion for your parents be laid upon the altar of that 
 church which they spurned, and it may become a 
 merit. Indulged, it is in your case a sin against 
 God and our holy religion." 
 
 My uncle, devout Catholic as he was, had not 
 lost all feeling, nor was he a man to be put down in 
 his own house even by a priest. He silenced the 
 Father by a look, and then set himself to soothe me,
 
 The Chevalier s Daiightcr. 405 
 
 saying that though he had thought it needful to tell 
 me the truth, he should not visit upon me the mis- 
 fortune of my birth, but should continue to regard 
 me as a daughter so long as I showed myself dutiful 
 to him and to my aunt. He bade me retire to my 
 room and compose myself, saying that he would 
 make my excuses. 
 
 " I am going into the country for a few days," 
 said he. " When I return I shall hope to find that 
 you have recovered your spirits and are prepared 
 to submit to any arrangement your friends may 
 think it best to make for your welfare." 
 
 My uncle gave me his hand as far as the door of 
 my apartment, and parted from me with a fatherly 
 salute, recommending me to He down and rest 
 awhile. He was very kind to me for the rest of the 
 day, and seemed by his manner to wish to make me 
 forget the harshness he had used toward me. 
 
 The next morning he called me into his own 
 room and put into my hands a letter he had written 
 to my Lord Stantoun. It was to the effect that, 
 having embraced the Catholic faith, and being re- 
 solved in future to make my home with my father's 
 brother, I desired to have all my property put into 
 the hands of Monsieur de Fayrolles, my natural 
 guardian. 
 
 "You will copy this letter," said my uncle, 
 " and I will inclose it in one of my own to my 
 Lord Staunton. If he is an honest man he will see 
 the justice and wisdom of such an arrangement. 
 If lie is not, I must take other measures, for I am
 
 406 The Chevalier s Daughter, 
 
 resolved not to be cheated of my right. Sit down 
 here and copy the letter." 
 
 I had nothing for it but to obey, my uncle all the 
 time standing by and observing me. When the 
 copy was finished he inclosed both letters in an en - 
 velope, and was just about sealing them when my 
 aunt called upon him. With an expression of im- 
 patience he laid down the unsealed letter and went 
 into the next room. In a moment I had turned 
 down the corner of the sheet and written in small 
 characters, " Don't, for Heaven's sake." 
 
 It was the work of a moment, and when my 
 uncle returned he found me reading a book I had 
 taken from the table. He reproved me for opening 
 a book without leave, but seeing that it was only a 
 play of Monsieur Racine's I had taken up, told me 
 to keep it if I liked. He sealed the letter without 
 looking at it again, told me he was pleased with my 
 compliance, and gave me a gold piece to buy rib- 
 bons with, as he said. I was not sorry to receive 
 it, for I was already turning over in my head plans 
 of escape, and I knew that any plan I could form 
 .v'ould need money to carry it out. 
 
 My uncle was absent several days, and came back- 
 in anything but a good humor. He had not suc- 
 ceeded in finding the treasure, if there was any to 
 find, neither had he succeeded in letting the land. 
 The house, having been reduced by the fire to a mere 
 empty shell, had partly fallen in and filled up the 
 cellars, while of the vault under the chapel he said 
 the whole floor seemed to have sunk into some abvss.
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter. 407 
 
 " So there really was a cavern underneath," I 
 said. " There was a tradition to that effect, and 
 my father always believed that such a cavern ex- 
 isted, and that it had some connection with the sea. ' ' 
 
 " It might have a connection with the infernal 
 regions, judging from the sounds which proceed 
 from it, ' ' said my uncle. ' ' I was near falling into 
 it headlong. It is the more vexatious because there 
 are niches around the wall which have evidently 
 been built up one even quite lately. " 
 
 "And they are quite inaccessible?" said my 
 aunt. 
 
 "Oh, entirely. The whole building is so ruin- 
 ous that one enters it only at the risk of one's life." 
 
 " The niches are only burial-places," I ventured 
 to say, thinking at the same time that poor Grace's 
 grave would now at least be safe from insult. 
 
 " Yes, but they may have been used for deposits 
 of another sort. However, there is no use in think- 
 ing more about the matter. You are looking bet- 
 ter, Yevette. I am glad to see you try to put on a 
 more cheerful face. Your countenance lately has 
 been a perpetual kill-joy n't only for a convent of 
 Carmelites." 
 
 Indeed, my health had improved. The very 
 thought of escape, impracticable as it seemed at 
 present, had put new life into me. I began to take 
 a little care of myself, and to be anxious to acquire 
 strength. 
 
 " I do not think, my friend, that the convent of 
 the Carmelites will be Ye vette's vocation," said my
 
 408 The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 aunt, smiling ; " I have an affair of great impor- 
 tance to lay before you when we are at leisure." 
 
 A cold chill struck to my heart as I heard these 
 words and guessed what they might mean. The 
 event proved that my forebodings were well 
 founded. There was a certain Monsieur de Luynes, 
 an elderly gentleman of good family, and very 
 wealthy, who often visited my aunt, being indeed 
 some sort of connection. This gentleman had lost 
 his wife many years before, and having married off 
 all his daughters he had conceived the idea of pro- 
 viding a companion and nurse for his declining 
 years. He was hideously ugly tall, shambling, 
 with bushy gray eyebrowsj and a great scar on his 
 cheek which had affected the shape of one of his 
 eyes ; but his manners were amiable and kind, and 
 he had the reputation of leading a remarkably good 
 life. He had always taken a good deal of notice of 
 me, and had once or tw T ice drawn me into conver- 
 sation as I sat at my aunt's side, and I had thought 
 him very agreeable. It was this Monsieur de 
 Luynes who now made a formal proposal for my 
 hand. I was not at all consulted in the matter. I 
 was simply called into my aunt's boudoir, told of 
 the proposal which had been made, and ordered to 
 consider myself the future wife of Monsieur de 
 Luynes. 
 
 " There is no reason for any delay," said my 
 aunt. " Monsieur, who is himself very wealthy, 
 does not ask for any dot with you. The trousseau 
 can be prepared in a few days, and I will engage it
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter. 409 
 
 shall be a fine one. You will be a happy woman, 
 petite." 
 
 " Yes indeed ; you may consider yourself most 
 fortunate," added my uncle. " Considering the 
 misfortune of your birth and your state of poverty 
 and dependence, it is a match far beyond anything 
 we have a right to expect for you. It .will give me 
 great pleasure to see you established at the head of 
 Monsieur de Luynes' fine house before I leave 
 Paris." 
 
 My resolution was taken in a moment. If Mon- 
 sieur de Luynes' offer had come to me at the be- 
 ginning of my residence in France I should in- 
 stantly have accepted it, and rejoiced in the oppor- 
 tunity of doing so. But my mind had changed. I 
 know not how, but I was just as certain that An- 
 drew had remained faithful to me as if he himself 
 had told me, and being so assured I would have 
 suffered myself to be thrown into the fire rather 
 than marry any one else. I waited till my uncle had 
 done speaking, and then, with a calmness which 
 amazed myself, I told him of my determination. 
 
 " Tut !" said he ; " let me hear no such girlish 
 folly. You will do what I consider best for you, 
 and take care you do it with a good grace or it will 
 be the worse for you." 
 
 " Nay, do not be severe with Yevette," said my 
 aunt. " All girls think it necessary to put on such 
 airs and make such declarations. Leave her to me.' ' 
 
 Left to my aunt 1 was, and I set myself to soften 
 her heart toward me. I begged only to be allowed
 
 4io The Chevaliers Daughter. 
 
 to remain single, promising to be guided by her in 
 everything else to perform any menial service, to 
 work my fingers to the bone. All was in vain. 
 My aunt laughed at my entreaties, considering them 
 only as the wilfulness of a child ; told me the time 
 would come when I would thank her for not yield- 
 ing to my folly. Finally losing patience, as I con- 
 tinued weeping, she let me feel the iron hand masked 
 under the velvet glove. She told me in severe 
 tones that my wilfulness was unbearable, and that 
 unless I gave way and did what was thought best 
 for me I should be sent to that same Carmelite 
 convent to be brought to my senses. 
 
 " We have wished to be kind to you," she add- 
 ed ; " but there are means of subduing refractory 
 girls which the good sisters well know how to prac- 
 tise, and of which you shall make trial if you are 
 disobedient. Now go to your room, dry your eyes, 
 and let me see you looking your best when Monsieur 
 de Luynes comes this evening." 
 
 1 had nothing for it but to comply. My resolu- 
 tion was fixed as ever. They might send me to the 
 Carmelites, starve me, bury me alive if they would, 
 but I would never marry never ! However, I 
 thought best to temporize. The evening found me 
 dressed, my aunt herself looking over my toilette 
 and commending my docility. 
 
 " I thought you would see the propriety of giving 
 way," said she ; " and I am glad for your sake 
 you have done so. You would not have liked to 
 be ishut up alone in the charnel-house of the convent,
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter. 411 
 
 without light or food for twenty-four hours together, 
 as happened to a cousin of my own who set herself 
 up against her father's authority. I^o, it is much 
 better to be in my salon than in the company of 
 mouldy skeletons. ' ' 
 
 1 held my tongue ; but I could have said that 
 I should have preferred the society of the mouldiest 
 Carmelite ever buried in sackcloth to that of 
 Monsieur de Luynes. The kind old man was very 
 attentive to me, made many gallant speeches, and 
 presented me with a magnificent box of bon-bons 
 and preserved fruits, containing also a beautiful 
 pearl clasp. I almost wished I could have loved 
 him, and indeed if my heart had not been full of 
 another I believe I should have married him, if only 
 to escape from my present state of servitude. But 
 there it was : I loved Andrew. I should always 
 love him, and I could never marry any one else, 
 whether I ever saw him again or not. 
 
 Under ordinary circumstances I should never 
 have been left alone with my intended bridegroom 
 till after the ceremony ; but my aunt had a great 
 opinion of the discretion and goodness of Monsieur 
 de Luynep, which indeed he well deserved. She 
 also trusted a good deal, I fancy, to his powers of 
 persuasion, for she allowed him more than once to 
 remain tete-d-tete with me for an hour or two at a 
 time in the little salon, while she entertained her 
 visitors or gave audience to the tradespeople who 
 were busied with my wedding outfit. On one of 
 these occasions I took a desperate resolution and
 
 412 The Chevaliers Daughter. 
 
 opened to Monsieur de Luynes my whole heart. 
 Monsieur tried hard to shake me, promising me 
 every sort of good, and even going so far as to hint 
 that I should, in the course of nature, outlive him ; 
 and then, being a widow, I could go where I liked 
 and do as I pleased. Finding, however, that even 
 this agreeable prospect failed to move me, and that 
 I was settled in my resolution, after two or three 
 interviews he bade me farewell with much kindness, 
 and going to my uncle formally retracted his suit, 
 saying that he would never wed an unwilling bride. 
 My aunt's anger was loud and voluble ; my 
 uncle's more silent and much more terrible. He 
 said litUe except to bid me retire to my room. 
 Here I remained till evening, without notice of any 
 kind. That night my lodging was changed to a 
 bare attic at the top of the house, lighted only by 
 a window in the roof, and furnished with a pallet 
 bed, a straw chair, and a crucifix, with its vessel of 
 holy water underneath. Into this cell I was locked 
 by my uncle's own hands, and here I remained 
 prisoner for a fortnight, seeing nobody but my 
 aunt's women, who once a day brought me a meagre 
 supply of coarse food. I had but one companion 
 an ugly gray cat, which lived in the neighboring 
 garret, and made her way to my cell through a hole 
 in the wainscot, attracted, I suppose, by the smell of 
 my soup. She shared my meals by day and my 
 bed at night, and, I doubt not, sincerely regretted 
 my departure. I have always loved and patronized 
 ugly gray cats for her sake.
 
 The Chevaliers Daughter. 413 
 
 I was happier in this garret than I had been be- 
 fore in a long time. I had lived absolutely with- 
 out prayer ever since my illness, for my repetitions 
 of the rosary might as well have been repetitions of 
 " Cruel Barbara Allen," for all the devotion there 
 had been in them. But somehow my firm decision 
 not to marry any one but my first love had brought 
 help and comfort to me. It had been a step in the 
 right direction. When first locked into my prison 
 cell I had thrown myself on my knees and besought 
 help from Heaven to hold firm my resolution. That 
 prayer had opened the way for others. I began to 
 review my life and sincerely to repent the sins which 
 had brought me into such straits. I saw and recog- 
 nized the fact that the double-mindedness which 
 had always been my bane had in this instance lain at 
 the root of my apostasy. I confessed the justice of 
 my Heavenly Father, and was enabled wholly to sur- 
 render myself into his hands for time and eternity ; 
 and I received comfort, and even joy, such as I had 
 never found before. At the end of a fortnight my 
 uncle visited me again and inquired whether I were 
 now ready to submit my will to his. Modestly, I 
 hope, but certainly with firmness, I declared my 
 determination unchanged, and was ordered instantly 
 to prepare for a journey.
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 YOU SHALL HAVE NO CHOICE." 
 
 EXPECTED nothing less than to be taken 
 at once to the Carmelite convent with 
 which I had been threatened. I was 
 therefore agreeably surprised when, on 
 being led to the courtyard I found all my uncle's 
 servants assembled, and his own travelling-carriage 
 waiting, with my aunt already seated in it. There 
 were three vacant places, one of which I was desired 
 to take, while mj uncle placed himself in the other, 
 and my aunt's gentlewoman took the fourth. There 
 was a great deal of running back and forth for small 
 packages whicli had been forgotten, a great deal of 
 ordering and counter-ordering, of pulling at straps 
 and examining of buckles ; but at last all was ready, 
 and we set out. My aunt had not spoken to me at 
 all, but as we passed a fine house which was being 
 newly repaired and decorated she broke out with, 
 
 "And to think, ungrateful girl, that all that 
 might have been yours, and you must throw it all 
 away for a whim !' ' 
 
 I made no answer, for there was nothing to be said.
 
 The Chevaliers Daughter. 415 
 
 " There is no use in talking further on that matter, 
 madame," said my uncle ; " Yevette has made her 
 decision, and she must abide the consequences. 
 Henceforth she will have no choice as to what she 
 will do. All will be decided for her, and it is pos- 
 sible she may come to regret Monsieur de Luynes. " 
 
 " That may well be, my uncle, since Monsieur de 
 Luynes was a true friend, who did not expect to 
 gain any hidden treasures by his kindness," I an- 
 swered. " But I shall never regret having acted 
 honorably by him, whatever happens." 
 
 My uncle bit his lip, as well he might, and 
 I saw the waiting-woman look out of the window 
 to hide a smile. She knew all about my uncle's 
 journey to Normandy, and, like others of her class, 
 she enjoyed a hit at her betters. 
 
 " Be silent !" said my uncle sternly ; " nobody 
 wishes to hear the sound of your voice. Speak only 
 when you are spoken to. ' ' 
 
 1 obeyed, and, indeed, I had no inclination to 
 talk. The morning was beautiful, and the spring 
 was just coming on, and, forlorn as it looked, I was 
 delighted to see the open country once more, and 
 to breathe an air not poisoned with the thousand and 
 one smells not to use a stronger word of Paris. 
 The king could indeed crush and impoverish his 
 poor people to maintain his armies and his mis- 
 tresses, but he could not hinder the wild flowers 
 from blooming nor the birds from singing. My 
 spirits rose insensibly, and I more than once caught 
 myself on the point of breaking out into a song. My
 
 416 The Chevaliers Daughter. 
 
 uncle sat back in the corner and said nothing. My 
 aunt kept up a perpetual prattle with Susanne, now 
 bewailing her banishment from Paris and the court, 
 now remarking upon this or that fine lady, and 
 listening to the tittle-tattle in which Susanne was a 
 proficient. At last my uncle said he would ride 
 on horseback a while, so his groom was called up 
 with the spare horse, and we women were left to 
 ourselves. Then my aunt fell upon me, and such 
 a rating as she gave me ! I have heard English 
 women scold, but I never heard any fish woman equal 
 my elegant, double-refined aunt, Madame de Fay- 
 rolles. She worked herself up into such a passion 
 that she told a good deal more than she meant, and 
 thus I learned that my Lord Stantoun had returned 
 a very short and sharp answer to Monsieur de Fay- 
 rolles' letter, absolutely refusing to let him have any 
 of the property intrusted to him, and requiring that 
 I should at once return to England. So my friends 
 had not quite forgotten or forsaken me. That was 
 some comfort, but I dared not say so. My aunt 
 went on, growing more and more excited, till she 
 ended with, 
 
 " And when I thought at least I should have you 
 to help me at Fayrolles, to draw patterns for my 
 embroidery, and sing and read aloud to me, I can- 
 not even enjoy that." 
 
 " But indeed, aunt, I will do anything for you 
 singing or reading, or whatever you please," I 
 said soothingly, for I was afraid of one of her fits 
 of nerves. " There is nothing in my power that I
 
 The Chevaliers Daughter. 417 
 
 will not do for you if you will let me, at Fayrolles 
 or anywhere else. You know we agreed to work 
 chairs upon satin for the salon, and I have several 
 patterns drawn already." 
 
 " Yes, but you won't be at Fayrolles !" said my 
 aunt between her sobs ; and then, catching a warn- 
 ing glance from Susaune, she said no more. 
 
 Then I was not to go" to Fayrolles ! What did 
 they mean to do with me ? To send me back to 
 England ? That was not likely, after what my uncle 
 had said about my having no choice. Probably I 
 should be placed in some country convent, where I 
 should be out of reach of all help, whatever hap- 
 pened, and where no one would ever hear from me 
 again. This was what I dreaded of all things. I 
 had almost given up any belief in the faith I had 
 lately professed, and the question occurred to me 
 whether I ought not openly to confess the change 
 which had come over me. I knew only too well 
 what such a confession involved either a life-long 
 imprisonment or a horrible death perhaps being 
 left to perish by inches in some underground cell, 
 amid rats and vermin. Such things happened all 
 the time. Worse even than that, I knew that many 
 of the convents were sinks of iniquity places of re- 
 sort for idle young gentlemen and wickeder women, 
 like that of Port Royal, which afterward passed 
 through so many vicissitudes. I am very far from 
 saying that they were all of this character, but a 
 great many of them were so, even taking the ac-
 
 4i 8 The Chevaliers Daughter. 
 
 counts of Roman Catholics themselves.* A resi- 
 dence in such a community was no pleasant pros- 
 pect. And was I, after all, ready to die for my 
 faith ? Had I indeed any assured faith to die for ? 
 Might not Father Martien be right after all ? My 
 mind was tossed upon a sea of doubt and conjec- 
 ture, and for a time found no rest ; but at last I 
 was enabled to pray, and to cast myself, more com- 
 pletely than I had ever done before, upon the 
 arms of mercy. I asked for light and help above 
 all things, and light and help were given me, not 
 all at once, but by degrees. I became sensible of a 
 sweet calm and clearness of mind, in which I saw 
 all things more plainly. I felt sure that my many 
 sins had been forgiven and washed away, and that 
 when the time came for action I should have 
 strength given me to act for the best. I had plenty 
 of time for my own thoughts, for my uncle soon re- 
 entered the carriage, and after that my aunt did not 
 venture to speak to me again, though she talked at 
 me whenever there was a chance. She was a 
 woman who bore discomfort of any kind very ill, 
 and the more weary she grew with her journey 
 the more unbearable grew her peevish fretf illness. 
 At last my uncle was moved to speak sharply to 
 her, whereupon she fell into one of her nervous 
 tits, and I had to exert all my skill to keep her 
 from throwing herself out of the carriage. "With 
 much expenditure of coaxing and soothing I got 
 
 * See Racine'H Memoirs of Port Royal. Letters of St. Frmi- 
 cis de Sales, and almost any free spokt-n memoirs of the MIIK-.
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter. 419 
 
 her quieted at last, and persuaded her to take some 
 refreshment, after which she fell asleep. I fancy 
 my attentions softened her heart toward me, for 
 she was much more kind to me during the rest of 
 the day, and I thought even interceded for me with 
 her husband ; but if so it was without avail, and 
 even increased my troubles. For the whole of the 
 next day I travelled with my former maid, Zelie, and 
 the old woman I had spoken of. They understood 
 my disgrace well enough, and did all in their power 
 to make me feel it, treating me with the utmost 
 insolence and neglect, so that at the inns where we 
 stopped I had the most wretched lodgings imagi- 
 nable, and really went hungry while my jailers, 
 for such they were, feasted upon dainties at my 
 uncle's expense. In this, however, they overshot 
 the mark and brought themselves into trouble. My 
 uncle, remarking in the morning upon my extreme 
 paleness, asked whether I was ill. 
 
 "No, monsieur," I answered, "I am not ill, 
 but 1 am hungry. I have had not a morsel since 
 yesterday noon but some crusts of mouldy black 
 bread, which I could not have eaten if I had been 
 starving. ' ' 
 
 Monsieur turned angrily upon Zelie, who stam- 
 mered and denied and charged me with falsehood ; 
 but my uncle knew me well enough to believe what 
 I said, and my face spoke for itself. I was once 
 more removed to my aunt's carriage, and fared as 
 she did, and the rest of the way was more com- 
 fortable. Susanne had always been friendly to me.
 
 420 The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 During my imprisonment she had more than ouce 
 smuggled comforts into my cell, and when we were 
 alone together she spoke to me with kindness and 
 pitj. My aunt's heart evidently softened to me 
 more and more, but my uncle was implacable. To 
 cross him once was to make him an enemy for- 
 ever ; I had disappointed him in every way, and he 
 meant to make me feel the full force of his dis- 
 pleasure. 
 
 I had gathered from the servants that our first 
 destination was Marseilles. As we drew near that 
 city we passed company after company of unhappy 
 wretches destined for the galleys, laboring along, 
 chained together, and driven like cattle to the 
 slaughter. Many of them were condemned for no 
 crime but that of having attended a preaching, or 
 prayed in their own families that of being Protest- 
 ants, in short and these were linked oftentimes to 
 the most atrocious criminals, whose society must 
 have been harder to bear than their chains. But 
 more than once or twice man's cruelty was turned 
 to the praise of God, and the criminal was con- 
 verted by the patience and the instructions of his 
 fellow. 
 
 As we passed one of these sad cavalcades my 
 uncle stopped the coach to ask some questions, and 
 I was brought face to face with one I knew right 
 well. It was an aged preacher who had long known 
 ray father, and had often been at our home in Nor- 
 mandy. I had no mind to have him recognize me, 
 and I turned away my face to hide my overflowing
 
 The Chevalier's Daughter. 421 
 
 tears. Monsieur did not at first recognize the old 
 preacher, but the other knew him in a moment, 
 and called him by name. 
 
 " What, Monsieur Morin, is this you !" said my 
 uncle ; "I thought you were dead !" 
 
 " I soon shall be," answered the old man calmly. 
 " Happily forme, I am more than seventy years old, 
 and my prison-doors must soon be opened. Then 
 I shall receive my reward ; but you ah, Henri, 
 my former pupil, whom I so loved, how will it be 
 with you ? Oh, repent, while there is yet time ! 
 There is mercy even for the denier and the apos- 
 tate !" 
 
 For all answer, my uncle, transported with rage, 
 lifted his cane and stiuck the old man a severe 
 blow. The very criminals cried shame upon him, 
 and the young officer in charge hastened to the spot, 
 and with expressions of pity offered his own hand- 
 kercliief to the poor old man, whose brow was cut 
 and bleeding. 
 
 " Well," said my uncle, turning to me, and 
 seeing, I suppose, what I thought, " how do you 
 like the way your former friends are treated ? How 
 would you like to share their lot ?" 
 
 " I would rather be that old man than you, mon- 
 sieur !" I returned, on fire with indignation. " I 
 would rather be the helpless prisoner than the cow- 
 ard that abuses him !" 
 
 " Coward !" repeated my uncle, white with rage. 
 
 " Dastard, if you like it better !" I returned, 
 reckless of consequences. " To strike a helpless
 
 422 The Chevalier's Daughter. 
 
 man is cowardly ; to strike an old and feeble man is 
 dastardly !" 
 
 Monsieur de Fayrolles, like others of his stamp, 
 was easily put down when any one stood up to him, 
 I have seen him fairly outfaced by his own valet. 
 He muttered something between his teeth. MY 
 
 o */ 
 
 aunt, who, to do her justice, was greatly shocked, 
 put a little money into the old man's hand, and the 
 carriage moved on. 
 
 We arrived at Marseilles about noon, and my 
 heart bounded with joy as I saw in the harbor a ship 
 with English colors. Could it be that I was to be 
 sent back to England after all ? I was soon unde- 
 ceived. We drove through the town to a convent 
 which stood by itself, surrounded as usual with a 
 high wall. Here the carriage stopped. My uncle 
 and aunt alighted, and were admitted by the por- 
 tress, and I remained in the carriage with Susanne. 
 A number of men who looked like carpenters were 
 returning from their work, and passed us, glancing 
 at the carriage as they did so. " Here is another 
 of the king's passenger birds !" I heard one of 
 them say. I was trying to think what he could 
 mean, when a sort of overseer who was following 
 the men looked at me, stopped, and called me by 
 name. It was my foster-brother, David Sablot. 
 
 " Mademoiselle ! mademoiselle !" said Susanne. 
 
 " Ah, Susanne, it is my foster-brother, perhaps 
 the last friend I shall ever see," I pleaded. " Let 
 me speak to him for but one moment." 
 
 " Speak quickly, then," said Susanne, and with
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter. 423 
 
 that she turned her back to me and began looking 
 out of the window. 
 
 " I thought you were safe in England, Yevette," 
 said David, in English. " What brings you here ?" 
 
 "My own folly and wickedness," I answered. 
 ' ' But I cannot tell you the story now. David, if 
 you ever loved me, go, or send to Lord Stantoun, 
 at Stantoun Court, near Biddeford, in Devonshire. 
 Tell him you saw me here a prisoner. Watch what 
 they do with me, and carry him word. Tell An- 
 drew Corbet that I have always loved him, and al- 
 ways shall. But how are you here in safety ?" 
 
 " I am of too much use for iny master to spare 
 me, and so he gives me protection," was the reply ; 
 " but it will not be for long. But what of my 
 father and mother of inadame ? Do you know 
 anything ?' ' 
 
 " Maman is in heaven. Your parents are at Tre 
 Madoc, in Cornwall, living in comfort. My lord 
 will tell you. David, have you a little Gospel ?" 
 
 He took from an inner pocket a little thin, worn 
 book, made for concealment the Gospel of St. 
 Luke. 
 
 " Give it me I have none," said I, and he put 
 it into my hand. 
 
 " Lucille," said I. 
 
 " I know nothing of her," was the sorrowful an- 
 swer. " Since she left Sartilly I have heard once 
 that she escaped, and again that she was dead. De- 
 pend upon me, Yevette !" Then, as Susanne made 
 a warning sign, he pressed my hand and passed on.
 
 424 The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 The convent gate was once more opened, and I 
 was summoned to descend. I was led by a nun 
 through a long passage, then along a cloister which 
 bounded one side of the convent burial-place, and 
 at last into the parlor, where sat my uncle and 
 aunt. Behind the grating stood a lady in convent- 
 ual dress, whom I judged to be the Superior. She 
 looked like a fussy, important sort of personage, 
 but she had a kind, motherly face. Behind her 
 stood two other nuns, in the dress of the Ursu- 
 lines. 
 
 "This is the young lady," said my uncle, pre- 
 senting me to the Superior. " I trust she may be 
 a credit to those friends who have ex erted them- 
 selves to provide for her. As you have the king's 
 letter and the other papers, reverend mother, it 
 will not be needful for us to trespass longer on your 
 valuable time." So saying, and without a word of 
 leave-taking, he took rny aunt's hand and led her 
 away. 
 
 " So you are the last !" said the Superior, ad- 
 dressing me not unkindly. " You do not look so 
 very strong for a colonist, I must say ; but since 
 you have the king's own letter there is nothing to 
 be said. "What think you, my sister ?" turning to 
 the elderly woman who stood behind her. 
 
 " I think his Majesty is beside himself," an- 
 swered the latter, with a bluntness which somehow 
 surprised me while it made me like her. " She looks 
 much fitter to help Sister Therese in the school- 
 room, or Sister Veronique with her embroidery, than
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter. 425 
 
 to rough it in a new country. Have you been ill, 
 child ?" 
 
 " No, madarae," I answered, " but I am weary 
 with my journey." 
 
 " You should say reverend mother," corrected 
 the nun not ungently. " We do not keep worldly 
 titles and family names here, like the ladies of the 
 Sacred Heart. We are all mothers and sisters. 
 Would it not be well, my mother, for this child to 
 rest for a while before joining her companions for 
 the voyage ?" 
 
 " Yes, of course ; you always know best, dear 
 sister," answered the other lady. "Let her rest, 
 and have a good supper." 
 
 " Stay where you are, child. There, sit down, 
 and I will come to you presently," said the mother 
 assistant, as I found she was. I was very glad indeed 
 to take a chair, and I remained alone for some min- 
 utes thinking over what I had heard, and puzzling 
 myself to no purpose over the hints as to- colonists 
 and a new country which the Superior had thrown 
 out. Before I had arrived at any conclusion the 
 mother assistant appeared at another door from the 
 one I had entered, and bade me follow her. She 
 conducted me along a gallery and to a cell, small 
 indeed but clean, and by no means uncomfortable. 
 
 " You can remain here for this night, and I 
 will send you some supper," said she. " To-mor- 
 row you will be introduced to your companions, 
 and to the sisters who will have charge of you all. 
 The vessel will not sail for several days, so you will
 
 426 The Chevalier s Daiig liter. 
 
 have time to get well rested." And she departed, 
 leaving me more puzzled than ever. I found a small 
 mail in my cell, and was glad to discover therein 
 some changes of raiment, all very plain, and even 
 coarse. There were also some books of devotion, a 
 rosary, and a purse containing a small sum of money, 
 besides a considerable package of biscuits, dried 
 fruit, and comfits, which had evidently been thrust 
 in after the mail was packed, probably by Susanne. 
 
 I changed my travelling-dress, bathed my face, 
 and brushed the dust out of my hair. * I would have 
 given almost anything to open my Testament, but 
 this I dared not do. I had hardly made myself 
 ready when a nun entered with my supper, which 
 was good, and arranged with neatness. There was 
 even a cup of chocolate. The dishes were set out 
 on my little table, and the nun, bidding me take my 
 chocolate while it was fresh, departed and closed the 
 door. Then indeed I did venture to draw forth my 
 precious Gospel and read a few words only a few 
 but they were like manna in the desert. 
 
 " And while he was yet a great way off, his 
 father saw him." 
 
 That was all. It brought the whole to my mind. 
 I was the prodigal who had left my father's house 
 and wasted my substance, and now I was brought 
 to the husks indeed. What could I do but to act 
 like the poor spendthrift arise and go to my 
 father ?. 
 
 I heard a step in the gallery, and thrust my book 
 into my bosom. The step passed, but I dared not
 
 The Chevaliers Daughter. 427 
 
 take it out again just then ; and, sitting down, I 
 ate my supper with a good appetite. 
 
 " They mean to try what kindness can do in the 
 first place," I mused. " I dare say the good sister 
 thought these sugared apricots would be so many 
 irresistible arguments. But what could she mean 
 by what she said about colonists and a new country ? 
 All at once the explanation flashed across me with 
 the force of certainty. I was to be sent out to 
 Canada. 
 
 To make my meaning plain I must relate a little 
 bit of history. 
 
 It is well known that King Louis the Fourteenth 
 took a deep interest in his colony of New France, in 
 America. He concerned liimself personally in all 
 its affairs, public and private, and made all sorts of 
 laws and regulations for its benefit. He was very 
 desirous that the colonists should lead settled lives, 
 instead of taking to the woods and living with and 
 like the savages, as a great many of them would have 
 preferred, to do and in fact did, in spite of him. He 
 would have them marry and raise large families, and 
 promised premiums in the shape of land, provisions, 
 and so forth, to those who did so. But where were 
 the wives to come from ? This also his Majesty 
 provided, with the help of his ministers and of the 
 Jesuits, who were deeply engaged in the scheme. 
 He sent out whole ship-loads of young women un- 
 der the care of certain devoted ladies and nuns, 
 which women, on their arrival, were sorted out in 
 different rooms, according to their quality the
 
 428 The Chevaliers Daughter. 
 
 peasant girls in one, the young ladies in another 
 and the bachelors were not only invited but required 
 to choose wives from among their number, according 
 to their degree. The young women themselves had 
 no choice in the matter, except that the peasant 
 girls were sometimes allowed to go out as servants 
 in the families of such married people as were able 
 to keep them, but the arrangement was not greatly 
 approved. This commerce was not now carried on 
 quite so briskly as had been the case several years 
 before, but a ship-load was still dispatched now and 
 then. The girls mostly came from public institu- 
 tions or from families of peasants overburdened with 
 children, and I suppose in general found their con- 
 dition improved by the change. The young ladies 
 or demoiselles -\vere usually the inconvenient rela- 
 tions of good families whom it was desirable to get 
 rid of. I learned afterward from the Mother 
 Superior, who did not object to a bit of gossip, that 
 Monsieur de Fayrolles had represented me to the 
 king as an illegitimate daughter of his brother, for 
 whom he wished to provide ; and I suppose he had 
 made me a kind of peace-offering to his Majesty, 
 knowing how jnuch his heart was engaged in this 
 scheme. The offering was accepted, but I do not 
 know whether or not it answered the purpose for 
 which it was meant. 
 
 Strange to say, the thought of being thus sent out 
 to Canada was rather a relief to my mind, after I 
 had discovered that I was not to return to England. 
 It was at least a respite. It gave room for some-
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter. 429 
 
 thing to happen. I knew that there were also Eng- 
 lish colonies in North America, and in my ignorance, 
 thinking of that country as no larger than France 
 or England, I conceived it might be possible to effect 
 an escape to them. I had little notion of the vast 
 forests and deserts, the wild beasts and wilder men 
 which lay between New France and New England. 
 At all events I was now in kind hands that wa s 
 something. I had contrived to send word to my 
 English friends, for that David would do my errand 
 I had not a doubt. I resolved to make the best of 
 present circumstances, to use what time I could call 
 my own in meditation on all I had learned, and if 
 at last I made up my mind definitely that the way 
 of my parents was the true way, to confess my faith 
 without fear of consequences. For it must be re- 
 membered that I was still in some sense unsettled 
 in my belief. The arguments of Father Marti en 
 would recur to my mind, and I did not always see 
 how to answer them. Still I was struggling toward 
 the shining light <.t the head of the way, as Mr. 
 John Bunyan hath it in his "quaint parable, and the 
 light grew more clear and the ground firmer under 
 my feet at every effort. 
 
 When the sister came nfter my supper-dishes she 
 was evidently pleased to ee that I had appreciated 
 her dainties. 
 
 " You look better, child," she said kindly. 
 
 " I am better, thank you, sister," I answered. 
 " I feel much refreshed." 
 
 " Why, that is well," said she. " The reverend
 
 430 The Chevalier s Daughter* 
 
 mother says you need not attend the evening ser- 
 vice, as you seem so much fatigued with your jour- 
 ney. She advises you to go early to rest, and to- 
 morrow she will see and talk with you, and you 
 shall be introduced to the holy mother who has 
 charge of the expedition." 
 
 " When does the ship sail ?" I ventured to ask, 
 seeing I had guessed rightly. 
 
 " Some time next week, I believe, but I am not 
 certain. I hope so, I am sure ; for these girls turn 
 the house upside down, and I must say that I don't 
 think a marriage brokerage quite the business for 
 nuns. But what am I saying?" and she crossed 
 herself. "No doubt our superiors know best. 
 My unlucky tongue is always getting me into 
 trouble." 
 
 "Never mind,'' said I, seeing that she looked 
 rather appealingly at me ; " I am no tale-bearer? 
 you may be sure. I dare say the young people are 
 a great trouble, but I will try not to make more 
 than I can help," I added, smiling. 
 
 " Oh, you you are a young lady that is plain 
 to be seen. "WTiere are you from ?' ' 
 
 " From Normandy," I answered. " My foster- 
 mother lived not very far from Granville. " 
 
 " I have been there," said the nun ; "I was in 
 the hospital at Sartilly." 
 
 How I longed to ask about Lucille, but I dared 
 not do so for fear of inconvenient questions. 
 
 " And have you ever travelled ?" asked the nun, 
 who was called, as she told me, Sister St. Stanislaus.
 
 The Chevaliers Daughter. 431 
 
 I replied that I had been in England, and had 
 therefore crossed the Channel twice. 
 
 " And were you ill ?" 
 
 " No, not at all," I answered. 
 
 " Mother Mary will be glad to hear that, for she 
 is always ill the whole voyage through. She has 
 made it two or three times. There, I must not stay 
 any longer. I will come in the morning to lead 
 you to the chapel, and afterward to the Superior's 
 apartment, where you will see Mother Mary of the 
 Incarnation. * Then good-night, child. Rest well. ' ' 
 
 I thanked the good sister, for whom I had already 
 conceived a great regard, and she withdrew. I was 
 glad enough to obey her recommendation and go 
 to rest, for between fatigue and excitement I was 
 fairly worn out. The bed, though narrow and 
 hard, was very clean, arid smelled of lavender. I 
 read in my Gospel as long as the fading light would 
 allow, and then, carefully concealing it, I said my 
 prayers and lay down, feeling greatly comforted and 
 reassured, though I should have been puzzled to ac- 
 count for my state of mind. Certainly, my circum- 
 stances were not promising. 
 
 * Mother Mary of the Incarnation is a real historical person- 
 age, though I have taken a liberty with her in bringing her 
 back to France at this time. L. E. G.
 
 CHAPTEK XXI. 
 
 THE CONVENT. 
 
 SLEPT till waked by the rays of the sun 
 coming through the uncurtained window. 
 It was yet early, but I heard people astir, 
 so I got up. I dressed myself neatly in 
 one of my new gowns, and put up my hair under a 
 white kerchief. I could not but smile as I regarded 
 myself in the little mirror contained in my etui, and 
 thought of the contrast between my present plain 
 woollen dress and that my aunt had been so solici- 
 tous about when I was presented to Monsieur de 
 Luynes. I was still holding the mirror in my 
 hand when Sister St. Stanislaus entered. 
 
 " Good-morning, my child." Then, catching 
 sight of what I held, " A mirror ? Why, I have 
 not seen one in years. Put it away ! put it away ! 
 We have no such vanities here. Or, stay !" she 
 added wistfully ; " it could not do any harm to take 
 one look." 
 
 I handed her the little glass. She regarded her- 
 self long and earnestly. Then, handing it back to 
 me,
 
 The Chevalier's Daughter. 433 
 
 " There, put it away. I should never have 
 known my own face. 1 am properly punished for 
 my vanity. And yet I was pretty once as pretty 
 as you are. ' ' 
 
 ' ' You are pretty now, ' ' said I, with truth ; for her 
 face, though irregular, and one which must have owed 
 much to complexion, was still pleasing from its kind- 
 liness. " I loved you the moment I saw you." 
 
 ' ' Ah, my child, you are a flatterer ! Young 
 people do usually like me, but they say it is only be- 
 cause I spoil them so. Well, if you are ready we 
 will go to the chapel. ' ' 
 
 I followed the sister along the same gallery across 
 the open court, and then into the convent church, 
 where my companions for the voyage were already 
 assembled. Here she placed me by the side of a 
 pale, frightened-looking girl, younger than myself, 
 and retired to take her place in the choir with the 
 other sisters. 
 
 I had only time to glance at my future com- 
 panions before the service began. They were evi- 
 dently mostly of the peasant class, and did not as a 
 rule look at all oppressed by their destiny, although 
 two or three had red eyes, and one at least was the 
 picture of despair. I was sure I had seen her be- 
 fore, though I could not tell where. 
 
 After the service we breakfasted together, while 
 one of the nuns read aloud the life of some juvenile 
 saint or other, of whom I remember no more than 
 that she sat all day in the hen-house and wept for her 
 eiiis, arid gave large gifts to the poor out of the
 
 434 Th e Chevalier's Daughter. 
 
 property of her worldly father and brother, who op- 
 posed her vocation.* 
 
 After breakfast my companions went to the gar- 
 dens for an hour's recreation, but I was called into 
 the private apartment of the Mother Superior. I 
 found the good mother seated in her chair of state, 
 attended by a nun and another lady in a semi-con- 
 ventual dress, whom I found was the famous Mary 
 of the Incarnation. 
 
 This lady was born of a family named Guyard. 
 Manied at eighteen, not very happily it seems, her 
 husband died after two years, leaving her with a 
 young son. But she was far too pious to concern her- 
 self with the care of her infant, so she turned it over 
 to her sister and busied herself with all sorts of pen- 
 ances, meditations, and ecstasies in washing dishes, 
 scrubbing floors, and, in short, performing all sorts 
 of work to which she had no call, while the w r ork 
 which Providence had put into her hands that of 
 oaring for her baby was delegated to another. 
 For a good while the love she still cherished for 
 this child kept her from the cloister, but at last she 
 made a profession and adhered to it, though the 
 boy, half crazed by his loss, made his way into the 
 refectory of the convent, and with tears and screams 
 of anguish besought the nuns to give him back his 
 mother. The poor young fellow went to the bad 
 
 * I cannot now place this paragon of poodness, though she is 
 no creation of mine. My impression is that I found her in the 
 lives of the Franciscans. L. E. (i.
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter. 435 
 
 altogether afterward, and no wonder. One would 
 not expect him to have much regard for religion. 
 
 Having, however, conquered the last small rem- 
 nant of natural affection which remained in her 
 heart, she was rewarded by a wonderful vision, in 
 which she was advertised that the Virgin called her 
 specially to Canada. 
 
 Thither she repaired, in company with several 
 other Ursuline nuns, and the famous Madame de 
 Pel lice, who made a mock marriage in order to carry 
 out her devout schemes. She remained in Canada 
 many years, and having come to France on some im- 
 portant business, was returning, having in charge 
 twenty young women and two nuns. 
 
 I can see her this moment as she stood behind the 
 Superior's chair. She was a handsome woman still, 
 with bright eyes and a commanding presence, and, I 
 must say, very little appearance of humility about 
 her. I think I never saw a face and manner more 
 expressive of spiritual pride and conscious sanctity, 
 and this appearance did not belie her. She possessed 
 great ability for all sorts of affairs, a keen penetra- 
 tion in regard to character, and withal a good deal 
 of real kindness and charity. 
 
 I was introduced to this lady, who received me 
 graciously and made some inquiries as to my health. 
 Then she asked whether I had any vocation for 
 a religious life. 
 
 " No, madame, I believe not," I answered. 
 
 " Reverend mother, ' ' corrected the Superior again.
 
 436 The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 " Cannot you remember, child, that there are no 
 madames here ?" 
 
 u I will try, reverend mother," I answered, 
 whereat she smiled and said I was an apt scholar. 
 
 " I hope she may prove so," was the remark of 
 Mother Mary. " Only for the king's express com- 
 mand, I should think twice before taking her. 
 "What do you know how to do, child ? Anything 
 besides dressing and dancing and painting fans ?" 
 
 " Yes, madame reverend mother, I should say," 
 I answered ; " I can sew, spin and knit, make lace 
 and embroider, and I know something of ordering a 
 household. ' ' 
 
 " Why, you will be quite a treasure for some 
 one," said Mother Mary. " Can you sing ?" 
 
 "Yes, mother." 
 
 ' ' You might be very useful in our house if you 
 only had a vocation," said Mother Mary. " Per- 
 haps you may find one yet. However, there is time 
 enough to think about that. Meantime you shall 
 instruct some of your companions in the art of knit- 
 ting hose, which art may be very useful to them. 
 Or is that too humble an employment for a young 
 lady like you ?" 
 
 " No, my mother ; I shall gladly do that or any- 
 thing else whereby I may be useful to my com- 
 panions," I answered. " I would rather be busy 
 than not." 
 
 " That is well," said Mother Mary, relaxing a 
 little, and evidently regarding me with more favor. 
 " I wish all were like you, but I would in general
 
 The Chevaliers Daughter. 437 
 
 rather have charge of twenty peasant girls than of 
 one demoiselle. I dare say you will do nicely, child. 
 I think I know the match that will just suit you." 
 
 " There will be two words to that bargain," I 
 thought, but I said nothing. 
 
 Mother Mary then commended the simplicity of 
 my dress, and a bell ringing she took me by the 
 hand and led me to the school-room, where the 
 young people were now all assembled. She placed 
 me by the side of the same pale girl, whom she pre- 
 sented to me as Mademoiselle de Troyon, and say- 
 ing that she would send me some knitting-needles 
 and thread she left us together. The other girls 
 were busy, under the superintendence of the nuns, in 
 making garments for themselves, and sad work they 
 made of it, being more used to out-door than to in- 
 door work. I believe, however, that a great deal of 
 their bungling was sheer mischief, and I wondered 
 at the patience of the nuns. 
 
 The requisite tools being produced, I set seriously 
 to work to teach the stitch to my companion, and 
 she took so much pains in learning that at the end 
 of the lesson she could do a row very neatly. We 
 were placed near a window, apart from the others, 
 and Mother Mary told us we might converse in low 
 tones. Of course, like other young persons, we soon 
 became acquainted. I found that her name was 
 Desiree, that she was an orphan, and had always lived 
 in a convent till very lately. She had a strong 
 vocation, and wished to be allowed to take the veil 
 instead of marrying, and she regarded with horror
 
 43 8 The Chevalier s Daiighter. 
 
 the prospect of being united to a stranger and living 
 in a wild place, surrounded by forests full of wolves. 
 
 " But why do you not take the veil, since you 
 wish it so much ?" I asked. 
 
 " Because the king wishes two or tliree officers to 
 marry and settle, and you and I are the only 
 demoiselles who could be found to go out," was the 
 answer. " But it does not matter," she added, 
 with a kind of quiet resolution ; " I know that I 
 shall never live to see Canada." 
 
 " Dear Desiree, you should not be downcast," I 
 said. " Things may turn out better than you 
 think. Do not give up life for a bad business ?" 
 
 She smiled sadly and shook her head, but said no 
 more on the subject. We had a good dinner served 
 to us by and by, and then two hours more of recre- 
 ation in the garden, overlooked by the nuns who 
 had us in charge. I was walking up and down an 
 alley by myself when I met Sister St. Stanislaus, 
 who joined me, and we walked together. 
 
 " So you have been in England," said she. 
 " Can you speak English ?" 
 
 I told her I could. 
 
 " I knew a girl who could speak English once," 
 said she. " It was when I was at Sartilly, as I told 
 you. Poor Lucille ! she came to a sad end." 
 
 " What happened to her ?" I asked, with a beat- 
 ing heart. 
 
 ' ' Oh, I don't know whether I should tell the story, 
 though to be sure it maybe a warning," said the 
 sister, divided between her discretion and the dea)
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter. 439 
 
 delight of telling a tale. " You see she was one of 
 those unfortunate Reformed, to begin with, and she 
 could not conquer her natural affection for her rela- 
 tions; She had a lover also, it seems, and she 
 slipped out of the gate one day to speak to him, and 
 was seen to give him a packet. Well, of course, 
 being a postulant under instruction, that brought 
 upon her great disgrace and many penances. If I 
 had been to decide, I should have said they took 
 just the way to make her regret her lover all the 
 more. However, she was forgiven at last and taken 
 into favor again, but it was not long before she got 
 into some new trouble by a hasty answer. I must 
 say she had a trying temper, always looking out for 
 affronts. After that she grew very odd and silent. 
 I was mistress of the novices at that time, and I 
 tried hard to win her confidence, but in vain. At last, 
 oh, poor thing ! she was missing, and we found a 
 part of her clothing hanging on a bush some way 
 down the river, which was very high at the time. 
 Either she drowned herself or fell in and was un- 
 able to get out. I hope the latter, for I was fond 
 of her, though she made me a good deal of trouble. 
 1 have never ceased to pray for her soul," said the 
 good sister, wiping her eyes, which had overflowed 
 plentifully. ' ' If she is beyond the reach of prayers 
 they may benefit some other poor soul in purgatory. 
 There, now, I have made you cry too. What a ten- 
 der heart you have ! Let it be a warning to you, 
 my child." 
 
 I wondered what the story was meant to warn me
 
 440 The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 from, but I said nothing, and we began to talk of 
 other things till the sister left me, and then I had 
 my cry out. Poor Lucille ! So this was the end. 
 And she had actually fallen into disgrace for trying 
 to warn my parents of their danger ! It was very 
 sad, and yet somehow I felt comforted about her, I 
 could not tell why. I was jnst recovering my com- 
 posure when I met Mother Superior and Mother 
 Mary of the Incarnation walking together. The lat- 
 ter seemed to be laying down the law in rather an 
 authoritative style, I thought, to which the Superior 
 listened with some apparent impatience, and at last 
 broke out with, 
 
 " No doubt, sister, you may be right. I dare say 
 you know how to rule your own house to perfec- 
 tion. I am sure if I were visiting you I should 
 never think for a moment of advising you upon the 
 management of your family. ' ' 
 
 Mother Mary was not so dead to worldly affection 
 but that she reddened visibly at this significant 
 speech. She made no reply to the Superior, but 
 turned sharply upon me. 
 
 " What are you doing here by yourself, child ? 
 Crying, I see. That is very wrong. Understand, 
 once for all, that you are not to separate yourself in 
 this way from your companions. You arc not so 
 very much better than they. Let me see no more 
 of it !" 
 
 " I have not been alone till this very moment, 
 reverend mother," I answered, in a tone which 1 
 meant to be very humble. " I have been walking
 
 The Chevaliers Daughter. 441 
 
 with Sister St Stanislaus, who was telling me an 
 affecting story. But I fear I am very ignorant, 
 reverend mother I thought from the history the 
 sister read us this morning that solitude and tears 
 were among the most blessed things to the soul. 
 1 was so much interested in hearing how that holy 
 young lady sat in the hen-house and cried all day by 
 herself." 
 
 The mother looked fairly posed, as if she did not 
 know what to answer. I went on, prompted by 
 that spirit of mischief which never quite deserted 
 me in the greatest straits. 
 
 11 And that other place was BO interesting, too, 
 about her taking her father's goods unknown to him 
 to give to the poor. Such a blessed example ! I 
 shall hope to follow it when I have a household of 
 my own." 
 
 I saw by the smile which the Mother Superior 
 turned away to hide that she saw through me, and 
 I fancied also that she was not displeased. Mother 
 Mary was spared the necessity of a reply which 
 might have puzzled her, by the ringing of the din- 
 ner-bell. I enjoyed my triumph for a few minutes, 
 as I meekly followed the elder ladies toward the 
 house, and then I reflected that 1 had done a foolish 
 thing in setting against me this lady, who had me so 
 entirely in her power. However, she had her re- 
 venge, and really I don't think she liked me the 
 worse for our little encounter. I am sure the 
 Superior did not. When we were seated at the
 
 44 2 The Chevaliers Daughter. 
 
 table, and the nun had begun to read according to 
 custom, Mother Mary stopped her. 
 
 " You seem to be rather hoarse, sister," said she, 
 though I had not noticed it. " Mademoiselle 
 d' Antin is a good reader, and she has a special devo- 
 tion for the lives of the saints. Mademoiselle, you 
 will take the sister's place and read to us." 
 
 Of course there was nothing for it but to obey, 
 and I took care to show no unwillingness for my 
 task. I read my very best, and as the story to-day 
 happened to be a really interesting one, I had the 
 satisfaction of seeing more than one of my auditors 
 forget her dinner for a moment or two to listen. 
 
 " That is well," said Mother Mary, when I had 
 finished. ' ' We shall have the pleasure of hearing 
 you again some time. Now eat your dinner." 
 
 The milk porridge was rather cold, but I was not 
 troubled at that, and the sister whose place I had 
 taken presently brought me a nice little omelette, 
 which she had procured I know not how. Mother 
 Mary never showed any ill-will to me afterward. 
 She had a sort of magnanimity about her which 
 made her rule endurable. I was often called on 
 to read, but I believe it was only because she 
 liked to hear me better than poor Sister Joanne, 
 who droned on like a drumbledrone under a hat, as 
 we say in these parts. Sister Joanne was not sorry 
 to get rid of her task, and my meals fared none the 
 worse for that. 
 
 We went on in this same routine for several days. 
 Mother Mary kept a tight rein over her own flock,
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter. 443 
 
 but I thought from what I observed that the nuns had 
 comfortable times under their good-natured Superior. 
 They went through all their services and observed 
 their hours for silence and the rest, but it was all 
 done in an easy, perfunctory manner, so to speak. 
 Their garden and orchard were beautiful, and they 
 made great quantities of dried and sugared fruits, 
 and distilled essences and cordials by the gallon from 
 the sweet flowers and aromatic herbs which grow so 
 plentifully in that part of France. I never saw in 
 England such lavender and rosemary as grows wild 
 there. I quite won the heart of Sister St. Anne by 
 giving her the true English recipe for distilling 
 lavender and making the Queen of Hungary's water. 
 I grew attached to the good nuns, who were all very 
 kind to me. My knitting lessons were extended to 
 some of their number, and even to the Superior her- 
 self, who asked Mother Mary to allow me to teach 
 her, saying that it was a kind of work that would 
 just suit her. Mother Mary gave the desired per- 
 mission, adding that her sister was happy in having 
 time for such employments. As for herself, she 
 never had a moment to sit down to her needle from 
 morning till night. 
 
 " Yes ; but you see, dear sister, we are so differ- 
 ently situated," answered Mother Superior meekly. 
 " Our house works so quietly and easily. You see 
 we have no sisters but such as are of good family. 
 We are not obliged to take up with any riff-raff the 
 king may choose to send us, as you are over there." 
 
 I can't say I found the Superior a very apt scholar.
 
 444 The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 I never succeeded in teaching her how to turn off a 
 heel, and at last in despair I suggested that she 
 should knit a rug for the cat, which was a great 
 personage and much petted, though she had no 
 vocation whatever. The rug went off better, but I 
 rather doubt whether puss has had the benefit of it 
 to this day. 
 
 On the whole I was not unhappy during the two 
 weeks I remained at the Ursuline convent at Mar- 
 seilles. I did my best to please Mother Mary, and 
 succeeded pretty well. 1 think she appreciated my 
 efforts, for really most of the other girls were trials 
 idle, mischievous, and bending all their efforts not 
 to learn Ine arts the nuns tried to teach them. I 
 except Desiree, who was always docile, and the poor 
 girl whom I had thought I knew. I got into con- 
 versation with her one day over our work, and at 
 last she told me she had seen me before. 
 
 " Do you not remember stopping in your travel- 
 ling carriage to speak to my aunt, the day after our 
 vineyard was destroyed ? The lady with you gave 
 my aunt some money. ' ' 
 
 " Yes, I remember well," I answered. " What 
 became of your father ?" 
 
 11 He was not my father, but my mother's step- 
 brother," was the answer. " He had adopted me, 
 and I was betrothed to his son. My lord the mar- 
 quis shot him dead with his own hand. My be- 
 trothed was arrested on some pretext of poacliing, 
 and sent to the galleys, and I, because I would no' 
 give him up and go into service in the Marquist
 
 The Chevalier's Daughter. 445 
 
 family, was sent here. It does not matter. Bap- 
 tiste is dead, and I would as soon be here as any- 
 where rather a thousand times than in the house 
 of that wretch ! I cannot be worse off. Maybe 
 they will let me live out as a servant." 
 
 This is a fair specimen of what may be done by a 
 tyrannical landowner in France. By all I hear, 
 things must have grown worse instead of better. It 
 is a wonder if they do not have an explosion some 
 day which will blow them all sky-high.
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 THE VOYAGE. 
 
 HE 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 cer- 
 tain 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 religions 
 views and the hope I still cherished of meeting An- 
 drew 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
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter. 447 
 
 tail of my chestnut mare. I think she sincerely re- 
 gretted my departure, but I don't think she was at 
 all sorry to get rid of Mother Mary, who was a re- 
 ligious 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 Ursuliiie 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 con- 
 vent 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 re- 
 ceive the passengers as they came, and herself re- 
 mained on the wharf till the whole company were 
 dispatched. Desiree 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 es- 
 caping to England. At last the chance came. 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
 
 448 The Chevalier's Daughter. 
 
 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 en- 
 ergetically 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 feo the 
 command lie 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 want- 
 ing for comfort or decency ; but we worked hard, 
 arid 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
 
 The Chevalier's Daughter. 449 
 
 view ; we lost sight of the lights in the city, and be- 
 fore bed-time we were out in the open sea, aiid 
 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 passengei 
 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 wdnds 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 Desiree succumbed under her hard- 
 ships 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 mer- 
 ciful 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
 
 45O The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 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 Scrip- 
 tures, 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 in Jeed 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 worship- 
 ping the saints at the same time. I .could not be- 
 lieve in and apply to the One Mediator, and 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. l>ut for me, in the midst of the 
 conflict, it was not so easy. I well knew what
 
 The Chevaliers Daughter. 451 
 
 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 pray e d 
 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 de- 
 scribe 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 sub- 
 sided at last we drifted in helpless wreck, having 
 lost ah 1 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 pray- 
 ing, some crying, others too miserable to do either 
 silent, in hopeless despair. Such was our con- 
 dition when, happening to look up, I was the very 
 first to descry a sail, and almost at the same moment
 
 452 The Chevaliers Daughter. 
 
 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. No- 
 body 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 
 \vhich should be ours so soon as its occupant, a gen- 
 tleman passenger who had been hurt in the ptorm,
 
 The Chevalier's Daughter. 453 
 
 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 com- 
 pose 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 im- 
 minent. 
 
 " Andrew !" said I ; "if ever you loved me or 
 my mother, save me !"
 
 454 The Chevaliers Daughter. 
 
 " Vevette !" said Andrew, still wonderinr. " 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. 
 
 " "Wall !" 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 re- 
 leased myself, covered with blushes. " But how 
 came you here ?" 
 
 In a very few words I told him of what had hap- 
 pened. Andrew's brow grew dark, and Captain 
 Mayhew expressed the wish that he had that French- 
 man on board. 
 
 " Will you not contrive to SBVC 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." 
 
 " Darn the French !" said Captain Mayhew. 
 " There, I won't swear. Yes, we'll save you some- 
 how. Never fear. But how ?" 
 
 He considered a moment, and then his thin, clever 
 face broke into a smile, and he turned to An- 
 drew, 
 
 " 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."
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter. 455 
 
 " 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 ine 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.
 
 456 Tke Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 I had not been away an hour, 'but how the world 
 was changed to ine !" 
 
 " Where have you beeL, 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 keep- 
 ing 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 th*>, harbor-master and another gen- 
 tleman of goodly presence, who, it seems, was a 
 magistrate. He looked with surprise at the unusual 
 passengers, inci Captain Mayhew explained to them
 
 The Chevaliers Daughter. 457 
 
 the state of the case. The gentleman, who could 
 speak French fluently, turned to Mother Mary, and 
 with much politeness assured her of every consid- 
 eration. 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 An- 
 drew, he asked if he were ready to accompany him. 
 
 " I am quite ready if my wife is," replied An- 
 drew, 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. 
 
 u 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 sepa-
 
 45 S The. Chevaliers Daughter. 
 
 rated 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 Rev- 
 erend 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 hus- 
 band." 
 
 " 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 ; bat we are not 
 in France. This is an English colony, and governed 
 by English laws." 
 
 u But a heretic," said Mother Mary ; "a blas- 
 phemer 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 be- 
 fore 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
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter. 459 
 
 people who never corrupted the faith, and so needed 
 no reformation." 
 
 " And all this time you have been pretending to 
 he 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 disappoint- 
 ment, 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 pro- 
 tection 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
 
 460 The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 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 1 
 am speaking to a woman who has been kind to my 
 wife, and who is old enough to be my mother." ] 
 saw Mother Mary wince a little at this. " Come, 
 Yevette, Mr. Folsom's boat waits for us." 
 
 I would have taken a kind leave of my compan- 
 ions, but Mother Mary would not allow it, fearing, I 
 suppose, that marriage might be catching. We de- 
 scended 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 faith- 
 ful who assemble there, and not to the place. 'Tis a 
 matter of small moment just one of those inconse- 
 quent things which people hold to with the most 
 persistence. In my grandmother's time Archbishop 
 Laud would have deposed a worthy minister be- 
 cause 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,
 
 The Chevaliers Daughter. 461 
 
 having been advertised by a special messenger. She 
 was a comely lady, richly but plainly dressed in a 
 somewhat bygone i'ashion. Her two pretty daugh- 
 ters 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 rne, and 
 which I had clung to through all. Without more 
 ado she carried me to a plain but pretty and com- 
 fortable chamber, and sent her two daughters hither 
 and thither for clean linen, a gown, and other nec- 
 essaries. Then they left me to myself ; but pres- 
 ently a black wench came up with a great can of 
 hot water and an armful of towels. I do not re- 
 member in my life any bodily sensation more deli- 
 cious 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 ser- 
 vant. I had no notion of so much style and cere-
 
 462 The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 mony in this remote corner of the world ; but 1 
 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 w T hole 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, Yevette ! 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 invita- 
 tion 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."
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter. 463 
 
 <( That was very wasteful ; you might have given 
 them to the poor," I returned. " But who told 
 you I was married ?" 
 
 11 Nobody said you were actually married; but 
 when I went to Stantoun 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 con- 
 sequence." 
 
 " 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
 
 464 The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 was knocked down and hurt in the storm, which 
 was the reason I did not see you upon your coining 
 aboard. I was thinking 011 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. 
 Trevathy, 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 prevail- 
 ed upon to hear reason. 1 have been half over the 
 town gathering beds and other needful comforts for
 
 The Chevaliers Daughter. 465 
 
 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."
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 HE next day I went with Mrs. Folsom to 
 carry some additional comforts, in the 
 shape of linen and so on, to my old com- 
 panions. 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 land. They 
 used to tell us that the English settlers mur- 
 dered 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 mis's 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. 
 11 Ah, Vevette, take good care of yourself. The
 
 The Chevalier s Daughter. 467 
 
 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 him- 
 self 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 Mar- 
 garet. " 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 1 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 be 
 come horribly sick of the convent life, and having 
 fallen into disgrace with her Superior she deter- 
 mined to make her escape. For this purpose she
 
 468 The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 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 de 
 parture, 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, more- 
 over, 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 Chevalier s Daughter. 469 
 
 the tars of King Louis and his ministers, and as our 
 own King Charles was (I say it to our shame) abso- 
 lutely 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 occur- 
 rence, 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 dis- 
 covered 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 with- 
 out 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
 
 470 The Chevalier's Daughter. 
 
 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 hoy 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 hus- 
 band 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 re-
 
 The Chevaliers Daughter. 471 
 
 ceived me with open arms, and I never had any 
 trouble with her, save to keep her from quite spoil- 
 ing my children 1 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 impor- 
 tance 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 noth- 
 ing. 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 circum- 
 stances, some years after I left him, and there was 
 no one remaining to bear that dishonored name. 
 His wife, after leading a very gay life for a time, 
 suddenly turned devotee, retired to a convent, and 
 gave all her jewels to the shrine of Our Lady of some- 
 thing or other whatever image was most in fashion
 
 472 The Chevalier s Daughter. 
 
 at the time. I suppose the pearl necklace my lady 
 gave me was among them. Susanne came to Lon- 
 don, 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 Stantoun lived to a good old age. 
 Lewis caused them a good deal of uneasiness for a 
 time by running rather wild, and absolutely refus- 
 ing to marry in his father' s life-time. I believe my 
 lord would have been very glad if his son had mar- 
 ried 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 Proven^ale who I fear he will not keep 
 very long. Theo and her husband have had little 
 trouble except that she has no cliildren. 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 rny children, in 
 accordance with a kind of custom which hath ob- 
 tained 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.
 
 Tke Chevalier s Daughter. 473 
 
 " 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." I. St. John 2 : 15. 
 
 " Ye cannot serve God and mammon." St 
 Matt. 6 : 21. 
 
 AGNES GENEVIEVE CORBET nee D'ANTIN.
 
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