by G. A. Henty
“I want you to take a message first,” Ronald said. “If nothing more can be done that will be very much; but I cannot think but that you and my mother between you will be able to hit upon some plan by which we might meet.”
“But how,” Jeanne asked in perplexity, “how could it possibly be?”
“For example,” Ronald suggested; “could I not come in as a lay sister? I am not much taller than you, and could pass very well as a girl.”
Jeanne burst our laughing.
“You do not know what you are saying, monsieur; it would be altogether impossible. People do not get taken on as lay sisters in the convent of Our Lady unless they are known; besides, in other ways it would be altogether impossible, and even if it were not it might be years before you could get to speak to the countess, for there are only two or three of us who ever enter the visitors’ rooms; and lastly, if you were found out I don’t know what would be done to both of us. No, that would never do at all.”
“Well, in the next place, I could climb on to the river terrace at night, and perhaps she could come and speak to me there.”
“That is more possible,” Jeanne said thoughtfully; “but all the doors are locked up at night.”
“But she might get out of a window,” Ronald urged; “with a rope ladder she could get down, and then return again, and none be the wiser.”
Jeanne sat silent for a minute, and then she asked suddenly:
“Are you telling me all, monsieur, or are you intending that the countess shall escape with you?”
“No, indeed, on my honour!” Ronald exclaimed. “I have nowhere where I could take my mother. She would be pursued and brought back, and her position would be far worse than it is now. No; I swear to you that I only want to see her and to speak to her, and I have nothing else whatever in my mind.”
“I believe you, monsieur,” Jeanne said gravely. “Had it been otherwise I dare not have helped, for my punishment if I was discovered to have aided in an escape from the convent would be terrible—terrible!” she repeated with a shudder. “As to the other, I will risk it; for a gentler and kinder lady I have never met. And yet I am sure she must be very, very brave to have remained firm for so many years. At any rate I will give her your message.”
Ronald took from a small leather bag, which he wore round his neck, a tiny gold chain with a little cross.
“I had this round my neck when I was taken away as a child to Scotland. No doubt she put it there, and will recognize it. Say to her only: ‘He whom you have not seen since he was an infant is in Tours, longing above all things to speak to you;’ that is all my message. Afterwards, if you will, you can tell her what we have said, and how I long to see her. How high is her room from the ground? Because if it is high it will be better that I should climb to her window, than that she should descend and ascend again.”
Jeanne shook her head.
“That could not be,” she said. “The visitors have all separate cells, but the partitions do not go up to the ceiling; and even if you entered, not a word could be spoken without being overheard. But fortunately she is on the first floor, and I am sure she is not one to shrink from so little a matter as the descent of a ladder in order to have an interview with her son.”
That same afternoon as Amelie de Recambours was proceeding from the refectory to her cell, following several of her fellow captives, her attendant Jeanne came out from one of the cells. Glancing behind to see that no one was following, she put her finger on her lips and then whispered: “Make some excuse not to go into the garden with the others this evening. It is most important.” Then she glided back into the room from which she had come.
The countess followed the others in a state of almost bewilderment. For sixteen years nothing had occurred to break the monotony of her existence. At first occasional angry messages reached her from her father, with orders to join an application to the pope for a divorce; but when it had been found impossible to overcome her steady refusals the messages had at last ceased, and for years no word from the outer world had reached her, although she had learned from those who from time to time came to share her captivity what was passing outside. Whether her husband was alive or dead she knew not. They had told her over and over again that he was dead; but the fact that she had never had the option given her of accepting another husband or taking the final vows kept hope alive. For she was convinced that if he was really dead, efforts would be made to compel her to marry again.
What, then, she wondered to herself, could this communication so secretly given mean? She regarded the lay sister who attended upon her as a happy looking young woman whose face was in strong contrast to most of those within the walls of the convent; but she had exchanged but few words with her, knowing that she would be but a short time about her. For the policy of the abbess was to change the attendants upon the ladies in their charge frequently, in order to prevent them from being tampered with, or persuaded into conveying communications without the walls.
“You look pale, Amelie,” one of the other ladies said as they gathered in a group for a moment before proceeding to their respective apartments, where they were supposed to pass the afternoon in working, reading, and meditation.
“It is the heat,” the countess said. “I have a headache.”
“You look it,” the latter said. “It is not often that you have anything the matter with you. You know we all say that you must have a constitution of iron and the courage of a Roland to be sixteen years here and yet to have no wrinkle on your forehead, no marks of weeping round your eyes.”
The countess smiled sadly.
“I wept the first six months almost without ceasing, and then I told myself that if I would be strong and resist I must weep no more. If a bird in a cage once takes to pining he is sure not to live long. There are few of us here the news of whose death would not give pleasure to those who shut us up, and I for one resolved that I would live in spite of all.”
“Well, you must not get ill now, Amelie. We should miss you terribly in the one hour of the day when we really live, the hour when we walk and talk, and laugh if we can, on the river terrace.
“I don’t think I shall be able to come this evening,” the countess said. “I shall lie down and keep myself quiet. Tomorrow I hope to be myself again. It is a mere passing indisposition.”
The hours passed slowly as Amelie lay on her couch and wondered over the coming interview. There were so many things which she might hear—that her father was dead; that her family had hopes at last of obtaining her restoration to the world. That it could be a message from her husband she had no hope, for so long as her father lived she was sure that his release would never be granted. As to the child, she scarce gave it a thought. That it had somehow been removed and had escaped the search that had been made for it she was aware; for attempts had been made to obtain from her some clue as to where it would most likely have been taken. She was convinced that it had never been found, for if it had she would have heard of it. It would have been used as a lever to work upon her.
At last the hour when she was accustomed to go into the garden arrived, and as the convent bell struck seven she heard the doors of the other cells open, the sound of feet in the corridor, and then all became still. In a few minutes a step approached, and one of the sisters entered to inquire why she was not in the garden with the others.
She repeated that her head ached.
“You look pale,” the sister said, “and your hand is hot and feverish. I will send you up some tisane. It is the heat, no doubt. I think that we are going to have thunder.”
In a few minutes a step was again heard approaching, and Jeanne entered with the medicament. As she closed the door the countess started into a sitting position.
“What is it, Jeanne? What is it that you have to say to me?”
“Calm yourself, I pray you, countess,” Jeanne said. “For both our sakes I pray you to hear what I have to say calmly. I expect Sister Felicia will be here directly. When she
heard you were unwell she said she would come up and see what you needed. And now, I will begin my message. In the first place I was to hand you this.” And she placed in Amelie’s hand the little necklet and cross.
For a moment the countess looked at them wonderingly, and then there flashed across her memory a sturdy child in its nurse’s arms, and a tall man looking on with a loving smile as she fastened a tiny gold chain round the child’s neck. A low cry burst from her lips as she started to her feet.
“Hush, lady, hush!” Jeanne exclaimed. “This is my message: ‘He whom you have not seen since he was an infant is in Tours, longing above all things to speak to you.’”
“My child! my child!” the countess cried. “Alive and here! My God, I thank thee that thou hast remembered a friendless mother at last. Have you seen him, Jeanne? What is he like? Oh, tell me everything!”
“He is a right proper young gentleman, madam. Straight and comely and tall, with brown waving hair and a bright pleasant face. A son such as any mother might be proud of.”
The countess suddenly threw her arms around Jeanne’s neck and burst into tears.
“You have made me so happy, Jeanne; happy as I never thought to be again. How can I thank you?”
“The best way at present, madam,” Jeanne said with a smile, “will be by drinking up that tisane, and lying down quietly. Sister Felicia moves about as noiselessly as a cat, and she may pop in at any moment. Do you lie down again, and I will stand a little way off talking. Then if she comes upon us suddenly she will suspect nothing.”
The countess seized the bowl of tisane and drank it off, and then threw herself on the couch.
“Go on, Jeanne, go on. Have pity on my impatience. Think how I am longing to hear of him. Did the message say he was longing to see me? But that is not possible.”
“It is not quite impossible, madam; though it would be dangerous, very dangerous. Still it is not quite impossible.”
“How then could it be done, Jeanne? You know what our life is here. How can I possibly see my boy?”
“What he proposes, madam, is this: that he should some night scale the river wall, and await you on the terrace, and that you should descend from your window by a rope ladder, and so return after seeing him.”
“Oh, yes, that is possible!” the countess exclaimed; “I could knot my bed clothes and slide down. It matters not about getting back again, since we have no ladder.”
“I can manage to bring in two light ropes,” Jeanne said. “It would not do for you to be found in the garden, for it would excite suspicion, and you would never have a chance of doing it again. But it is not an easy thing to climb up a rope ladder with no one to help you, and you know I shall be at the other end of the house.”
“That is nothing,” the countess said. “Had I to climb ten times the height, do you think I should hesitate for a moment when it was to see my son? Oh, Jeanne, how good you are! And when will it be?”
“I will bring in the ropes next time I go out. Mind and place them in your bed. You will know that that night at eleven o’clock your son will be on the terrace awaiting you.
As Jeanne finished speaking she placed her finger on her lips, for she thought she heard a slight noise without. The countess closed her eyes and then lay down on her pillow, while Jeanne stood as if watching her. The next instant the door opened noiselessly and Sister Felicia entered. She moved with a noiseless step up to Jeanne.
“Is she asleep?” she whispered.
“Oh no!” Jeanne answered in a louder voice, guessing that the sister would have heard the murmur of voices. “She has only just closed her eyes.”
The countess looked up.
“Ah! is it you, sister? I have taken the tisane Sister Angela sent up, but my hands are burning and my head aches. The heat in chapel was so great I thought I should have fainted.”
“Your hands are indeed burning,” the sister said, convinced, as soon as she touched them, that the countess was really indisposed. “Yes; and your pulse is beating quicker than I can count. Yes, you have a touch of fever. I will mix you a draught and bring it up to you at once. Hark! that is the first peal of thunder; we are going to have a storm. It will clear the air, and do you even more good than my medicine. I will leave you here for tonight; if you are not better tomorrow we will move you into the infirmary.”
The next morning Sister Felicia found her patient much better, though she still seemed languid and weak, and was ordered to remain quietly in her apartment for a day or so, which was just what she desired, for she was so filled with her new born happiness that she feared that if she went about her daily tasks as usual she should not be able to conceal from the sharp eyes of the sisters the joyousness which was brimming over in her, while had she laughed she would have astonished the inmates of the gloomy convent.
BONNIE PRINCE CHARLIE (Part 2)
CHAPTER VII
Mother!
When Jeanne, after accomplishing her errands the next time she went out, entered Madam Vipon’s, she found Ronald and Malcolm awaiting her.
“You have told my mother?” the former asked eagerly as she entered.
“Yes, I have told her, and if I had been an angel from heaven, with a special message to her, the poor lady could not have looked more happy.”
“And you have been like an angel to us!” Ronald exclaimed, taking her hand. “How can I thank you for your goodness?”
“For shame, sir!” Jeanne said, smiling and colouring as Ronald, in his delight, threw his arms round her and kissed her. “Remember I am a lay sister.”
“I could not have helped it,” Ronald said, “if you had been the lady superior. And now,” he went on eagerly, “is all arranged? See, I have brought a ladder of silk rope, light and thin, but quite strong enough to bear her.”
“You take all for granted then, sir. You know I said I would take your message, but that I would not engage to meddle further in it.”
“I know you said so; but I was sure that having gone so far you would do the rest. You will, won’t you, Jeanne?”
“I suppose I must,” Jeanne said; “for what with the countess on one side and you on the other, I should get no peace if I said no. Well, then, it is all arranged. At eleven o’clock tonight you are to be on the terrace, and you can expect her there. If she does not come you will know that something has occurred to prevent her, and she will come the following night at the same hour.”
Jeanne took the silken cords and wound them round her, under her lay sister’s robe, and then, with a kindly nod at Ronald, and an injunction to be as noiseless as a mouse in climbing up the terrace, and above all not to raise his voice in speaking to his mother, she tripped away across the street to the convent.
Malcolm and Ronald sallied out from Tours before the city gates were closed at sunset, and sat down on the slope which rises from the other side of the river and waited till it was time to carry the plan into operation. Gradually the lights disappeared from the various windows and the sounds which came across the water ceased, and by ten o’clock everything was profoundly still. They had, in the course of the afternoon, hired a boat, saying they were going out for a night’s fishing. This they had moored a short distance below the town, on the side of the river where they now were. They now made their way to it and rowed quietly across the stream; then they left it and waded through the water, which flowed knee deep at the foot of the walls.
Although Tours was still a walled town the habit of keeping sentry in time of peace had long since died out, and they had no fear, at that hour, of discovery. There was no moon, but the night was bright and clear, and they had no difficulty in finding that part of the wall which now formed the terrace of the convent.
They were provided with a rope knotted at every foot, and with a grapnel attached to one end. At the second attempt this caught on the parapet of the wall, and Ronald at once climbed it and stood on the terrace, where, a minute later, he was joined by Malcolm. The convent itself could not be seen, for a scree
n of trees at the foot of the wall shut it off from the view of people on the opposite bank of the river. They waited quietly until a sudden peal of the bells of the numerous churches announced that it was the hour. Then they moved towards the steps leading down into the garden. A minute later a figure was seen approaching. Malcolm fell back, and Ronald advanced towards it. As the countess approached she held our her arms, exclaiming:
“My boy, my boy!” and with a cry of “Mother!” Ronald sprang forward into her embrace.
For a short time not a word was spoken, and then the countess murmured:
“My God, I thank thee for this great happiness. And now, my son,” she said, recovering herself, “tell me everything. First, have you news of your father?”
“Alas, no!” Ronald said. “Nothing has been heard of him since the fatal day when he was seized; but I am convinced that he is still alive, and since I have found you, surely I shall be able to find him.”
“Who is that with you, Ronald?”
“That is Malcolm Anderson; it is to him I owe everything. He carried me off and took me away with him to Scotland the day my father was arrested. He has been my best friend ever since, and it is he who brought me here to you.”
The countess advanced to Malcolm.
“My son has told me that we owe everything to you, my brave Malcolm!” she said, holding out her hand. “I guessed that it was to you that my husband had confided the care of the child when I learned that it had disappeared. I remember what confidence he had in your devotion, and how he confided everything to you.”
“He was like a brother to me, madam,” Malcolm replied; “and glad indeed am I that I have been able to befriend his son and to bring him back to you a gentleman who will be an honour even to his father’s name and yours.”
“And now let us sit down here,” the countess said, taking a seat upon a bench. “It gets light very early, and you must not stay after two o’clock, and there is so much for me to hear.”
