CHAPTER XXI: EXILE
"'Oh, who are ye, young man?' she said.'What country come ye frae?''I flew across the sea,' he said;''Twas but this very day.'"
Old Ballad.
Five months had passed away since the midnight flight from England,when Anne Woodford was sitting on a stone bench flanked with statuesin the stately gardens of the Palace of St. Germain, working away atsome delicate point lace, destined to cover some of the deficienciesof her dress, for her difficulties were great, and these months hadbeen far from happy ones.
The King was in Ireland, the Queen spent most of the time of hisabsence in convents, either at Poissy or Chaillot, carrying her sonwith her to be the darling of the nuns, who had for the most partnever even seen a baby, and to whom a bright lively child of a yearold was a perfect treasure of delight. Not wishing to encumber thegood Sisters with more attendants than were needful, the Queen onlytook with her one lady governess, one nurse, and one rocker, andthis last naturally was Pauline Dunord, both a Frenchwoman and aRoman Catholic.
This was in itself no loss to Anne. Her experience of the nunneryat Boulogne, where had been spent three days in expectation of theKing, had not been pleasant. The nuns had shrunk from her as aheretic, and kept their novices and pensionnaires from the taint ofcommunication with her; and all the honour she might have deservedfor the Queen's escape seemed to have been forfeited by that momentof fear, which in the telling had become greatly exaggerated.
It was true that the Queen had never alluded to it; but probablythrough Mrs. Labadie, it had become current that Miss Woodford hadbeen so much alarmed under the churchyard wall that her fancy hadconjured up a phantom and she had given a loud scream, which but forthe mercy of the Saints would have betrayed them all.
Anne was persuaded that she had done nothing worse than give aninvoluntary start, but it was not of the least use to say so, andshe began to think that perhaps others knew better than she did.Miss Dunord, who had never been more than distantly polite to her inEngland, was of course more thrown with her at St. Germain, andexamined her closely. Who was it? What was it? Had she seen itbefore? It was of no use to deny. Pauline knew she had seensomething on that All Saints' Eve. Was it true that it was a loverof hers, and that she had seen him killed in a duel on her account?Who would have imagined it in cette demoiselle si sage! Would shenot say who it was!
But though truth forced more than one affirmative to be pumped outof Anne, she clung to that last shred of concealment, and kept herown counsel as to the time, place, and persons of the duel, and thusshe so far offended Pauline as to prevent that damsel from havingany scruples in regarding her as an obnoxious and perilous rival,with a dark secret in her life. Certainly Miss Dunord did earnestlyassure her that to adopt her Church, invoke the Saints, and haveMasses for the dead was the only way to lay such ghosts; but Anneremained obdurate, and thus was isolated, for there were very fewProtestants in the fugitive Court, and those were of too high adegree to consort with her. Perhaps that undefined doubt of herdiscretion was against her; perhaps too her education and knowledgeof languages became less useful to the Queen when surrounded byFrench, for she was no longer called upon to act as reader; and thelittle Prince, during his residence in the convent, had time toforget her and lose his preference for her. She was not discharged,but except for taking her turn as a nursery-maid when the Prince wasat St. Germain, she was a mere supernumerary, nor was there anysalary forthcoming. The small amount of money she had with her haddwindled away, and when she applied to Lady Strickland, who waskinder to her than any one else, she was told that the Queen was fartoo much distressed for money wherewith to aid the King to be ableto pay any one, and that they must all wait till the King had hisown again. Her clothes were wearing out, and scarcely in conditionfor attendance on the Prince when he was shown in state to the Kingof France. Worse than all, she seemed entirely cut off from home.She had written several times to her uncle when opportunity seemedto offer, but had never heard from him, and she did not know whetherher letters could reach him, or if he were even aware of what hadbecome of her. People came with passports from England to join theexiled Court, but no one returned thither, or she would even haveoffered herself as a waiting-maid to have a chance of going back.Lady Strickland would have forwarded her, but no means oropportunity offered, and there was nothing for it but to look to thetime that everybody declared to be approaching when the King was tobe reinstated, and they would all go home in triumph.
Meanwhile Anne Woodford felt herself a supernumerary, treated withcivility, and no more, as she ate her meals with a very feminineCourt, for almost all the gentlemen were in Ireland with the King.She had a room in the entresol to herself, in Pauline's absence, andhere she could in turn sit and dream, or mend and furbish up herclothes--a serious matter now--or read the least scrap of printedmatter in her way, for books were scarcer than even at Whitehall;and though her 'mail' had safely been forwarded by Mr. Labadie, somejealous censor had abstracted her Bible and Prayer-book. Probablythere was no English service anywhere in France at that time, unlessamong the merchants at Bordeaux--certainly neither English norReformed was within her reach--and she had to spend her Sundays inrecalling all she could, and going over it, feeling thankful to themother who had made her store Psalms, Gospels, and Collects in hermemory week by week.
She was so far forgotten that active attempts to convert her hadbeen dropped, except by Pauline. Perhaps it was thought thatisolation would be effectual, but in fact the sight of popularRomanism not kept in check by Protestant surroundings shocked her,and made her far more averse to change than when she saw it at itsbest at Whitehall. In fine, the end of her ambition had beenneglect and poverty, and the real service that she had rendered wasunacknowledged, and marred by that momentary alarm. No wonder shefelt sore.
She had never once been to Paris, and seldom beyond the gardens,which happily were free in the absence of the Queen, and always hadsecluded corners apart from the noble terraces, safe from theintrusion of idle gallants. Anne had found a sort of bower of herown, shaded by honeysuckles and wild roses, where she could sitlooking over the slopes and the windings of the Seine and indulgeher musings and longings.
The lonely life brought before her all the anxieties that had beenstifled for the time by the agitations of the escape. Again andagain she lived over the scene in the ruins. Again and again sherecalled those two strange appearances, and shivering at the thoughtof the anniversary that was approaching in another month, still feltsometimes that, alive or dead, Peregrine's would be a home face, andframed to herself imaginary scenes in which she addressed him, anddemanded whether he could not rest in his unhallowed grave. Whatwould Bishop Ken say? Sometimes even she recollected the strangetheory which had made him crave execution from the late King, sevenyears, yes, a little more than seven years ago, and marvel whetherat that critical epoch he had indeed between life and death beensnatched away to his native land of faery. Imagination might wellrun riot in the solitary, unoccupied condition to which she wasreduced; and she also brooded much over the fragments of doubtfulnews which reached her.
Something was said of all loyal clergy being expelled andpersecuted, and this of course suggested those sufferings of theclergy during the Commonwealth, of which she had often heard, makingher very anxious about her uncle, and earnestly long for wings tofly to him. The Archfields too! Had Charles returned, and did thatsecret press upon him as it did upon her? Did Lucy think herselfutterly forgotten and cast aside, receiving no word or message fromher friend? "Perhaps," thought Anne, "they fancy me sailing aboutat Court in silks and satins, jewels and curls, and forgetting themall, as I remember Lucy said I should when she first heard that Iwas going to Whitehall. Nay, and I even took pleasure in thepicture of myself so decked out, though I never, never meant toforget her. Foolish, worse than foolish, that I was! And to thinkthat I might now be safe and happy with good Lady Russell, near myuncle and all of them. I could almost laugh to think how my finenotions of maki
ng my fortune have ended in sitting here, neglected,forgotten, banished, almost in rags! I suppose it was all self-seeking, and that I must take it meekly as no more than I deserve.But oh, how different! how different is this captivity! 'Oh that Ihad wings like a dove, for then would I flee away, and be at rest.'Swallow, swallow! you are sweeping through the air. Would that myspirit could fly like you! if only for one glimpse to tell me whatthey are doing. Ah! there's some one coming down this unfrequentedwalk, where I thought myself safe. A young gentleman! I must riseand go as quietly as I can before he sees me. Nay," as the actionfollowing the impulse, she was gathering up her work, "'tis an oldabbe with him! no fear! Abbe? Nay, 'tis liker to an Englishclergyman! Can a banished one have strayed hither? The younger manis in mourning. Could it be? No graver, older, more manly--Oh!"
"Anne! Anne! We have found you!"
"Mr. Archfield! You!"
And as Charles Archfield, in true English fashion, kissed her cheek,Anne fairly choked with tears of joy, and she ever after rememberedthat moment as the most joyful of her life, though the joy wasalmost agony.
"This is Mistress Anne Woodford, sir," said Charles, the nextmoment. "Allow me, madam, to present Mr. Fellowes, of MagdalenCollege."
Anne held out her hand, and courtesied in response to the bow andwave of the shovel hat.
"How did you know that I was here?" she said.
"Doctor Woodford thought it likely, and begged us to come and seewhether we could do anything for you," said Charles; "and you maybelieve that we were only too happy to do so. A lady to whom we hadletters, who is half English, the Vicomtesse de Bellaise, was sogood as to go to the convent at Poissy and discover for us from someof the suite where you were."
"My uncle--my dear uncle--is he well?"
"Quite well, when last we heard," said Charles. "That was atFlorence, nearly a month ago."
"And all at Fareham, are they well?"
"All just as usual," said Charles, "at the last hearing, which wasat the same time. I hoped to have met letters at Paris, but nodoubt the war prevents the mails from running."
"Ah! I have never had a single letter," said Anne. "Did my uncleknow anything of me? Has he never had one of mine?"
"Up to the time when he wrote, last March, that is to say, he hadreceived nothing. He had gone to London to make inquiries--"
"Ah! my dear good uncle!"
"And had ascertained that you had been chosen to accompany the Queenand Prince in their escape from Whitehall. You have played theheroine, Miss Anne."
"Oh! if you knew--"
"And," said Mr. Fellowes, "both he and Sir Philip Archfieldrequested us, if we could make our way home through Paris, to comeand offer our services to Mistress Woodford, in case she should wishto send intelligence to England, or if she should wish to make useof our escort to return home."
"Oh sir! oh sir! how can I thank you enough! You cannot guess thehappiness you have brought me," cried Anne with clasped hands, tearswelling up again.
"You _will_ come with us then," cried Charles. "I am sure youought. They have not used you well, Anne; how pale and thin youhave grown."
"That is only pining! I am quite well, only home-sick," she saidwith a smile. "I am sure the Queen will let me go. I am nothingbut a burthen now. She has plenty of her own people, and they donot like a Protestant about the Prince."
"There is Madame de Bellaise," said Mr. Fellowes, "advancing alongthe walk with Lady Powys. Let me present you to her."
"You have succeeded, I see," a kind voice said, as Anne foundherself making her courtesy to a tall and stately old lady, with amass of hair of the peculiar silvered tint of flaxen mixed withwhite.
"I am sincerely glad," said Lady Powys, "that Miss Woodford has mether friends."
"Also," said Madame de Bellaise, "Lady Powys is good enough to saythat if mademoiselle will honour me with a visit, she givespermission for her to return with me to Paris."
This was still greater joy, except for that one recollection,formidable in the midst of her joy, of her dress. Did Madame deBellaise divine something? for she said, "These times remind me ofmy youth, when we poor cavalier families well knew what sore straitswere. If mademoiselle will bring what is most needful, the rest canbe sent afterwards."
Making her excuses for the moment, Anne with light and gladsome footsped along the stately alley, up the stairs to her chamber, roundwhich she looked much as if it had been a prison cell, fell on herknees in a gush of intense thankfulness, and made her rapidpreparations, her hands trembling with joy, and a fear that shemight wake to find all again a dream. She felt as if thisdeliverance were a token of forgiveness for her past wilfulness, andas if hope were opened to her once more. Lady Powys met her as shecame down, and spoke very kindly, thanking her for her services, andhoping that she would enjoy the visit she was about to make.
"Does your ladyship think Her Majesty will require me any longer?"asked Anne timidly.
"If you wish to return to the country held by the Prince of Orange,"said the Countess coldly, "you must apply for dismissal to HerMajesty herself."
Anne perceived from the looks of her friends that it was no time fordiscussing her loyalty, and all taking leave, she was soon seatedbeside Madame de Bellaise, while the coach and four rolled down themagnificent avenue, and scene after scene disappeared, beautiful andstately indeed, but which she was as glad to leave behind her as ifthey had been the fetters and bars of a dungeon, and she almostwondered at the words of admiration of her companions.
Madame de Bellaise sat back, and begged the others to speak English,saying that it was her mother tongue, and she loved the sound of it,but really trying to efface herself, while the eager conversationbetween the two young people went on about their homes.
Charles had not been there more recently than Anne, and his letterswere at least two months old, but the intelligence in them was aswater to her thirsty soul. All was well, she heard, including thelittle heir of Archfield, though the young father coloured a little,and shuffled over the answers to the inquiries with a rather sadsmile. Charles was, however, greatly improved. He had left behindhim the loutish, unformed boy, and had become a handsome, courteous,well-mannered gentleman. The very sight of him handing Madame deBellaise in and out of her coach was a wonder in itself when Annerecollected how he had been wont to hide himself in the shrubbery toprevent being called upon for such services, and how uncouthly inthe last extremity he would perform them.
Madame de Bellaise was inhabiting her son's great Hotel deNidemerle. He was absent in garrison, and she was presiding overthe family of grandchildren, their mother being in bad health. Somuch Anne heard before she was conducted to a pleasant littlebedroom, far more home-like and comfortable than in any of thepalaces she had inhabited. It opened into another, whence merryyoung voices were heard.
"That is the apartment of my sister's youngest daughter," saidMadame de Bellaise, "Noemi Darpent. I borrowed her for a littlewhile to teach her French and dancing, but now that we are gone towar, they want to have her back again, and it will be well that sheshould avail herself of the same escort as yourself. All will thenbe selon les convenances, which had been a difficulty to me," sheadded with a laugh.
Then opening the door of communication she said; "Here, Noemi, wehave found your countrywoman, and I put her under your care. Ah!you two chattering little pies, I knew the voices were yours. Thisis my granddaughter, Marguerite de Nidemerle, and my niece--a lamode de Bretagne--Cecile d'Aubepine, all bestowing their chatter ontheir cousin."
Noemi Darpent was a tall, fair, grave-faced maiden, some years overtwenty, and so thoroughly English that it warmed Anne's heart tolook at her, and the other two were bright little Frenchwomen--Marguerite a pretty blonde, Cecile pale, dark, and sallow, but fullof life. Both were at the age at which girls were usually inconvents, but as Anne learnt, Madame de Bellaise was too English atheart to give up the training of her grandchildren, and she had anEnglish governess for them, daughte
r to a Romanist cavalier ruinedby sequestration.
She was evidently the absolute head of the family. Her daughter-in-law was a delicate little creature, who scarcely seemed able to bearthe noise of the family at the long supper-table, when all talkedwith shrill French voices, from the two youths and their abbe tutordown to the little four-year-old Lolotte in her high chair. But toAnne, after the tedious formality of the second table at the palace,stiff without refinement, this free family life was perfectlydelightful and refreshing, though as yet she was too much cramped,as it were, by long stiffness, silence, and treatment as an inferiorto join, except by the intelligent dancing of her brown eyes, andreplies when directly addressed.
After Mrs. Labadie's homeliness, Pauline's exclusive narrowness,Jane's petty frivolity, Hester's vulgar worldliness, and the generalwant of cultivation in all who treated her on an equality, it waslike returning to rational society; and she could not but observethat Mr. Archfield altogether held his own in conversation with therest, whether in French or English. Little more than a year ago hewould hardly have opened his mouth, and would have worn the truebumpkin look of contemptuous sheepishness. Now he laughed and madeothers laugh as readily and politely as--Ah! With whom was shecomparing him? Did the thought of poor Peregrine dwell on his mindas it did upon hers? But perhaps things were not so terrible to aman as to a woman, and he had not seen those apparitions! Indeed,when not animated, she detected a certain thoughtful melancholy onhis brow which certainly had not belonged to former times.
Mr. Fellowes early made known to Anne that her uncle had asked himto be her banker, and the first care of her kind hostess was toassist her in supplying the deficiencies of her wardrobe, so thatshe was able to go abroad without shrinking at her own shabbyappearance.
The next thing was to take her to Poissy to request her dismissalfrom the Queen, without which it would be hardly decorous to depart,though in point of fact, in the present state of affairs, as Noemisaid, there was nothing to prevent it.
"No," said Mr. Fellowes; "but for that reason Miss Woodford wouldfeel bound to show double courtesy to the discrowned Queen."
"And she has often been very kind to me--I love her much," saidAnne.
"Noemi is a little Whig," said Madame de Bellaise. "I shall nottake her with us, because I know her father would not like it, butto me it is only like the days of my youth to visit an exiled queen.Will these gentlemen think fit to be of the party?"
"Thank you, madam, not I," said the Magdalen man. "I am very sorryfor the poor lady, but my college has suffered too much at herhusband's hands for me to be very anxious to pay her my respects;and if my young friend will take my advice, neither will he. Itmight be bringing his father into trouble."
To this Charles agreed, so M. L'Abbe undertook to show them thepictures at the Louvre, and Anne and Madame de Bellaise were theonly occupants of the carriage that conveyed them to the great oldconvent of Poissy, the girl enjoying by the way the comfort of thekindness of a motherly woman, though even to her there could be noconfiding of the terrible secret that underlay all her thoughts.Madame de Bellaise, however, said how glad she was to secure thiscompanionship for her niece. Noemi had been more attached than herfamily realised to Claude Merrycourt, a neighbour who had had thefolly, contrary to her prudent father's advice, to rush intoMonmouth's rebellion, and it had only been by the poor girl's agonywhen he suffered under the summary barbarities of Kirke that hermother had known how much her heart was with him. The depression ofspirits and loss of health that ensued had been so alarming thatwhen Madame de Bellaise, after some months, paid a long visit to hersister in England, Mrs. Darpent had consented to send the girl tomake acquaintance with her French relations, and try the effect ofchange of scene. She had gone, indifferent, passive, and broken-hearted, but her aunt had watched over her tenderly, and she hadgradually revived, not indeed into a joyous girl, but into a calmand fairly cheerful woman.
When she had left home, France and England were only too closelyconnected, but now they were at daggers drawn, and probably would beso for many years, and the Revolution had come so suddenly thatMadame de Bellaise had not been able to make arrangements for herniece's return home, and Noemi was anxiously waiting for anopportunity of rejoining her parents.
The present plan was this. Madame de Bellaise's son, the Marquis deNidemerle, was Governor of Douai, where his son, the young Baron deRibaumont, with his cousin, the Chevalier d'Aubepine, were to joinhim with their tutor, the Abbe Leblanc. The war on the Flemishfrontier was not just then in an active state, and there were oftenfriendly relations between the commandants of neighbouringgarrisons, so that it might be possible to pass a party on to theSpanish territory with a flag of truce, and then the way would beeasy. This passing, however, would be impossible for Noemi alone,since etiquette would not permit of her thus travelling with the twoyoung gentlemen, nor could she have proceeded after reaching Douai,so that the arrival of the two Englishmen and the company of MissWoodford was a great boon. Madame de Bellaise had alreadydespatched a courier to ask her son whether he could undertake thetransit across the frontier, and hoped to apply for passports assoon as his answer was received. She told Anne her niece's historyto prevent painful allusions on the journey.
"Ah, madame!" said Anne, "we too have a sad day connected with thatunfortunate insurrection. We grieved over Lady Lisle, and burntwith indignation."
"M. Barillon tells me that her judge, the Lord Chancellor, wasactually forced to commit himself to the Tower to escape being tornto pieces by the populace, and it is since reported that he hasthere died of grief and shame. I should think his prison cell musthave been haunted by hundreds of ghosts."
"I pray you, madame! do you believe that there are apparitions?"
"I have heard of none that were not explained by some accident, orelse were the produce of an excited brain;" and Anne said no more onthat head, though it was a comfort to tell of her own foolishpreference for the chances of Court preferment above the security ofLady Russell's household, and Madame de Bellaise smiled, and saidher experience of Courts had not been too agreeable.
And thus they reached Poissy, where Queen Mary Beatrice had separaterooms set apart for visitors, and thus did not see them from behindthe grating, but face to face.
"You wish to leave me, signorina," she said, using the appellationof their more intimate days, as Anne knelt to kiss her hand. "Icannot wonder. A poor exile has nothing wherewith to reward thefaithful."
"Ah! your Majesty, that is not the cause; if I were of any use toyou or to His Royal Highness."
"True, signorina; you have been faithful and aided me to the best ofyour power in my extremity, but while you will not embrace the truefaith I cannot keep you about the person of my son as he becomesmore intelligent. Therefore it may be well that you should leaveus, until such time as we shall be recalled to our kingdom, when Ihope to reward you more suitably. You loved my son, and he lovedyou--perhaps you would like to bid him farewell."
For this Anne was very grateful, and the Prince was sent for by themother, who was too proud of him to miss any opportunity ofexhibiting him to an experienced mother and grandmother like thevicomtesse. He was a year old, and had become a very beautifulchild, with large dark eyes like his mother's, and when Mrs. Labadiecarried him in, he held out his arms to Anne with a cry of gladrecognition that made her feel that if she could have been allowedthe charge of him she could hardly have borne to part with him. Andwhen the final leave-taking came, the Queen made his little handpresent her with a little gold locket, containing his soft hair,with a J in seed pearls outside, in memory, said Mary Beatrice, ofthat night beneath the church wall.
"Ah, yes, you had your moment of fear, but we were all in terror,and you hushed him well."
Thus with another kiss to the white hand, returned on her ownforehead, ended Anne Jacobina's Court life. Never would she beJacobina again--always Anne or sweet Nancy! It was refreshing to beso called, when Charles Archfield let the name slip out, the
nblushed and apologised, while she begged him to resume it, which hewas now far too correct to do in public. Noemi quite readilyadopted it.
"I am tired of fine French names," she said: "an English voice isquite refreshing; and do you call me Naomi, not Noemi. I did notmind it so much at first, because my father sometimes called me so,after his good old mother, who was bred a Huguenot, but it is likethe first step towards home to hear Naomi--Little Omy, as mybrothers used to shout over the stairs."
That was a happy fortnight. Madame de Bellaise said it would be ashame to let Anne have spent a half year in France and have seennothing, so she took the party to the theatre, where they saw theCid with extreme delight. She regretted that the season was so faradvanced that the winter representations of Esther, at St. Cyr bythe young ladies, were over, but she invited M. Racine for anevening, when Mr. Fellowes took extreme pleasure in hisconversation, and he was prevailed on to read some of the scenes.She also used her entree at Court to enable them to see thefountains at Versailles, which Winchester was to have surpassed butfor King Charles's death.
"Just as well otherwise," remarked Charles to Anne. "These finefeathers and flowers of spray are beautiful enough in themselves,but give me the clear old Itchen not tortured into playing tricks,with all the trout killed; and the open down instead of all theseterraces and marble steps where one feels as cramped as if it were aperpetual minuet. And look at the cost! Ah! you will know what Imean when we travel through the country."
Another sight was from a gallery, whence they beheld the King eathis dinner alone at a silver-loaded table, and a lengthy ceremony itwas. Four plates of soup to begin with, a whole capon with ham,followed by a melon, mutton, salad, garlic, pate de foie gras,fruit, and confitures. Charles really grew so indignant, that, inspite of his newly-acquired politeness, Anne, who knew hiscountenance, was quite glad when she saw him safe out of hearing.
"The old glutton!" he said; "I should like to put him on a diet ofbuckwheat and sawdust like his poor peasants for a week, and thensee whether he would go on gormandising, with his wars and hisbuildings, starving his poor. It is almost enough to make a Whig ofa man to see what we might have come to. How can you bear it,madame?"
"Alas! we are powerless," said the Vicomtesse. "A seigneur can dolittle for his people, but in Anjou we have some privileges, and ourpeasants are better off than those you have seen, though indeed Igrieved much for them when first I came among them from England."
She was perhaps the less sorry that Paris was nearly emptied offashionable society since her guest had the less chance of utteringdangerous sentiments before those who might have repeated them, andmuch as she liked him, she was relieved when letters came from herson undertaking to expedite them on their way provided they madehaste to forestall any outbreak of the war in that quarter.
Meantime Naomi and Anne had been drawn much nearer together by acommon interest. The door between their rooms having someimperfection in the latch swung open as they were preparing for bed,and Anne was aware of a sound of sobbing, and saw one of the white-capped, short-petticoated femmes de chambre kneeling at Naomi'sfeet, ejaculating, "Oh, take me! take me, mademoiselle! Madame isan angel of goodness, but I cannot go on living a lie. I shall dosomething dreadful."
"Poor Suzanne! poor Suzanne!" Naomi was answering: "I will do whatI can, I will see if it is possible--"
They started at the sound of the step, Suzanne rising to her feet interror, but Naomi, signing to Anne and saying, "It is onlyMademoiselle Woodford, a good Protestant, Suzanne. Go now; I willsee what can be done; I know my aunt would like to send a maid withus."
Then as Suzanne went out with her apron to her eyes, and Anne wouldhave apologised, she said, "Never mind; I must have told you, andasked your help. Poor Suzanne, she is one of the Rotrous, an oldrace of Huguenot peasants whom my aunt always protected; she wouldprotect any one, but these people had a special claim because theysheltered our great-grandmother, Lady Walwyn, when she fled afterthe S. Barthelemi. When the Edict of Nantes was revoked, the twobrothers fled. I believe she helped them, and they got on boardship, and brought a token to my father; but the old mother wasfeeble and imbecile, and could not move, and the monks and thedragoons frightened and harassed this poor wench into what theycalled conforming. When the mother died, my aunt took Suzanne andtaught her, and thought she was converted; and indeed if all Papistswere like my aunt it would not be so hard to become one."
"Oh yes! I know others like that."
"But this poor Suzanne, knowing that she only was converted out ofterror, has always had an uneasy conscience, and the sight of me hasstirred up everything. She says, though I do not know if it betrue, that she was fast drifting into bad habits, when finding myBible, though it was English and she could not read it, seems tohave revived everything, and recalled the teaching of her good oldfather and pastor, and now she is wild to go to England with us."
"You will take her?" exclaimed Anne.
"Of course I will. Perhaps that is what I was sent here for. Iwill ask her of my aunt, and I think she will let me have her. Youwill keep her secret, Anne."
"Indeed I will."
Madame de Bellaise granted Suzanne to her niece without difficulty,evidently guessing the truth, but knowing the peril of the situationtoo well to make any inquiry. Perhaps she was disappointed that herendeavours to win the girl to her Church had been ineffectual, butto have any connection with one 'relapsed' was so exceedinglyperilous that she preferred to ignore the whole subject, and merelylet it be known that Suzanne was to accompany Mademoiselle Darpent,and this was only disclosed to the household on the very lastmorning, after the passports had been procured and the mails packed,and she hushed any remark of the two English girls in such a decidedmanner as quite startled them by the manifest need of caution.
"We should have come to that if King James were still allowed tohave his own way," said Naomi.
"Oh no! we are too English," said Anne.
"Our generation might not see it," said Naomi; "but who can be safewhen a Popish king can override law? Oh, I shall breathe morefreely when I am on the other side of the Channel. My aunt is muchtoo good for this place, and they don't approve of her, and keep herdown."
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