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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..eef2e7e --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #63903 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/63903) diff --git a/old/63903-0.txt b/old/63903-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 746a4cc..0000000 --- a/old/63903-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,4411 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Duke's Daughter (aka Lady Jane) and The -Fugitives; vol. 3/3, by Mrs. Margaret Oliphant - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this ebook. - -Title: The Duke's Daughter (aka Lady Jane) and The Fugitives; vol. 3/3 - -Author: Mrs. Margaret Oliphant - -Release Date: November 28, 2020 [EBook #63903] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -Produced by: Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at - http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images - available at The Internet Archive) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DUKE'S DAUGHTER (AKA LADY -JANE) AND THE FUGITIVES; VOL. 3/3 *** - - - - - THE DUKE’S DAUGHTER - - AND - - THE FUGITIVES - - “Lady, you come hither to be married to this count?” - “I do.” - --_Much Ado about Nothing._ - - - - - - THE DUKE’S DAUGHTER - - AND - - THE FUGITIVES - - BY - - MRS OLIPHANT - - - IN THREE VOLUMES - - VOL. III. - - - WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS - EDINBURGH AND LONDON - MDCCCXC - - - - - THE FUGITIVES - - (_CONTINUED_) - - - - - THE FUGITIVES. - - - - -CHAPTER VI. - - -Next morning Latour was more cheerful than usual. The men who had come -to inspect the woods were not indeed picturesque figures, nor of a very -elevated class, but still they made the village street lively, which was -delightful to Janey, and cheered Helen in spite of herself. Everything -looks a little more cheerful, more comfortable, in the morning. The sun -shone down the village street, catching here and there upon a little -window in a thatched roof, upon the weather-cock on the tower of the -_château_, and on the church spire--and shedding a ruddy glow, touched -with frost, over all the country. The woods looked as if they had been -crimsoned permanently by the red tint in the sunshine, so harmonious -were their hues. The road was flecked by yellow bars looking like rays -of gold; everything was mellow and warm in colour, notwithstanding the -chill of coming winter in the air. Little groups of men took their way -in a broken stream towards the woods. Some of them burly French farmers, -of the better sort, with close-cropped heads, and overcoats of -picturesque green-blue, that favoured tint which is “the fashion”; some -in blouses, not so ambitious; with one or two wood merchants from the -neighbouring towns, prim and well-shaven, in the frock-coat of -respectability. There had been a great deal of drinking and bargaining -in all the _cabarets_ about, the evening before. The villagers had given -their advice, especially those among them who were the least creditable -members of society, the poachers of the _commune_, who knew every tree. -Some of them, the idlest, the least satisfactory of all, to whom the -loss of a day’s work was rather a pleasure than a misfortune, -accompanied the intending purchasers to the woods. - -“Keep up by the pond, monsieur,” said one of these fellows, attaching -himself to Mr Goulburn. “There is some oak that might build ships of -war----” - -“The best trees are on the Côte du Midi,” said another. “If monsieur -will confide himself to me----” - -“I don’t mean to confide myself to any one, my good fellow,” Mr Goulburn -said. He walked along a little in advance of the two, with an air alert -and vigorous, restored by the new possibility of traffic. - -Janey ran by her father’s side, clinging to his finger, and chattering -all the way. “What are they saying, papa? They speak so funny. Why don’t -they speak English? Couldn’t they speak English if they liked?” - -Mr Goulburn was a man who liked to be popular. He was of the class which -servants declare to be “not the least proud.” “My little girl thinks you -could speak English if you liked,” he said, turning to Antoine, the most -noted poacher in the district. - -“Ah! je voudrais bien! I should then have the pleasure of talking to -these demoiselles,” the man said, taking off his hat. - -“I don’t like him,” said little Janey. “He has a big cut on his head; he -has eyes like the ogre in ‘Jack the Giant-killer.’ What does he want -with you, papa? He will take you into a cave, and he will eat you up. I -like the other one best.” - -The other was Baptiste, who was the son of the landlady at the Lion -d’Or. It was he who advised the Côte du Midi. He knew all the coverts as -well as the partridges did, or the old wolf that lurked in the darkest -shades of the forest. And his woodland likings had brought him woe; but -he was bent upon defending _l’Anglais_, who was his private property for -the moment, his mother’s lodger, from the clutches of Antoine. - -When they came as far as the _château_, Janey consented to give up her -father’s finger, and to withdraw from the procession of the wood -merchants. The _château_ was not one of those deserted grey houses they -had passed on their way from Montdard, but a fine medieval building, -surrounded by a moat, and modernised under Louis Quatorze. It occupied -three sides of a square, and at the end nearest the village was -distinguished by a noble tower, covered with a pointed roof, from the -windows of which the lights always shone at night, like a sort of -lighthouse to the village. Helen stopped to look at it with a little -quickening of natural interest. There was nothing about it of the luxury -of the English home. It stood close to the road, no privacy of exquisite -lawns or wealthy foliage withdrawing it from the humblest of its -neighbours, a poor little plot of shrubs occupying the centre of the -square within the gravelled drive. The long row of large white windows, -very close to each other, which ran round two sides of the square, were -undraped and unornamented, not a curtain, not a piece of furniture, -showing from the outside. The great door underneath them stood open, -and showed only a narrow corridor, and a bare stone staircase, mounting -between two white walls. Helen stood and looked at it wistfully. She -scarcely seemed to remember her own past life--it was a life which had -no sort of connection with the cottages of Latour, the women in their -white caps, the strange existence of the Lion d’Or; but here there was a -kind of link of connection. If there were girls in the _château_, theirs -might be a French version of her old life. They would be in the -neighbourhood, in the village, something like what she had been. If they -but knew! “But I hope,” she said to herself with a sigh, realising -vividly the imagination that had presented itself to her, as if the -fancied daughters of this house were certainly existing, “I hope that -nothing will ever happen to _them_!” As the thought passed through her -mind, the very creatures of her fancy appeared at the open door, two -girls, she thought about her own age, though they were both older than -Helen, dressed in the gloomy mourning of France, without an edge of -white anywhere. They came out with a little clamour of talk, their -voices louder than Helen was used to, though finely modulated and -sweetly toned. Their French gave her that sense of giddiness, as if her -head was turning round, which a new language imperfectly understood is -apt to give. She went on, thinking it rude to stand and stare after they -appeared; but the attraction was strong, and she turned when they had -gone a few steps farther, to go back again, almost meeting the two girls -as they came out of the gate. Their pleasant voices seemed to make a -difference in the air. When they perceived her their lively talk broke -off suddenly. Helen felt sure they were asking each other in -undertones, “Who is that? Where has she come from? Do you think she -looks nice?” though all in their French. She scarcely liked to look at -them, but her heart beat; for they seemed to make a pause and consult -each other. She wondered would they speak to her? It went to her heart -when, after that consultation, they went on, though with a momentary -hesitation. “They do not like the looks of us, Janey,” she said. - -“Where are they doing to?” said Janey. “What are they thinking about? I -wonder if there are any little children in that big funny castle. Little -children are everywhere,” said the little girl mournfully, “but you -tan’t play with them. Helen, don’t you want to do home?” - -“I don’t know; perhaps it would not be home now--not like what it used -to be. But you are too little,” said Helen, with a sigh; “if I were to -tell you, you wouldn’t understand.” - -“I understand more better than you,” said Janey, promptly, “for papa -tells me everything. I know,” she said, clapping her hands, “I am not to -be called the old name any more. I am little Janey Harford. Papa told me -so. It is because of naughty, wicked men. Is it not funny, Helen? And -you are Helen Harford too. I sing it to myself, over and over, not to -forget. Nursey wouldn’t know who we were, if she were to hear. We are -all different people now. Dolly, that I put in my little bed is me, and -I’m little Janey Harford.” The child made a little chant of it as she -frisked along the road. “I’m little Janey Harford, I am little Janey -Haar-ford!” It was a piece of delightful fun to Janey. What child can -resist the pleasure of being not me, but somebody else? The spirit of -an adventurer was in the little girl. She did not cling to the -superstitions of propriety and an honest life as Helen did. The -mystification charmed her. “It will not be you and me, but it will be -two other girls,” Janey said. Perhaps the profound gravity of this new -step was lessened to Helen also by its effect upon her little sister. -“It is I who am silly,” poor Helen said to herself. She reminded herself -how common it was for people to travel _incognito_. “That means out of -their right name. The Queen does it!” Helen said suddenly to herself, -with a sense of relief and consolation unspeakable. She knew that august -lady could do no wrong. - -They went back slowly through the village, following at a long interval -the young ladies from the _château_, in whom Helen felt so great an -interest, and who stopped to speak to M. le Curé, and turned round, -plainly indicating to him the two figures in the distance. M. le Curé -looked very closely at Helen and Janey when he passed them a little -afterwards. He was an active, spare, tall man, in his long black -_soutane_ and his three-cornered hat of fluffy beaver on his head. He -let his eyes rest with a lingering look of pleasure and interest upon -the child. Most likely he took Helen, who looked older than her eighteen -years, for a young mother with her child, and the Curé knew how to win -the hearts of parents. Now that all the intending purchasers had passed, -there were very few people about. The cottages did not stand open, as at -Fareham; here and there a woman washing her vegetables outside the door, -or chopping her wood into small pieces, would break the monotony, but -there was no lively coming and going of gossips and neighbours. At one -of the two larger houses an old man had come out, and was standing at -the door. He had a handkerchief tied round his head, and a long coat, -half a dressing-gown, folded across his long legs, and was looking out -with the keenest malignant eyes, as if in search of some one. The Curé -passed this personage with a stiff nod, but the other only grinned in -reply. He grinned also at the young strangers as they came along, and at -a lady who suddenly appeared from the door of the other house, dressed -in the simple morning dress, fitting the figure behind, but falling -straight and loose in front, which is common in France. There was a -little conversation between these two, in the high-pitched voices which -made every word audible. - -“Madame goes out early,” said the old man. “M. le Précepteur perhaps -has gone to the forest to lay in wood for the winter?” - -“No; Monsieur le Précepteur has his public duties to think of. Persons -in the public service have not time to consider their own advantage,” -said the lady. - -“Ah, how right madame is! how fine is devotion to one’s country!” cried -the old man, with a grin which divided his long face into two halves, -shrivelling up both. He laughed when his neighbour had passed, and went -on laughing sardonically under his breath. Then his eyes fell upon Helen -and the child. “Tiens! des Anglaises,” he said. - -Even Janey knew now that _des Anglaises_ had something to do with her -small self. She drew up her little person with conscious dignity, -averting her head as she walked past. - -“Bonjour, mes demoiselles,” he said, and straightway addressed the -alarmed Helen in a speech which drove all idea of amusement out of her -head, comical though his grimaces were. To be addressed in so much -French bewildered the girl, especially as he seemed to be asking -something of her which she could not fathom. “Belle appartement, beau -jardin, pension si on le veut.” - -What was it he was offering her? She blushed to the roots of her hair, -and faltered in her English-French, “Pardonnez-moi, s’il vous plaît. Mon -père n’est pas ici. Je ne sais pas. Mon père est----” - -Helen’s words failed her. She pointed with much embarrassment along the -road by which her father had gone. - -“Ah! monsieur est là-bas? in the woods? Bien, bien, bien! I will wait -for monsieur,” said the old man. - -The girls quickened their steps as they got away from him. - -“What does he want, Helen?” Janey said in great alarm. - -“Oh, I think he wants us to lodge there,” said the elder sister, -scarcely less uncomfortable. - -The little girl looked up in her face with a dismayed and frightened -countenance. “Are we doing to stay here--always?” little Janey said. - -The question appalled them both, but the one knew as little as the other -how to answer it. They went on softly in the sudden gloom which this -idea spread round them. To drop suddenly from the skies from one new -place into another, might be amusing enough for a little while; but to -remain--always, as Janey said! Helen’s imagination was scarcely less -young than her little sister’s. To-day and always were the only -alternatives. They held each other fast by the hand, and walked along -the village street, feeling a sudden dreariness steal over the whole -scene. It had relapsed into its usual quiet, though there were ranges of -tables outside the Lion d’Or, and the rival _auberge_ on the other side -of the street, to accommodate the thirsty visitors when they should -return from the woods. In the distance the young ladies from the -_château_ were disappearing round the corner. The woman who had been -washing her vegetables had also disappeared, but another had come out to -help her who was chopping the wood. And the old man still stood at his -door, peering up and down the village. It was strange to go on -disturbing the silence, interrupting the sunshine, in a place so quiet; -their steps seemed to send echoes through all the tranquil place. - -“Is it always so quiet?” Helen asked timidly when they reached the Lion -d’Or. The mistress of the house stood at the door, shading her eyes with -her hand, and looking out for the return of the expected purchasers. -She was a buxom woman, in a white cap, with long, heavy ear-rings and -bright eyes. - -“Does mademoiselle think it so quiet?” she said. “Wait till they begin -to come back. _Ma foi!_ it is a crowd, a tumult. In half an hour we -shall not know where to turn to find a seat that is unoccupied. Ah! the -‘_vente des bois_’ is a great day. There is nothing like it out of -Paris. But in Paris it lasts continually, that is the difference. -Mademoiselle has been in Paris?” - -“Only for a day.” - -“Aha! that is nothing at all. Paris cannot be seen in so little time. -The English go too quickly, if you will pardon me for saying so. Paris! -Figure to yourself that I was there, mademoiselle, effectively there, -for all of a month. I know Paris at my fingers’ ends.” - -“Are the young ladies very nice,” said Helen, hesitating--(she did not -know how to say nice, that accommodating word. “Les jeunes dames, -sont-elles très-agréables”--which, even to her English ear, did not -sound right--was what she said)--“at the _château_?” - -“_Comment?_--ah! you would say the demoiselles who passed just now. Yes, -not amiss. We do not find fault with them,” said Madame Dupré, with a -slight shrug of the shoulders; “but speaking of Paris, mademoiselle. Ah! -if I could but have sent my Baptiste there, what a happiness! He might -have been clerk in one of the best _magasins_ on the Boulevard. But boys -are obstinate beyond all things, beyond the very mules. He prefers his -village, and the woods, and the _chasse_. He gives me a great deal of -inquietude, my boy. Should he draw a bad number it will be an evil day -for the Lion d’Or. There is always that hanging over us. When a poor -woman has several sons, instead of being a help to her it is but opening -the gates to evil. She who has only one may keep him safe. And what does -it matter, when they are helpless children, how many sons you have, -mademoiselle? Till the _tirage_ is over, I shall never know a day’s -ease. Sometimes I think it is better to have no children at all, as old -M. Goudron says.” - -“Is that old M. Goudron?” said Helen, pointing to the old man who still -stood at his door and watched, with his red and yellow handkerchief tied -round his head. - -“He is what we call a _richard_, mademoiselle, the most rich person in -the village. He has so much that he thinks it is a crime to be poor; he -thinks it is your fault, not circumstances. His poor little -granddaughter lives with him in that big house, and he leads her a life! -Fancy, mademoiselle, the poor girl loves my Baptiste! they have always -had a fancy for each other; and if the old man would give her a _dot_ as -he promised, and Baptiste drew a good number----” - -“What is a good number?” said Helen, in her ignorance. She did not know -what it meant. That the young man’s fate should depend on the very -insignificant fact whether he drew five or fifty, was incomprehensible -to Helen. - -Madame Dupré on her side was equally incapable of understanding how any -one could be ignorant on the subject of the conscription. It did not -require a very strong inducement to make her talk. And she launched -forthwith into an eloquent denunciation of the evils of the system. “A -low number is a good number,” she said; “but figure to yourself, -mademoiselle, what will happen to me if it comes otherwise. Either my -Baptiste marched away to the life of the _caserne_,--such a life, such a -life, _mon Dieu!_ and though he is a good son, he is idle, I do not deny -it--he loves to wander; it would be his destruction,--or all that we -have taken from us to buy a substitute. Often it is a thousand francs, -no less. Think of that, mademoiselle, a thousand francs! and I but a -poor widow with four children. When I think of it in the night my sleep -goes from me. Certainly M. Goudron has reason. Children are the chief -pleasures in our existence, but it is true that they are at the same -time our torment--they are our cross that we must bear.” - -She lifted up the corner of her apron to her eye, but seeing under its -shadow the first person of the crowd coming into sight, she returned at -once to her business. - -“Quick, Jeanne!” she said--“the soup! they come.” And sure enough, the -one figure was soon followed by others. Madame Dupré lost not another -moment. She took the long rolls out of the basket and put them by every -plate. She set upon the table, at equal distances, the _vin du pays_, -which was given with the meal. Her long ear-rings swung in her ears with -the vehemence of her movements, her cap-strings floated in the air. She -sent little Auguste, the waiter, in three directions at once, and, -wonderful to relate, he went. Auguste was ubiquitous; he could carry any -number of plates, full or empty, and a laden tray on four fingers of his -extended hand. His feet, in their low shoes, twinkled over the floor -like lightning. He was never still for a moment. The two girls stood -looking on at all these arrangements till Madame Dupré ran against them. -“Pardon me, mes demoiselles,” she said, “you will be better up-stairs. -When monsieur your father comes back he will like to find you in your -own apartment. The Lion d’Or is very well regulated, but there are -_mauvais sujets_ that will take more wine than is good for them. When -the bustle is over, Auguste shall mount up-stairs with the young ladies’ -breakfast.” - -This speech, delivered without one pause for breath, was very puzzling -to Helen, who had only understood approximately. But she understood -enough to lead Janey, very reluctant, up-stairs. And here they watched -the return of the buyers, which went on for the next two hours, one -group and another coming in till the whole village was overflowing. The -most important among them had maps of the property, to which they -referred, perpetually pointing out to one another the different lots, -and quarrelling about the position of their bits of timber. Mr Goulburn -returned as he had gone away, with young Baptiste and Antoine -discoursing to him on either side. He had the air, radiant and -satisfied, of a man who had done a good morning’s work. He listened to -all they said to him with a smile, but he did not accept Antoine’s -offers of guidance in the matter of cutting up the wood he had bought, -or getting the best price for it. “We will talk of that afterwards, my -good friends,” he said. He was willing to hear what they said to him, -but he did not pledge himself to follow either. Meanwhile it was quite a -gay scene from the windows of the Lion d’Or. The old man still stood at -his door, exchanging a word here and there, and asking eager questions -about the buyers. He had nothing to do with the old Count’s wood, but to -have something happening was a godsend to him. As for little Janey, the -bustle in the street was delightful to her. She leaned out of the -window, keeping Helen in terror. She called “Papa,” making a pretty -babyish grimace as she looked down upon him, watching her opportunity to -drop something upon his head or his plate. However impatient of others, -he was always tolerant of Janey’s freaks. Her countenance was as gay as -that of the happiest child in Christendom; and his was bright with -satisfaction and pleasure. It was not possible to Helen to change so -easily. She gazed upon the happiness in both their faces with an envy -that perhaps had a little disdain in it. How easily they threw over -their burdens, while she---- And once more it became apparent to Helen -that they were very likely to remain a long time at Latour. - - - - -CHAPTER VII. - - -“I have bought a corner of the wood; I could not resist the temptation. -So far as I can see, I must be able to make my own out of it. Well, -perhaps it was foolish; but I must do something, and there is no -likelihood of loss at least.” - -Thus he explained himself somewhat lamely, with a consciousness that -what he was saying must sound very strange to her. What did Helen know -about his plans, or whether it was foolish or not, and why should he -have explained it to her? It alarmed her as much as everything else in -the strange and terrible imbroglio through which she could see no -light. - -“Papa, I---- You said you were poor----” - -“Poor! And you think it is inconsistent with poverty that I should buy a -few miserable bits of wood? You have made great progress lately, Helen, -to permit yourself to sit in judgment on your father.” - -She looked at him piteously, with an appeal in her face. “I don’t know -about it, papa; how can I know, or how can I sit in judgment? Will you -please not tell me anything? Because I don’t understand, and then it -looks as if I understood.” - -“It seems to me you are no better than a fool, Helen.” But when he had -said this he went away, and relieved her from the pressure of the new -burden to which she was so unaccustomed. The excuse, the apology -conveyed in his explanations, gave her a sense of confused misery, -incongruity, impossibility, which was almost the worst of all. Oh, why -had he ever told her anything? Why had he raised her against her will -into that position in which she was forced more or less to judge against -her will? She sat, when he had gone, at the window of the little room -up-stairs, which was the best room in the Lion d’Or. The white curtains, -it need not be said, were fixed fast as if they were glued to the -window. To draw them aside would have been more terrible to Madame Dupré -than to break a moral law; the one might have been condoned by public -opinion, but the other! Helen sat within the primly fixed muslin which -veiled all the world without, and sometimes shed a few tears quietly, -while she made an attempt to mend Janey’s frock. It was not a -handicraft she understood, but at least she could fasten the two gaping -sides of a rent together, and that was always some good. - -But Janey was enchanted with the corner of the wood which her father had -bought. He took them to see it in the afternoon, Antoine and Baptiste -both following--Antoine as the possible wood-cutter for the removal of -the trees, Baptiste as the host and natural care-taker of the strangers. -With the latter, Janey had already made great friends in her fashion. -The means of communication between them was limited, but that has little -to do with real amity. When there had been something in the conversation -which pleased Janey, she left her father’s hand, and came up running and -smiling to this new ally. “N’est-ce pas, Monsieur Baptiste?” Janey -cried; and the young fellow replied with a broad grin, “Oui, -mademoiselle.” Janey’s little laugh rang through the trees after every -interpellation of this kind. It was an admirable joke, which pleased -everybody. As for Antoine, he did his best to attract a similar -confidence, but without any success. He was not young and smiling like -his rival. He was a tall and powerful man, with the head of a brigand, -black-eyed and black-bearded, and his smile was uneasy and unreal; but -Baptiste was brown and curly, his hair all hyacinthine, his boyish -moustache curling over a perpetual smile. And the road into the woods -was so cheerful and bright, that no wonder Janey was delighted. The oaks -had begun to blaze in red and brown; the feathery larches drooped their -delicate branches against an illuminated background of autumn tints; big -green laurels and hollies made solid towers of green among the varied -copse. A few magnificent foxgloves still remaining threw up their shafts -of flowers, and there was not a bit of brushwood that had not some -cluster of scarlet haws or trailing russet of a bramble to make it -bright. The corner which Mr Goulburn had bought was like a little -pine-forest in itself--a regiment of tall and even firs. The sun was -slanting in upon the red and golden columns upon which the dense yet -varied roof of green was supported. Underneath, the brown carpet of -fallen foliage, years upon years of growth, made slippery elastic -cushions, which, with here and there a bank of emerald moss breaking -through, were warm and soft. There were projections of twisted roots to -make thrones of, and a tinkle of an unseen rivulet close by filled the -air with music, when it could be heard for the sighing and murmuring -overhead as the wind swept through the boughs. “Oh, let us never do away -again! let us stay here for ever and ever!” cried little Janey; and then -her little voice rang off into peals of laughter as she called out, -“N’est-ce pas, Monsieur Baptiste?” “Oui, ma bonne petite demoiselle,” -said Baptiste, with his genial grin. He did not understand a word, but -what did that matter? Mr Goulburn was touched by his child’s enthusiasm. -“We shall not stay for ever and ever, but we may stay a good long time, -my little Janey,” he said; “it is a pretty place and quiet. Even Helen -thinks so, who is never pleased.” - -The same night, when they were rising from the table in the little -_salle à manger_ where they had just dined, the old man whom Helen and -her little sister had seen in the village street came in with his hat in -his hand. He came up to their father with elaborate politeness. -“Monsieur will pardon me,” he said. “I know what is required by persons -_comme il faut_, and though I have nothing to say against my good -neighbour Madame Dupré, yet it cannot be denied that the arrangements of -the house leave much to be desired. Would monsieur do me the favour to -look at my apartment which is to let? I have already had the honour of -mentioning it to mademoiselle. My house is the best house in Latour. -There is a garden, which is laid out after the best models. If monsieur -will permit me to show it to him, he will make me happy.” - -Mr Goulburn had been puzzled by the preamble about the wants of persons -_comme il faut_. Everything that was unknown was a little alarming to -him; but he recovered his placidity when the word _appartement_ met his -ear. “It is true,” he said, “the arrangements of the Lion d’Or leave -much to be desired, as this gentleman says. Shall we go and inspect his -house as he proposes? It would not be a bad thing to do. - -“Oh no, no, no!” cried little Janey, like a little fury. This time her -father was not so much touched by her opinion. He told her she was a -little goose, and finally he went out himself with old M. Goudron, -desiring severely that the heroine of the afternoon should be put to -bed. The day is over early in October, and when the two girls went up to -their room, and lighted their solitary candle, it was a great deal less -cheerful than in the ruddy woods, with the sunshine penetrating between -the tall columns of the pines. The rush-bottomed chairs groaned at every -movement upon the wooden floor. There was no fire, though the evening -was cold, and the candle threw but a miserable light upon the two -little wooden beds and the humble furniture, of which there was so -little. “I want to do home,” sobbed little Janey as she went weeping to -bed. And Helen sat down again, and put the two gaping mouths of the rent -together; or, rather, finished the joining of them which she had begun -in the morning. She felt that it was not very well done. The daughter of -a millionaire, with all kinds of servants at her call, how was she to -know how to mend her little sister’s frock? If that had been all! Helen -felt herself able to learn; but how to arrange into something that was -comprehensible this jarred and broken thread of life she did not know. -By-and-by the nightly noise began below, which had ceased to disturb -little Janey’s sleep. Madame Dupré kept good wine, and Baptiste was a -favourite in the village. The men came in, in their heavy boots, and -talked in voices louder than the clodhoppers of an English village. -Often Helen sprang to her feet and ran to the door, thinking there was -some deadly quarrel. It was only Jean or Pierre more eloquent than -usual. Opposite, at the Cheval Blanc, there was the same tumult; but the -village round about these two noisy places was as silent as a sleeping -city. It was too cold for the women to stand about the doors and have -their evening gossip. Helen went to her window and peeped out by the -side of the blind when she had finished her mending. She could see M. -Goudron’s house opposite, and her father standing in the moonlight -outside the door. A little superstitious thrill ran through her, she -could not tell why; and just then Antoine came up, and stood and talked. -They came back to the inn together, the big hulking figure of the -villager, in his blue blouse, towering over Mr Goulburn. Helen did not -like the man, but her dislike of him did not seem enough to account for -the sense of alarm with which she saw them cross the street together. -She was relieved when her father came into the light under the window -and entered the Lion d’Or. - -Old Goudron was one of those born fortune-makers whose gift is as little -capable of being crushed by circumstances as is the genius of a poet. He -would have amassed wealth on a desert island. He had dealt in every kind -of merchandise in his day, and it was believed that the manner of his -traffic had not been always blameless. He had gone through all the -possible industries of the village: he had dealt in ship stores at -Marseilles, in wine-casks at Dijon; he had pounced on a hundred small -gainful speculations which only a keen microscopic eye, always intent -on profit, could see. He had neglected nothing, overlooked nothing, by -which a penny could be made. Even now that he was old, and the _richard_ -of the village, supposed to possess unbounded wealth, his eyes were as -keenly open as ever to all the possibilities of adding to his store. -When he stood at his door with the handkerchief tied about his head -nothing escaped him. If a child dropped a _sou_ on the road it was -supposed that old Goudron picked it up. Money stuck to his fingers, the -people said; they were half afraid of him, yet almost reverential of his -genius. M. Goudron, however, to this one faculty, which is cosmopolitan, -added others which belong more exclusively to his country. He scoffed at -religion in all its forms, and he was republican of the republicans. He -scoffed at most things, it is well to add. His long countenance, cut in -two by the mockery of his characteristic grin, was that of a vulgar and -mean Voltaire, always on the watch for an opportunity of reviling. -Naturally such remains of his family as were left to him did everything -that in them lay to thwart all the objects of his life. His children -were dead, and he had but three grandchildren remaining to him in the -world. Of these, two girls lived with him in his house, suffered all his -caprices, and crossed him in every instinct of his nature; and the -remaining one, his son’s son, his natural representative, was a -spendthrift and good-for-nothing, abroad somewhere in the world, of whom -the old man knew nothing, except that he was sure to turn up some time -to reclaim his part of the succession, from which, according to French -law, he could not be shut out. - -Thus M. Goudron knew that his cherished money, when he left it behind -him, would go to Blanchette, the girl who wanted to marry Baptiste Dupré -without a _sou_; and to Ursule, who had a _vocation_, and was bent on -becoming a nun; and to Léon, who was a good-for-nothing, and spent every -penny he could get before he earned it. This was not a pleasant prospect -for the old _richard_. Perhaps it embittered him against the world. It -certainly made life so much the harder for the two poor girls who were -his descendants, but who had no sympathy with him. Though he was so -rich, they were exactly like the other cottage girls of Latour. Margot, -the good woman who lived in the next cottage, came in, before she -attended to her own household, to do what was wanted for M. Goudron’s -lodgers; but Blanchette and Ursule, though they were heiresses, did all -the household work in their own apartment up-stairs. Margot’s children -chopped the wood and drew the water; but it was Ursule who kept the -house in that chill and waxy cleanliness which is the French ideal, and -Blanchette who cooked, and washed, and served the table. Work, indeed, -is reduced to its easiest proportions in a house where there are only as -many rooms as are absolutely wanted, and no carpets in these rooms; and -where the kitchen fire is a little pan of charcoal, capable of being -lighted or extinguished in a moment. Margot, with her smiling brown face -and her white cap, did all this for the lodgers down-stairs. She swept -their bare _salon_ at an unusually early hour in the morning, waking the -girls by the vigorous sounds of her broom, and dusted the long formal -candelabra and large bronze clock which half covered the old mirror over -the chimney-piece. When they came in on the first morning there was a -log blazing in the wide chimney, sending its ruddy sparks and almost -all the warmth it produced up that vast aperture. Janey coming in, flew -to the fire with delight, putting her little hands out to the ruddy -glow. “It is as nice as the forest,” Janey said; “I am so glad we came -here!” Margot let her brush of feathers drop, and folded her arms, and -looked on with a broad smile. - -“The little one is charming,” she said. “She is not so tranquil, -mademoiselle, saving your respect, as most of you other English. Do you -never talk, what we call _causer_, among yourselves?” - -“I do not know what is the difference between _parler_ and _causer_,” -said Helen. - -“Ah, mademoiselle, such a difference! I am too ignorant to explain; one -feels it, one does not know how to describe. _Tenez_! if mademoiselle -knew the young persons up-stairs--Ursule, who is as good as a little -saint; she has her mind full of religion, she is always serious. -Mademoiselle knows that she has a _vocation_, and but for that old Père -Goudron, who is Voltairian, who is--hush! he has ears that go over all -the house. _Bien!_ Ursule talks, _elle parle_; but her sister, little -Blanchette, who is the little merry one, she who is always singing, she -who chatters, chatters all day long, and never is quiet--_elle cause_. -Now mademoiselle will see the difference. And perhaps the English, too, -_causent_, though we never hear them, when they are at home, as we are -here.” - -“It is because we only know a few words,” said Helen. “I should like to -_causer_ like Mademoiselle Blanchette, but----” - -“Ah!” cried Margot, “here is a beginning! Mademoiselle is ten times more -pretty when her face lights up. When we allow ourselves to criticise, -this is what we say of the English--‘They are too serious; they have -what we call _figures de bois_.’ When one chatters, when one smiles, all -is changed. She is charming, _la petite_.” - -“What is she saying about _la petite_?” said Janey. “_La petite_, that -is me! I want to know what she says.” - -“Je dis que vous êtes charmante, mademoiselle,” cried Margot, with a -laugh. “You see I understand the English. If the little demoiselle will -condescend to amuse herself with my little Marion and Petit-Jean, she -will soon learn to chatter like the rest. Monsieur your father speaks -very good French, and I hear that he knows himself in affairs to -perfection, mademoiselle. They say he had the best bargain of all in the -‘_vente des bois_,’ and that he will make enormously by it. Ah, the -English, they are the people for affairs!” said Margot, admiringly. -“But to imagine that one like monsieur should have taken the trouble to -come all this way to little Latour for the ‘_vente des bois_!’ That -shows how the English always have their wits about them, while we, who -are on the spot, and who ought to know, we are so _bête_, we let those -good bargains slip out of our hands.” - -“We did not hear of it in England,” said Helen; “we were travelling----” - -“Ah! and one knows how to join affairs to one’s pleasure when one is -English. It is extraordinary; they never forget themselves,” Margot -said. “But monsieur is rich?” she added interrogatively. “It makes -nothing to him to gain a little, to take the profits out of another’s -hands. It is _pour s’amuser_, to distract himself, to forget the _ennui_ -which is peculiar to the English.” - -“We were once rich,” said Helen, “but we are not rich now; papa says -so. And we have no _ennui_, as you call it, in England,” she cried -indignantly. - -Margot smiled; she could forgive the patriotic denial, but she was aware -that she knew better. “All the same,” she said, “it must be sad to live -in a perpetual fog and never to see the sun. For that I could never -support your England, notwithstanding all that you have there. Of what -use is wealth when you cannot see the sky?” said Margot. Helen was too -indignant to reply. - -But in the course of the first day she got a great deal of information -from Margot, who told her all about the young ladies at the _château_, -who talked English _comme deux diablesses_, the woman said--and who were -indeed English-mad, and betrothed, one of them, to an Englishman. When -Helen asked once more in her halting French, whether they were -_très-agréables_, meaning “very nice,” Margot answered with a shrug of -her shoulders-- - -“I do not know anything to the contrary. What does that matter to us -others if the aristocrats are _agréable_ or not? They are not as we are, -they are not of us. They have got their _château_ and their _bois_, and -all that, though many people think they have no right, and should not be -allowed to retain it. But I say to my man, ‘What is that to us? We have -not the money to buy it. Let them stay. Madame la Comtesse is better -than old Père Goudron, who would buy it all if it were taken away from -them. So why should we interfere?’ That is what I always say----” - -“Interfere!” said Helen, not knowing what to think. - -“Jacques, who is my man, is not always of my opinion, mademoiselle. He -says, why should there be a _château_ for one and a little cabin for -another? But I say, ‘Hold thy tongue, _mon homme_. How would it -advantage thee?’ It is hard, nevertheless,” said Margot, “that we should -have to go and buy our own woods to warm us in the winter. The trees -were not made by M. le Comte; they are there for all the world. Yet we -must spend our little money, and go to the _vente_, and pay for what has -grown out of the earth! This is an injustice. When anything passes -through a _fabrique_, and is manufactured, I allow that it should be -paid for; but that which grows by itself, which comes out of the ground, -that is different. Figure to yourself that I am talking politics to the -English young lady. _Va_, Margot, thou art a fool for thy pains! -Naturally mademoiselle is Conservative--she loves the aristocrats, like -all her nation?” - -“I don’t know,” said Helen, surprised. She had heard her father rail -against aristocrats, but she had understood that it was because the -great people round Fareham had been uncivil. She had never supposed the -existence of such a feeling in a cottage, and it puzzled her too much to -make any reply possible. “But surely----” she began, then stopped, for -she was not very sure of anything in French, and even in English could -not venture upon a political argument. She returned with some difficulty -and discomfort to the original question. - -“The young ladies at the _château_, are they not good to the poor?” - -“Oh, _les pauvres_! Yes, yes; they are kind enough. When one is ill they -will come and demand, ‘What can one do for you?’ It is true, -mademoiselle; but one does not like to have it thus forced upon one -brutally that others are better off than one’s self. That humbles you. -I prefer, for my part, that they should not interfere. _Assez!_ let us -talk of something else,” said Margot, taking up her _plumet_, which in -her fervour she had allowed to drop from her hand. This was the worst of -Margot’s ministrations. When she became interested in the conversation, -the feather-brush always dropped and the dusting was suspended. As for -Helen, she felt her world widening around her. She forgot the strange -sentiments she had been hearing, and the strange position in which she -found herself. On one hand, there was little Blanchette with her story; -and on the other, the young ladies at the _château_, who spoke English. -Her heart filled with excitement and hope. They were nothing to her, but -they opened once more the ordinary world, and delivered her from her own -tribulations and thoughts. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII. - - -Helen and her little sister were left very much to themselves for some -time after they settled in M. Goudron’s house, and the village life -going on round them soon became interesting and important to the -strangers. Little Janey played all day long with Marie and Petit-Jean, -and acquired a Burgundian accent, and an ease of speech much beyond that -of Helen, who still talked as with a shadow behind her of her governess, -and was tremulous about her genders, and afraid of the subjunctive mood. -It was wonderful how soon they came to know the stories which hid under -each little thatched roof. Though Helen did not dare in the face of -public opinion to unfasten the closely strained curtain that covered her -windows, she managed to draw its fulness towards the centre, leaving a -little corner by which she could see what was going on. The chief thing -she saw, it must be allowed, was old Goudron standing at the door -watching everything that went on with his hungry old eyes, and grinning -with malicious pleasure at every mishap. Nothing escaped the old man, -and his grin was the chief thing in Latour which soured the milk of -human kindness, made the good wives cross, they could not tell why, and -exasperated the men. He was always there with malignant and mocking -words whatever happened, to say that “I told you so”--which makes every -misfortune a little more unbearable;--“if you had listened to me.” The -house next door was the only house in the village which made any -pretensions to gentility. M. le Précepteur who lived in it was not a -schoolmaster, as the English reader may suppose, but the collector of -taxes, a Government _employé_, who held on with a very stern clutch to -the skirts of the aristocracy, as a man well born, with a wife who found -herself sadly out of place in this desert. When madame went by in her -pretty toilets, M. Goudron had always a gibe. The public virtue of M. le -Précepteur, and his devotion to the country, was his favourite subject. -“_Quoi_, madame! it is too much to have an old Roman for a husband. -Again you go out alone,” he would say. Madame knew that her -irreproachable husband was playing billiards at the moment, thinking -very little of public duty, and still less of the enormity of leaving -her to go out alone, but she held up her head and smiled disdainfully. -“In our class, monsieur,” she said, “we are trained from our cradles to -recognise that each has their share of duty--society for the women, but -for the men the country. It is difficult, I am aware, to make it -comprehensible among the _bourgeois_,” she added, sweeping past with the -sweetest smile. Old Goudron grinned, but he had his match. Helen watched -their passages of arms daily. The _employé’s_ wife was a good mother and -an excellent housewife, but neither for home nor children would she have -relinquished the grandeur of her caste. She paid visits at the -_château_; she patronised the Curé; and visited the good Sisters, who -kept their little school at the other end of the village; and maintained -her little social circle with the stateliness of a duchess. Once a-week -she had her little reception, which was attended by M. le Curé, M. le -Vicaire (for it was a large parish), and the notary. Once a-week she and -her husband dined at the _château_. Regularly as the weeks came round -were these social rules observed, for, as she justly remarked, “Without -society one vegetates, one does not live.” It was much in the mind of -this one representative of high life in Latour, to open her doors to the -strangers. The father’s appearance was perfectly _comme il faut_; and -though Helen was shy, she had still the air of a young person who had -been instructed, and might have been _né_, like madame herself. - -Nobody else in Latour had a _salon_ or the ghost of a _salon_. But -Helen, peeping from her corner, soon got to know which of the cottage -wives looked out anxiously for the return of their husbands, and which -reposed with pride and calm upon the certainty of Jean or Jacques’ -sobriety and good behaviour. She began to know the different clank of -the _sabots_--from the little patter of the children, in their dark-blue -homespun frocks and close little caps, to the heavy resounding tread of -the big boys and men. She knew M. le Curé’s measured step, and the pause -he made to leave his wooden overshoes behind when he went in to see a -sick man; and the brisker little trot of M. le Vicaire, who had been in -the war, and who was a fiery little martyr, tramping leagues off to the -edge of the parish to see the sick, or any one who called for his aid. -On Monday every week M. le Curé went to the _château_ to say a mass for -the old Count in the little chapel, and stayed afterwards to take his -_déjeûner_, the second breakfast, which, till all these masses were -over, was the first meal for the good Curé. It was on Thursday that the -priest and the Précepteur and his wife dined at the Château of Latour, -and on Sunday was the reception of madame next door. On Sunday all the -village was astir. There was a great deal going on in the church in the -morning, and a tolerable amount of people there--a far larger number -than was justified by the professions of the villagers, who disowned all -the habits of piety, and made themselves out much less Christian than -they were. It is the fashion to be religious in the upper classes, and -all who would aspire to belong to them in France: and it is the fashion -among the peasantry to hate the Church; yet notwithstanding, there were -a great many people at High Mass, wherever they came from. M. le -Précepteur was there with his wife in her prettiest toilet, and their -little girl as fine as a little girl could be; and M. le Maire and the -adjoint both thought it expedient to set a good example to the -community. But it was only the morning that the best of Catholics -thought it necessary to devote to the services of religion. Even Madame -la Comtesse at the _château_, though orthodox to the fingers’ tips, took -care to assure her guests that vespers were not a duty, _pas -obligatoire_, and in the afternoon and evening all the merriment of the -village, such as it was, was in full swing. The Lion d’Or and the Cheval -Blanc were both full; and in a large loft belonging to the former there -was dancing, which Helen and Janey watched with a fearful joy through -the open window. To be able to see this, even at a distance, was an -amusement they had not hoped for; yet Helen was very uneasy as to -whether it was justifiable on Sunday even to look on at a dance. But it -was not very riotous dancing, or even very gay, as we are led to suppose -the amusements of our gayer neighbours are. They took their pleasure -very seriously, these Burgundian peasants, just as our own country folks -do. The violinist of the village had no great variety of music in his -_répertoire_, and the peasant couples, solemnly circling round and round -with their hands on each others’ shoulders, displayed little of that -characteristic gaiety of France which we hear so much about. - -Down below, in front of the windows on the benches outside, the men -drank steadily and talked, till it became too cold, while the women -sitting by, knitting their stockings, sometimes threw in a word. They -made a great deal more noise than similar assemblies do in England, but -there was not much more mirth. Very often a passing show, a travelling -establishment of pedlar’s wares--a “Cheap Jack,” or at the worst, a -dentist in a triumphal car, making their last rounds before the winter -set in, would arrive at Latour, and this made Sunday very piquant, -before everything succumbed under the chills of the declining season. -Madame Dupré at the Lion d’Or, in her whitest cap, with her long -ear-rings, occupied the large chair on these Sundays, leaving the -waiting to Auguste, and Baptiste, and Jeanne from the kitchen, whose -holiday it was to emerge from that hot and stifling place, putting also -long ear-rings in her ears, and a cap that might have been starched in -Paris, it was so _comme il faut_. Jeanne liked to show herself in the -_salle_ among all the people on these Sunday nights. But Baptiste for -his part was always seeking to get away. He stole up to the dancing-room -to have one waltz with his Blanchette, then rushed down to get a -_chope_ for Jean Pierre, or a new bottle of _piquette_ for Père Roussel, -or the absinthe which the little city clerk, who had come to help M. le -Notaire, thought it fine to call for. And thus the Sunday evenings went -on. Madame la Comtesse would have liked to shut up the _auberges_ and -have Sunday kept as in England, if she could; and Madame Vincent, the -Précepteur’s wife, had fixed her reception for Sunday in order to -prevent her husband and the notary from patronising the vulgar popular -meeting in the Lion d’Or. But neither of these great ladies influenced -the village. The first it regarded as a hostile power, whom to thwart -was one of the first of its duties, the other as a laughing-stock. - -Mr Goulburn walked about the village for the first Sunday evening, and -amused himself, while his daughters at the window saw all the rude -little frolicking at a distance--the dancing-room with its open windows, -the oil-lamps burning hot and smoky in the gloom, the dancers gyrating, -not always in time, to the squeak of the village fiddle; and down below, -the light in the windows of the _salle_ at the Lion d’Or broken by the -figures of the people who sat outside. The girls were not so soon bored -as he was. He was a man who liked to be popular, as has been said. He -went in to pay his respects to Madame Dupré and made her his little -compliments. - -“All the world is here,” he said, “to-night. I find you on your throne, -madame, the queen of the village.” - -Madame Dupré was so pleased that she accorded him a civility shown to -few. She got up to offer him a seat, and called to Baptiste to bring her -a certain precious little bottle. - -“Monsieur must taste it--it is genuine,” she said; “it was brought me -from the hands of the monks who have the secret.” - -“Ah, the monks!” some one said; “they like to keep all the good things -to themselves.” - -“And with good reason,” said Mr Goulburn. “Could I make anything so good -as this, certainly I should keep it to myself.” - -This _mot_ had a little _succès_ in the company which pleased its -author. It is hard to say how far down we will go for applause without -any sense of lowering ourselves. Praise is always pleasant. - -“Monsieur has reason,” said Madame Dupré. “I am not _dévote_, but now -and then I like to hear one who will say a good word for the clergy.” - -Old M. Goudron, who was sitting by, took his cigar out of his mouth. - -“Madame is too good,” said the old man; “she would say a good word for -the devil, if there is such a person, and if he were a customer at the -Lion d’Or.” - -“The clergy are no customers of mine, nor do I hold with them any more -than you do,” Madame Dupré began, with rising colour, when the -Englishman poured oil on the waves. - -“In my country,” he said, “the clergy are not a separate class as in -yours. They marry and live like other men; but no one in England speaks -of them as you do here in France. They do a great deal of good among us. -They take care of the poor.” - -“Pah! a married priest!” cried Madame Dupré, with an expression of -disgust. “I am no bigot, but I could not put up with that.” - -“And as for what monsieur says about the poor,” cried M. Goudron, “there -ought not to be any poor. A man who wants help, who cannot keep himself -alive, there is no place for him in the world.” - -At this a little murmur rose, and one of the silent spectators spoke. -“We are all poor,” he said; “and when there is a bad harvest, or a bad -winter, or illness in the house, how are we to live without the help of -a kind hand?” - -“Ah, it is you, Paul le Roux; every one knows why you speak. There is -solidarity between the enemies of mankind,--the priest and the -aristocrat; they have but one end. It is for this they wander about the -village to take persons at a disadvantage who may happen to be badly -off. You do not see how their charity is an impudence. What! give you -their crumbs, and their fragments! ‘Take what falls from my table, I am -better than thou.’ It is an insult--such an insult,” old Goudron said -suddenly, with the grin that divided his face in two, “as I never would -venture to offer to any neighbours of mine.” - -At this there was a general laugh. “Père Goudron,” said some one from -the window, “will never fail in respect to his neighbours in that way.” - -“Never!” cried the old man, with his malignant grin. - -In the meantime young Baptiste had escaped from the table and the -drinking, and had gone back to the dancers, who were now beginning to -disperse. He went across the street with his Blanchette and her friends, -and secure in the occupation of both their parents, talked for half a -happy hour with her at the door. When he bade her good night at last, -and little Blanchette went in with the blush on her cheeks, Helen, -somewhat pale from her vigil, was standing at the door of the -sitting-room. “Will you come in?” she said. She had been sitting there -a long time alone, since Janey went to bed, watching the dancers, and -listening to the squeak of the fiddle and the hum of all the voices. It -was not a kind of merrymaking which Helen could have shared; yet to see -people enjoying themselves, and to sit alone and look from a distance at -their pleasure, is sad when one is young. She was glad to see the bright -countenance of the other girl, who was in the midst of all that little -agitation of youthful life from which she was herself shut out. There -was but one candle in the bare little _salon_, and that was put away in -a corner not to interrupt the sight of the village gaiety outside. -Blanchette came in, proud of the invitation, and looked out with great -sympathy upon the scene she had herself left, where now the dancing -figures were fewer and more irregular, and the lights more smoky and -lurid than ever. - -“Was mademoiselle looking at us all the time?” she said; and then she -suddenly took and kissed with fervour, to Helen’s great surprise, her -unwilling hand. “_Mon dieu_!” said little Blanchette, “but how sad for -mademoiselle!” - -“Oh, thanks,” cried Helen, much confused and not knowing what to do. She -would have liked to kiss the little girl who felt for her, but she was -too shy to do this. “It amused me very much,” she said with a little -sigh--perhaps she had scarcely thought that her amusement was sad till -Blanchette suggested it. “I think I saw you dancing with Baptiste.” - -“Oh yes, mademoiselle. He came as often as he could. Mademoiselle knows -that we are _fiancés_.” - -“Yes; but you are too young to be married,” Helen said. - -“Does mademoiselle think so? Baptiste is almost twenty. Provided that -he draws a good number, that is all we have to hope for. Will -mademoiselle say a little prayer for us when the moment comes? Ursule -has promised a candle to St Hubert if all goes well. Ursule has no -wishes for herself. She is a saint upon earth. All that she asks from -heaven is for me.” - -“But she is only a very little older than you are. Why should she have -no wishes for herself?” - -“Mademoiselle, she has a vocation,” said Blanchette with awe; the candle -shone back, doubled and reflected in those twin mirrors, from her eyes. -The gravity on her face brought out all its sweetness--a little face, -all alive with love, and hope, and reverential admiration, and faith. -Helen felt her own passiveness all the more from the contrast. She felt -half ashamed of her ignorance, and of standing, as she did, outside of -all this world so full of life. - -“What is a vocation?” she said. - -“Does not mademoiselle know? A vocation is something one does not talk -of carelessly, as we are talking; it is too sacred, when it is a true -vocation. She would have been at the Sacré Cœur now, had not grandpapa -been so----Figure to yourself, mademoiselle, that grandpapa is very -violent against the Church. He hates even the good Sisters, who are so -kind. When M. le Curé passes he spits on the ground. It is terrible,” -cried Blanchette, with tears in her eyes, “to be so old and to be like -that. If Baptiste draws a good number, he will not be able to refuse -that we should marry,” she added very seriously, too grave for blushing, -“and then perhaps my poor Ursule---- The holy mother will take her -without _dot_, they have such faith in her; but she would not leave me -alone with the grandfather. Provided only that Baptiste draws a good -number!” the girl said, clasping her hands. - -“Surely, surely he will!” Helen said fervently. - -Little Blanchette shook her head. “If things would happen because we -wish them to happen!” she said--and then she added, “Baptiste, perhaps, -has been a little idle, mademoiselle; but all Latour wishes him well, -and the ladies of the Sacré Cœur have promised to make a _neuvaine_ for -us. They would do anything for Ursule’s sister. I wish I had a little -more faith, mademoiselle,” she said, shaking her head once more. - -Helen had that vague confidence that what is desired must happen, which -is common to the very young, when their own feelings are not so deeply -concerned as to make them despondent; and though she could not possibly -know anything about it, and her assurances that all would be well were -absolutely worthless, still they consoled Blanchette, who was very -grateful for the interest shown in her, and cried, and smiled, and -declared mademoiselle to be an angel. This was not unpleasant, on the -other hand, to the lonely little Englishwoman. To be sure Blanchette was -not a lady, but she was a girl, and the freemasonry of youth is warm. -Helen got quite excited as she speculated upon the chances which -involved the happiness of this young pair. She herself knew nothing of -such agitations. She felt to herself like a very pale little shadow -standing by looking on, while the others were involved in all those -hopes and fears. She, too, had been plunged into a stormy sea, but it -was very different from this one; Helen did not understand the change in -her own life, and notwithstanding all that her father had said, could -not feel at all sure that this mysterious chapter might not end as it -began, and Fareham and its splendours reappear again in her existence. -But as she sat down in the semi-darkness after Blanchette had left her, -her mind followed an altogether different line of thinking. Blanchette -was the perennial heroine of human story. All the romances, all the -poetry were occupied with troubles like hers. None of them took any -interest in the fate of a girl whose father was the cause of her -misfortunes, and with whose griefs no warmer thought of possible -happiness was twisted. She was altogether in the shadow, and sympathy -was not for her. She had not even a chance of sympathy without a -complaint, without, perhaps, betraying her father, which was impossible. -But with Blanchette everybody sympathised, even the ladies of the Sacré -Cœur, who might be expected to be not too favourable to marriage. Helen -knew nothing of this phase of life. She wondered, with a shy alarm at -her own thoughts, if, as the novels said, something of the kind happened -in everybody’s experience? The thought made her laugh faintly by -herself, and made her blush, though without the slightest reason; and -then suddenly there came before her, like a scene in a theatre, the -_table d’hôte_ at Sainte-Barbe, and the young stranger who had startled -her by his recognition, and who had been so glad to see her. Why had he -been so glad to see her? A little tremble ran over Helen, a flush to her -face, and she laughed again, this time more faintly than ever, then -sprang up and took down the candle from the oldfashioned marble-topped -sideboard in the corner, and put it on the table, and got her book. She -had been reading a pious French book which she had found in her room, -because it was Sunday; it was not very engrossing. Her thoughts strayed -away from it in spite of herself. But she tried her best to hold them -fast and read very steadily. By-and-by the sounds outside lessened and -withdrew, and steps could be heard passing, one group after another, -taking their way home. The day of leisure was over, and to-morrow the -work would begin once more. Helen had begun to watch for her father’s -step among the heavier ones outside, when Blanchette suddenly put her -head within the door. - -“Mademoiselle!” she cried, breathless, “here is monsieur coming home, -and Antoine Roussel. Baptiste told me that I ought to warn you. One does -not like to say ill of one’s neighbours, but Antoine is a _mauvais -sujet_. All the village says so. One cannot trust him. If mademoiselle -were to say as much to monsieur _son père_?--and good night--good -night--and a thousand times thanks, _ma bonne et chère demoiselle_.” - -Her head disappeared as quickly as it had come. Helen was a little -confused by the sudden warning, by the complications of the language -with which she was still so unfamiliar. To be addressed in the third -person still mystified her a little, and so did monsieur _son père_. But -she had a strong youthful prejudice against Antoine, who followed her -father about everywhere, and whom Janey could not bear. “But what will -papa care?” she said to herself, though indeed it was possible that he -might care for the altogether causeless prejudice of little Janey, if -not for any remonstrance of hers. - - - - -CHAPTER IX. - - -It is curious with what ease we adapt ourselves to the completest change -in the very foundations of life; a little difference is vexatious and -irritating, while a revolution which carries us away from our own -identity, substituting a new routine, an entirely altered existence, is -comparatively easy. Mr Goulburn, whose affairs had been of the vastest, -who had been in the full turmoil of life, in the midst of society and -excitement, held at the highest strain, and running the most tremendous -risks, fell into the life of the village with an ease which bewildered -himself. He could not comprehend the soothing influences of the calm -and good order, the silence and dulness which all at once enveloped him -like a cloud. Even Montdard was farther off from Latour than any part of -the civilised world is from London. Amid the woods of the Haute -Bourgogne it was more difficult to realise what went on ten leagues off, -than it was in England to understand how all the great affairs of the -world were going. He had bought that clump of pine-trees in a momentary -sympathy with the excitement of the country, and with a notion brought -from the old life which he had abandoned, that it was a good thing to -have something to occupy him. But he was not so keen even about his -fir-trees as he had expected to be. The leisurely habits of the country -got possession of him. He walked to the woods and looked at them, then -came home to breakfast, then amused himself with calculating the profit -to be made of them, and all that could be done. - -Never before in his active life had he been out of the world. He was so -now, and the distance confused all his faculties. He had lost sight of -everything he knew, of all that he had calculated upon, of all the -influences which had affected him before. The people about, in the -_cabarets_, by the roadside, talked politics indeed, but their -discussions seemed so fantastic and unreal to the constitutional -Englishman, that they rather increased than lessened his sense that he -was out of the world altogether, drifted into some other life. Those -wild theories of universal right, broken lights of communism, all the -more lurid because of the passion of proprietorship with which they were -mixed; the hatred of the aristocrats; the fear of the Church; all those -prejudices which were so extraordinary to his mind, looked to him like -something got up for his admiration and bewilderment,--scenes at the -theatre, which not even the players themselves could believe in. They -amused him greatly, being all sham as he thought, dramatic exhibitions -natural to the French character; he for one was not taken in by them; -but they convinced him more and more of the unreality of this life. He -had got into some enchanter’s cave, some lotus island; he did not know -at all what was going on outside. Was he a man for whom there was search -being made, and with a price upon his head? Or had he dropped out of all -agitations whatsoever, out of knowledge of the world? He could not tell; -he had not seen a ‘Times’ since he had left London. One terrible fit of -alarm he had gone through at Sainte-Barbe. But Charley Ashton certainly -could not have known anything, or he would have let it somehow appear -in his looks, even if he had taken no ulterior steps. And how could any -one, however great an offender, however well known to the world, be -found in this place, which was not in the world? The idea seemed absurd. -Then Mr Goulburn amused himself with his calculations about the wood. He -was not in any danger from Antoine. A peasant and poacher of the rudest -French type was not very likely to take in a man of the world; and he -had no more intention of leaving the wood-cutting in Antoine’s hands -than of doing it himself. - -As for little Janey, she was as happy as the day was long, with little -Marie from the cottage next door, and Petit-Jean. Her French bubbled up -like a little fountain, all mingled with laughter. It was so funny to -talk like the little French children, Janey thought; and no doubt they -too could talk English like her if they would take the trouble. Helen, -too, settled down as if she had been to the manner born. She, who had -scarcely ever threaded a needle for herself, mended the rents in Janey’s -frocks, and took pleasure in it. She learned from Blanchette how to -knit, and began to make warm stockings for her little sister. She taught -Janey her letters every morning. She had a great deal to do, to -supplement Margot’s exertions with the featherbrush, and arrange -everything as well as she could, the meals and all the details of the -house. And by-and-by Helen began to forget the strange way in which this -change had been accomplished. She forgot that midnight flight, the -dismal journey, the fugitives’ career from place to place. She could -scarcely have told any one what it was that had brought them to Latour. -Had they meant to come to Latour when they left England? Helen could -not tell. She was embarrassed, bewildered by the question, though it was -she who put it to herself. She had lived a life so retired and quiet at -home, that she had nobody to regret except Miss Temple, who had married -Mr Ashton; but this marriage had happened nearly a year ago, and Helen -had spent all the summer alone. The time we spend alone goes so slowly. -She had lived like a young hermit in the great house; even Janey she had -only seen when Nurse thought proper. She had nothing to do, nothing to -live by, nobody to think of. She had been awoke all at once from that -feeble dream of existence by the thunder-clap of the sudden flight. And -now she found herself like one who has fallen from a great height, or -recovered from a severe illness, or been picked up out of the -sea--living, and thankful to be living, accustoming herself to this -surprising reality of existence, so true after so much that was not -true. Helen’s intellect had not very many requirements, and such as it -had could be supplied by that perennial fountain of dreams which makes -up for so much that is lacking in youth. She had no books to read, but -she told herself a long and endless fable through all the silent hours, -so much the more enthralling that she was always in it, the doer, or the -cause of the doing, present in all its succeeding scenes. - -The ruddy October weather had come to an end, and November had begun to -close in, dark and heavy, when the next incident occurred in Helen’s -life. This was when she made the acquaintance of the young ladies at the -_château_, who had looked very wistfully at her for a long time when -they met her, before they finally broke the ice. Helen herself had -thought it was “her place” to await overtures, not to make any attempt -at a beginning, which ought to come from the other side. It was the -morning after the first snow, when everything was white around Latour, -the trees hanging heavy with a load of crystals, the path sparkling -underneath their feet. Very few, indeed, were the people who were out to -brave it. Most of the villagers had got in their stock of wood, and -collected their potatoes, their winter supply of vegetables: no -improvident buying from day to day, except by the poorest and least -respectable of the population, was known at Latour. Those who had -gardens, or little farms, had stored up all their treasures for the -severe season. A great number of the men were busy in the woods; the -women kept indoors. Till evening, when the men came home, there was -scarcely a soul visible in the village; then there was a little stir, a -sound of heavy feet, and all was quiet again. Blanchette shivered when -she saw that Helen had prepared to go out--“Mademoiselle will die of the -cold,” she said; “and _la petite_! it is to kill her.” - -“But Ursule has been at Mass as usual,” said Helen, with a little -triumph, seeing the prints of a little pair of _sabots_ in the snow. - -“That is a different thing, that is _obligatoire_,” Blanchette said, -with great gravity. “Mademoiselle knows that my sister is almost a -religious; and when it is so, what does it matter? cold or wet, is there -not the _bon Dieu_ to take care of you?” - -“The _bon Dieu_ takes care of us all,” said Helen. - -She was a Protestant, which, though no one knew what it was, was -certainly not a Christian, and therefore had no particular right to be -cared for by God. Still Blanchette did not object to this supernatural -shield for Helen. She only shook her head as they left the door. These -uncovenanted mercies, though always to be hoped for, are risky; whereas -in the case of Ursule, there could be no doubt, on all sides, of the -perfect security of the guarantees. Janey was delighted to feel the -crisp and dazzling snow under her little feet; she ran and danced upon -it, stamping on the hard shining surface. “It is like a big, big cake,” -said Janey, “and me the little lady on it. Don’t you know, Helen, the -little lady with the stick?” - -It was a Twelfth-Day cake of which Janey was thinking, and Helen could -not help recollecting the very cake which had kept a tender place in her -little sister’s thoughts. It was one which had figured at the school -treat organised by Miss Temple, before she went away and married. - -“Do you remember the little lady, Janey?” - -“She turned round and round,” said the child; “she had a stick and -pointed. Let me get a stick and point too.” - -What a different scene came before Helen’s eyes! the schoolroom at -Fareham all decked with holly, the great white cake sparkling like the -snow, the eager children drawing their characters,--and in the midst of -the party a splendid, shy little person wrapped in furs, who was the -giver of the feast, and to whom everybody looked with so much desire -that she should be pleased. She thought she could hear the horses pawing -with impatience at the door, and see little Janey flushed with -excitement, wrapped in the softest satin-quilted mantle, carried out by -the biggest of footmen to the most luxurious of carriages. Helen laughed -softly to herself--was it a dream? She thought of it as Cinderella -might have thought of her ball had there been no young prince in it, -nothing to make the episode of special importance. Was it really true? -And it was at this moment, while Janey was pirouetting round and round -with the wand in her hand, and when Helen had just laughed to herself at -the strange recollection of the past, which was so unlike the -present--that the two Demoiselles de Vieux-bois came suddenly round the -corner and met them. There was a little pause on both sides. An “Oh!” of -startled expectation came to Helen’s Britannic lips, and the two young -Frenchwomen swerved for a moment, then stopped and held a hurried -consultation. Then one of them advanced with pretty hesitation, a blush -and a smile. - -“Pardon, mademoiselle,” she said; then added in very passable English, -“we have wished to call, but our mamma has been sick, and we were -doubtful to come alone. Perhaps you will let us make friends now?” - -“Oh, I shall be so glad!” cried Helen, putting out her hands shyly, with -a sudden flash of light and colour coming to her face. They had thought -the English miss, like all English misses, pale and cold. - -“I told you so,” said the one to the other. “I am Cécile de Vieux-bois, -and my sister is Thérèse. We have wanted so much to speak to you. You -are English, and we have such dear friends in England.” - -“She has her _fiancé_ there,” said the other, laughing. “She is going to -be English herself.” - -“Et peut-être toi aussi,” said Cécile, half reproachfully, in an -undertone. - -“_Crois pas_,” said the younger, shaking her head. She caught Janey up -and gave her a sudden kiss. “This little one is delicious,” she said, -translating her native idiom into English. “We have so much remarked -her in church, everywhere; and you too, Miss----” she added anxiously, -lest Helen’s feelings should be hurt. “How shall we call you? Miss----” - -Helen’s face grew scarlet. She had never been brought face to face -before with this terrible difficulty. Her name had been of no importance -in Latour. If her father called himself by one name or another, she knew -nothing of it. Mademoiselle was enough for everything. - -“Please do not say Miss at all,” she said, the tears (and how sharp they -were, like fire more than water!) coming to her eyes. “I am Helen, and -she is little Janey. Will you call us so?” - -“But it will not be _comme il faut_ to call you Helen the first time we -see you, without either Miss or Mademoiselle.” - -“We don’t say Miss in England,” said Helen stoutly; “no one says it who -is _comme il faut_,--only the servants.” - -The two French girls looked at each other with a little -surprise--perhaps they did not like to be supposed ignorant on this -point; or perhaps the fervour of Helen’s protest struck them, though -they could not tell what it meant. But they were too well bred to make -any further difficulty. “Do you like our poor little Latour?” said -Cécile. “It is so strange to us to see any new faces here. We shall be -so happy to have you all the long winter--that is, if you are going to -stay.” - -It was Cécile who spoke the best English. The younger one was playing -with Janey, and chattering in a mixture of languages which amused and -suited them both. Cécile and Helen walked on demurely side by side. - -“We shall stay if--if papa likes it,” she said. - -“Monsieur your father is not strong?” said Cécile, with a sympathetic -look. “I said so when I saw him first. I told mamma that there was -something here----” She put her hand to her lips, and the tears filled -her eyes. “We lost our dear father all in one moment,” she said; “thus -we know what it is to be unquiet. But at least you are warned. You can -watch over him, and if there is no _crise_ that goes on for a long -time.” - -“Oh, there is nothing the matter--I mean, papa is not ill,” cried Helen, -half alarmed, half amazed. “At least, it is only----” - -“That is what we said,” said Cécile, gently; “it is only--a little want -of breath, a little palpitation. And we might have taken more care -perhaps to avoid emotion--to avoid danger; but who can say? _Le bon -Dieu_ knows best.” - -“I assure you,” said Helen, “I am not alarmed at all about papa. We are -not so well off as we were, and he wishes to be quiet, that is all. I -think he likes Latour, and I like it. Yes, I think we shall stay all the -winter. Perhaps we shall stay always. Janey will not remember any other -place.” - -“But you--were you not sorry to leave your home?” - -“Sorry?” said Helen, meditating. “I ought to have been. I do not quite -know, it was so strange. Before I knew that we had left home we were -here, or, at all events, at Sainte-Barbe,” she said, with a smile. - -“Sainte-Barbe? that is a long way off, beyond Dijon. But tell me, is it -not very gloomy in England, more gloomy than here? Thérèse was quite -right, I am _fiancé_, and I shall live in England. Tell me a little -about your home.” - -“I was thinking of it when I saw you,” said Helen. “Little Janey said -the snow was like a great white cake--like the cake we had on Twelfth -Night, and that made me think. I thought I saw the room all dressed with -holly--we do that in England at Christmas; and all the children from all -the parish--they came from miles round--and the great huge cake. The -children all came and curtseyed to us when they had their slice of cake, -and stared at Janey. She looked like a little fairy princess,” said -Helen, with a smile and a sigh. Her new acquaintance looked at her very -closely, then gave a glance at the child, who was very simply dressed, -not like a princess at all. - -“The people loved you very much?” said Cécile; “they do so in England; -they do not hate you as aristocrats. I shall be very glad of that. Why -should they hate us in France? We try to do what good we can, but there -is always suspicion. They think we have no right to differ from them. -But how can we help it? It is so, it is not our doing. They have not -that feeling in England. They loved you, the people? Oh, how happy I -shall be!” - -“They were always very nice,” said Helen. “Loved--I don’t know that they -loved us. We do not say that word in England except when--except when it -is very strong indeed;--but they were always very nice. Though Miss -Temple used to say papa was too good--a great deal too liberal, giving -them too much--almost everything they wanted.” - -“Miss Temple was----?” - -“My governess,” said Helen--“my very dear friend; she went away from me -and married. I never had a mother, nor Janey either,” she said, in a low -tone. - -“But it was very good, very kind of monsieur your father to be so good -to the poor.” - -“I thought so too; but Miss Temple said it was wrong to give so much,” -said Helen, simply. She did not understand the wonder that was rising in -the mind of her new acquaintance. What Helen innocently revealed seemed -to Cécile the condition of a grand seigneur in the old days when a grand -seigneur was a prince in rural France. And it was very extraordinary to -think of a great English nobleman or gentleman--words of which she -partially understood the meaning--living in Latour! She looked at Helen -again, examining her very closely; and Cécile knew that her dress, which -was the dress she had brought from Fareham, was costly and fine, though -so simple. They had wondered, gazed at the English family in church, and -wherever they met them. But it was still more extraordinary now. The -only thing was that they were English. That accounts for so much! for -every kind of eccentricity, Cécile thought. - -“Some friends, some people whom we know--indeed,” said Cécile with -pretty dignity, “why should I not say it?--the gentleman who is my -_fiancé_ is coming soon to see us. You will like to meet your -compatriots? But I hope you will come before that time--oh, long before! -as soon as you will--to-morrow! I should like to show you the _château_. -It is very old and curious. You will forgive us for not going sooner to -see you. We hoped mamma would have been well; but now they tell us that -she must not go out all the winter. She who loves the air so much and to -be active. She will like to see you, Miss----” - -“You promised to call me Helen.” Helen had forgotten her own horror -about the name, and said this with a mischievous sense of amusement, her -pleasure in her new friend and in the prospect thus offered to her -opening up all the closed doors in her heart. She laughed as she spoke. -It had gone out of her mind that for the moment she had no name. - -“It seems too familiar,” said Cécile, gravely, “for the first time; but -if it is so that in England one does not say Miss--but they do say it, -or why should the word exist?--I will willingly call you Helen. Do you -thus pronounce the ‘h’? In France we say (H)élène.” - -“Is it that mademoiselle will come to the _château_ to-morrow?” said -Thérèse, coming up. “The little one will come. She has told me a great -many things. Oh, how it is pleasant to have some one new to talk to! She -is delicious,” cried the young Frenchwoman. “And mademoiselle, I hope -she too finds it pleasant to have friends.” - -“We are to say Helen,” said Cécile, with her air of dignity. They had -reached M. Goudron’s house as she spoke, where he was standing with an -old shawl wrapped about his shoulders. He was not susceptible about his -personal appearance. But the sight of Helen’s companions made a change -in his looks. He grinned, but he scowled as well. His countenance became -diabolical between hatred and mockery. Thérèse caught her sister by the -arm. - -“He is like the demons in the pictures. I dare not go any nearer. -Cécile, come! he will do thee some harm. Me, I am not _fiancé_, nothing -is going to happen to me; but he will bewitch thee, he will do thee -harm.” - -“I am not afraid,” said Cécile, though she trembled a little; “there -are no people in England who hate you because you are aristocrats, that -makes me very happy. And you will come to-morrow to the _château_? At -one o’clock, after the _déjeuner_, will that do? and we will come to -meet you. Then good-bye, _à demain, au revoir_,” both the girls cried, -turning hastily away. M. Goudron had put them to flight. The frown -disappeared from his face as they turned, and the grin became more -diabolical than ever. - -“What a pity,” he said, “mesdemoiselles, that your fine friends, those -magnificent young ladies from the _château_, the young princesses, the -great personages, should run away from a poor old man.” - -Little Janey had no restraints of politeness upon her. She pulled at the -end of his eccentric old tartan shawl. “C’est parce que vous êtes si -méchant,” she cried. “C’est parce que you are a fright--a horrible, -nasty, old man. I hate you too,” cried Janey--“vous êtes méchant, -méchant! Personne vous aime; vous êtes an old, old, wicked! a horror! a -fright! all wrapped in a shawl like an old vieille fille; nobody loves -you--they all hate you,” she cried. - -M. Goudron was dismayed by this sudden attack: he had a weakness--he -loved children. He cried in a querulous tone, “Petite, vous n’en savez -rien,” loudly, as if defying the world. At the window up-stairs -Blanchette and Ursule were secretly kissing the tips of their fingers, -waving anxious salutations to the departing ladies of the _château_. As -for Helen, she held her dress close to her, not to touch him as she -brushed past into her own room. She was not so outspoken as Janey, -neither did she think, like her father, that these extraordinary -antipathies and political extravagances were fictitious like the -politics of a _vaudeville_. But the horror was evanescent, and how -delightful was the reflection that she had found a pair of friends! - - - - -CHAPTER X. - - -After this a new life began for Helen. Cécile and Thérèse de Vieux-bois -were much more highly educated than she was; they were far more fluent -in conversation; they knew a great deal more than Helen. She, poor, -solitary child, in her luxurious rural palace, had read nothing but -novels; whereas they had read scarcely any novels at all, but a great -many better things, and still continued their studies with a -conscientiousness and energy at which she gazed with wonder. Nothing -could have been more different from their carefully guarded and -sedulously instructed life than the secluded existence of the -millionaire’s daughter, broken sometimes by the noisy brilliancy of a -great dinner-party, at which, perhaps, she and her governess were the -only ladies present, or by the arrival of the huge box of light -literature which her father substituted when she was seventeen for the -cakes and toys, and dainties of all kinds, with which he had overwhelmed -her at an earlier age. This was Mr Goulburn’s idea of what was best for -girls--cakes and sweetmeats, then novels, with as many balls and -amusements as could be procured. He had intended that Helen should be -fully supplied with these later pleasures; but he had not succeeded, as -has been said, in introducing her to the county, and all his plans for -town had been mysteriously cut short. - -But the Count de Vieux-bois had gone upon a very different plan; and it -is quite possible that just as Helen found it much more lifelike and -real to mend Janey’s frocks and teach her her letters, so the -demoiselles Cécile and Thérèse might have found more satisfaction in the -abortive balls and dinner-parties, which might not have come to nothing -in their hands. But the life of which Helen became a spectator at the -_château_ filled her with admiration and awe. She could only look with -respectful alarm at the volumes which the others worked steadily -through, morning after morning, with the most noble devotion. No one so -much as saw the young ladies at the _château_ till twelve o’clock, when -the big bell rang, and they all came out of their rooms to the first -common meal. “When do you work?” Cécile had said almost severely when -Helen told her of the breakfasts in England. “If it is so, I shall not -like that at all. When can one work?--and if one does not read, and -read much, how shall one be a companion to one’s husband?” the young -lady asked with great gravity. We have already said that domestic virtue -and duty is, in France, for the time being, the highest fashion, the -finest _cachet_ of supreme aristocracy. Helen made the most simple, but, -to this highly educated young Frenchwoman, the most bewildering reply. - -“Oh! perhaps he will not read very much either. Gentlemen never do; they -read the ‘Times’ and the ‘Field’--and; have I said anything wrong?” - -(“Elle est folle donc,” said Thérèse to Cécile. “C’est que son père est -un homme de _sport_,” said Cécile in an undertone to Thérèse.) - -“You deceive yourself, _chère_ Hélène,” said the elder sister with a -smile. “The journals are nothing; one must know what is going on. But if -you knew how difficult it is to keep up with the reading of -gentlemen--our dear father, for example. Mamma did not try. She said, -‘It is useless at my age. I cannot do it; my daughters, I leave it to -you.’ And we tried, but never succeeded. Nevertheless, papa was very -kind. He always recognised that there were difficulties. But I am -resolved to be a companion to my husband. I will not leave it to my -daughters,” said Cécile. “I have read your great writers, and a great -deal of the constitutional history. And now I shall be ready to take up -anything that John is doing.” - -“Is his name John?” said Helen, with rising interest. - -“It is a very pretty name,” said Cécile; “there are a great many in -England. It is something like our Jean in France, but more _distingué_.” - -“Oh, much, much more distinguished,” said Thérèse. - -“He had not any title at first,” Cécile continued. “They say that in -England that, too, is more distinguished. I thought I should be called -Mistress. It is droll.” - -“We do not say Mistress in England,” said Helen. “Is he in the law, or -in the Church, or a merchant, or only a gentleman? Papa was a very -great, great merchant,” she continued, her cheeks colouring warmly. -Though she was very quiet and gentle, yet in some things Helen had her -pride too. - -“And what is it to be only a djentleman?” Thérèse said. - -“That is when you _quite_ belong to the county,” said Helen--“when you -have been always there, when the estate goes from father to son. There -was a gentleman near Fareham, where we lived, a gentleman called -Rashleigh----” - -“I have heard those names,” said Cécile with a little cry. “John has -talked to me--I am sure I have heard them.” - -A mischievous light glanced over Thérèse’s face. She made a sign to her -sister. “All the names in England resemble each other. _Tu te trompes_, -Cécile. And here is mamma.” - -The entrance of Madame la Comtesse put a stop to all the chatter. She -herself talked steadily without intermission. She was a handsome, -middle-aged woman, threatened, as she told everybody, with a -_bronchite_. “I who never had so much as a cold in my life!” The talk of -the girls was extinguished, as tapers are extinguished in the light of -the day, by the conversation of their mother. She spoke a little English -badly, but a great deal of French very well. - -“So monsieur your father is ill, mademoiselle. I am grieved to hear it. -Where there is but one parent, it is then that life becomes precious; -though even _sans cela_---- Do not send for the doctor here; it is a -good-for-nothing; in medicine _bien entendu_, not in life. For his life, -_mon Dieu!_ I know nothing of it,” the Comtesse said, shrugging her -shoulders. “He is not of our _monde_. But monsieur your father, -mademoiselle, you can do the most for him yourself. You can keep him -from emotion; that is the great thing--from emotion. To do that, one -must take a great deal of trouble, one must be always watchful; but for -so dear a father one does not think of trouble. Were I allowed to go out -I should see him; you should have the benefit of my experience; and -indeed, when he does me the honour to come here I shall spare no -trouble; I shall observe him closely. It is my duty. I should be -barbarous, I should not be Christian, did I not endeavour to be of use -to you, so young, and a stranger.” - -“But indeed, madame!” cried Helen in despair, “my father----” - -“I know what you would say,” said the too sympathetic lady. “He will not -allow that he is ill; it is what they all do. Ah me! to whom do you tell -it? Have we not made the experience, my children and I? They are made -like that; they will not be advised, they will not take care. Then the -only thing, my child, is for you to take so much the more care. Let -there be no emotion. That is the chief thing--no emotion. It would be -well, perhaps, that you see his letters before they are given to him, -and if any is of a character to cause excitement, keep it back. Ah, how -much do I regret that I neglected some of these precautions! But, _mon -enfant_, you must profit by our sorrow,” said the Comtesse, with tears -in her eyes. - -These advices were addressed to her continually, altogether unaltered by -the fact that Helen protested, whenever she had a moment given her in -which she could do so, against the supposed illness they had attributed -to her father. She protested that he was not ill; but it made no -difference. The Comtesse paid no attention, but entered with enthusiasm -into the minutiæ of care-taking, recollecting now one thing, now -another, that Helen could do--_surtout point a’émotion!_ They were so -sure they were right that she came at last to listen without any -protestation. The _château_ gave Helen an altogether enlarged and -widened life. She was there almost every day, leading them into the -wintry woods, at which they shivered, but which Cécile boldly braved now -and then, on the strong argument that in England, whether it was winter -or summer, everybody went out; or sitting with them near the ugly stove -which kept their rooms so warm, discoursing now and then in her turn -about the English life which, to them, was so unknown. Helen, to tell -the truth, did not know very much more about it than the two admiring -girls who, on this point, believed all that she said. But she collected -all her broken reminiscences, and all that she had heard from Miss -Temple, and even, it must be added, some things which she had found in -her novels, to instruct the eager mind of Cécile in her new duties. That -she would have to walk out every day, whether it rained or snowed or -blew a tempest; that she would have to be fully dressed by nine o’clock, -in no _robe de chambre_, however pretty, or _négligé_ of loosely knotted -hair, _point device_, and ready to receive visitors; that she would have -to carry puddings to the cottagers, and take a class in the -Sunday-school; and that the people would adore her. All this Cécile -received with unbounded faith; though she was much disturbed by the -Sunday-school, which had not been in her programme. - -“But they will know I am a Catholic,” she said. - -“All the ladies do it,” said Helen, with steady dogmatism; and the two -girls looked at each other with a gasp of dismay, but could not doubt -what was so unhesitatingly given forth. There was great trembling about -these Sunday-schools, so unnecessarily and boldly introduced, and the -Curé was consulted, and even the Vicaire, and Cécile herself wrote to -the superior of the convent in which she had been brought up. The -Comtesse was of opinion that John should be written to at once, and the -thing declared impossible; but Cécile would not consent to this. He -would not wish her to do anything against her conscience, she knew; but, -nevertheless, her dutiful soul was troubled. Thus Helen had her -revenge. - -And thus the winter stole on. Mr Goulburn was with difficulty persuaded -to pay a visit at the _château_, where he was very silent, and bowed and -listened to all that Madame la Comtesse had to say. He did not protest -at all, as Helen did. But he excused himself when it was proposed that -he should go again. Excitement was bad for him, he said, with a gravity -that filled Helen with the utmost amazement; and when the evening of the -weekly dinner-party came, Helen went with M. le Précepteur and his wife, -making apologies for her father, which were received in very good part. - -“He is right,” said Madame la Comtesse; “excitement is the worst thing -in the world for him. I am glad he perceives that it is necessary to -guard against it.” - -All this confounded Helen, who did not know what to think. Was it true -that her father was ill? Was there really anything to fear? - -But he did not appear ill, or at all different from his usual condition. -He began to get his pines cut at last, confiding the business to the -husband of Margot, not to Antoine, with whom, nevertheless, he did not -quarrel, employing him in various odd jobs with an impulse of liberality -which was very unlike anything to be found in Latour. Mr Goulburn could -not forget the habits of a man through whose hands money had streamed in -large floods, and who had never had time to be economical. He gave -employment with a freedom unknown in the locality, where everybody -looked a great many times even at a _sou_ before spending it. He was a -new species to the thrifty villagers. He went daily and superintended -the wood-cutting, and enjoyed the walk, however cold it was, a thing -equally incomprehensible to them; but he would not carry even his own -overcoat, calling the first idle lad he could find to do it for him, and -throwing him fifty centimes for work which was not worth one _sou_. He -saw everything done to the long straight pine-trunks; and at last, early -in the spring, concluded the whole little enterprise, which had given -him much satisfaction. They had been sold to an agent who had been at -Latour during the winter, and who was as much pleased with his bargain -as Mr Goulburn was with his. He came home one day holding in his hand -the letter which had contained this agent’s remittances. It was the -first letter he had received for months--the first sign of communication -with the world which lay outside of Latour. “I have set up in business,” -he said; “there is no saying what it may come to. It is a pity there -are no shops; I should have bought something for you girls. I have been -making money even out here. By the by, it makes my heart beat. I am not -framed for excitement, as your old Comtesse says.” - -“Do you always make money, papa?” said little Janey. “What do you do it -with? I should like to make some nice new money, like the new _sous_ -Cécile gave me.” She had forgotten all about other coinage, and now knew -nothing but the _sous_. - -“This time, you know, I made it in the wood,” he said. “Don’t you -recollect the gold among the trees?” - -“That was only sunshine,” said Janey. “I see that often; but you cannot -put it in your pocket. Did you dig till you came to it, papa? Was it in -a big box or in a jar deep down under the trees? Margot says there is -some there, if we knew where to find it. Will you show me how you got -yours, papa?” - -“No, no, my little girl,” he said; “you shall never soil your pretty -fingers with it. There will be plenty for my Janey when I am dead.” - -“I don’t want to have plenty when you are dead!” cried the child. “I -don’t want to have anything when you are dead. I should like then to be -dead too.” - -“No, no, my little love. No, no, my Janey; you will live long, and you -will be happy, and you will be kind to the poor, and think sometimes of -your old father.” He had taken her on his knee, and now leaned his head -upon hers. “You will never believe any harm of your father, my little -girl. Whatever they say of him, you will always remember that he was -very fond of you.” - -“You do not feel ill, papa?” cried Helen, alarmed; while Janey, not -understanding, but frightened too, peered up in his face with a pair of -widely opened eyes. - -“I believe it is that old witch at the _château_,” he said, and laughed. -“I must beware of excitement, you know. To dine in her company being too -much for me, how should I be able to bear the maddening delight of -making a few francs in Latour? It will go off presently,” he added, -setting Janey down from his knee. And so it did, to all appearance; -there was nothing wonderful in it. But the profit he had made amused him -beyond description. It did him good--or harm. It set him thinking of the -outside world, and wondering what was going on there. A thirst for a -newspaper suddenly came upon him. What were they doing in the world? And -he himself, what had been done about him? Had he been allowed to drop -without any attempt at pursuit? Had things not turned out so badly as -he thought? When a man feels himself pursued, the sense of getting into -a place of safety, a close cover, is sweet; but after the pleasure of -the security has penetrated into every vein, what man is there who can -refrain from poking his head out of the cover to look for his pursuers, -and from feeling a kind of disappointment at their total disappearance? -To hear them strutting about, poking at every bush, calling to each -other, now here, now there, foiled yet pursuing, is more flattering, -more consolatory to the fugitive. But there had been nothing of this in -Mr Goulburn’s case; he had slipped through their fingers; and after he -had been pleased for a long time, now he began to be almost -disappointed--he wanted the excitement. He was tired of the too complete -safety of his life. - -That night there was great news at the _château_. John was coming. The -wedding was to be at Easter; but he could not remain so long without -visiting his bride; and with him was coming a relation, a gentleman. -“Listen, Hélène,” said Cécile--“we have no secrets for you. This -gentleman, Monsieur Charles, is _très comme il faut_. I cannot say it in -English. What words are there in English that say all that? He is not -very rich; but mamma seeks to marry Thérèse, and in every other respect -he is everything we could desire. John has often spoken of it. He has -been in India, like so many of your young Englishmen. But if Thérèse and -he please to each other, why should he go back? John says that if some -one who is clever, a true man of affairs, an Englishman, were to manage -our woods, we should be twice more rich; and if he pleases to Thérèse! -Hush! it is a little family arrangement; nothing is to be said of it. -But we watch for the eventualities. You will open your English eyes, -_chère petite_, and you will give me your opinion upon him for Thérèse.” - -Helen felt a little chill at her heart; she could not tell why. A -Monsieur Charles who had been in India! No doubt there were hundreds of -them in England. “But,” she said--and probably in any case she would -have objected, for she had begun to be very British since she lived in -France--“but an Englishman does not understand family arrangements like -this. Does he know that he is coming for Thérèse?” - -“That is what we cannot tell. We know that the English are very -peculiar--very strange in their ideas.” - -“I think it is the French who are strange in their ideas,” said Helen, -with all the fervour of English prejudice. She was almost pleased to -think that if M. Charles was a party to any such arrangement he was not -at all so _comme il faut_ as Cécile thought. “A _right_ Englishman would -not do it. Come to be looked at, as if he were applying for a situation -as a servant!” Helen said to herself indignantly, that these were not -English ways. She did not enjoy the evening. She was not herself. She -contradicted everybody, even Madame la Comtesse. What was the matter -with her? - -“_Tiens_” said the Comtesse, “these English are so droll; it does not -please them to meet each other. We others, we love our compatriots. When -you are in England it is a _fête_ to see a Frenchman. But the English -are different; they will not encounter each other if they can help it. -You will see that Djohn will be equally discontented to hear that there -is an English family at Latour.” This appeared both to Cécile and -Thérèse a very likely solution of the question. - -But Helen went home displeased and uncomfortable--displeased with -herself: for what did it matter to her if some Englishman, whose very -name she had never heard, should adapt himself to the special point in -which French domestic arrangements are repugnant to the English mind? It -was nothing to her. If he pleased Thérèse and Thérèse pleased him, and -everybody else was pleased, what had Helen to do with it? But it is -astonishing how determined we often are to annoy ourselves about things -with which we have nothing to do. “No doubt it would be a most excellent -arrangement,” she said to herself with a smile, which she felt must be -very much like a sneer. In England people would be very much surprised; -but Latour was not England, and probably Monsieur Charles had learned -different fashions in India, which was not England either. She wondered -what sort of person he could be, impatiently disengaging from her mind -the shadow that would thrust itself forward of the Monsieur Charles who -had been in India, and who had also been in Sainte-Barbe. Whoever it -might be, it could certainly not be he. And yet how he would thrust -himself into her imagination, poke himself forward, with his light hair -and sun-burned countenance! She wondered--if it should happen to be he -after all--would Thérèse like him? and what would he think, to find her, -Helen, established there? and would he look in the same way and speak in -the same way as he had done at the Lion d’Or? “In what way?” she said to -herself sternly, and herself replied, “Oh, in no way at all!” with an -impatient fling of the head. It was lucky that her companions chattered -all the way, for Helen made no addition to the conversation. And it was -not a very long way. The _château_ had no lengthened avenue, no -seclusion of lawns and trees between it and the village, but stood close -to the road with patriarchal bareness and simplicity. It was a moonlight -night, and the softening of spring was in the air. There was a little -commotion, too, unusual to it, in Latour. The young men of the village -were about in groups, the _cabarets_ were more full than was usual, -except on Sundays. Helen recalled to herself with a little effort a -thing which in her preoccupation she had forgotten. The next day was the -day on which the lots were to be drawn for the conscription. Poor little -Blanchette’s heart was full of trembling, and there was many an ache of -anxiety in the village. With all her homely neighbours in such suspense, -to think that she should be able to make herself almost unhappy about -this Monsieur Charles from beyond the sea! - - - - -CHAPTER XI. - - -Helen had meant to go to Mass on the morning of the day when the young -men of the village were to draw for the conscription, but she was late, -as the interested and distressed young spectator so often is at the -critical moment. Ursule had gone to the early Mass before break of day, -and had stayed in church till the numbers were drawn, and the young -_conscrits_ coming out of the Mairie with their number, bad or good, in -their caps. Madame Dupré would have liked to do the same, but she was -afraid of the ridicule of her neighbours, who certainly would have -taunted her with trying to curry favour with the _bon Dieu_ at the -moment when she was in need of His help. Not being able to do this, she -began a special “cleaning out,” such as, in all regions, is soothing to -the female mind perturbed. As the moment approached, the poor woman grew -more and more cross, snapping at every one who approached her. M. -Goudron, who liked to watch a dramatic situation, came in about ten -minutes before the _tirage_ began. “My house is all upside-down!” he -said with keen enjoyment. “Nobody can pay any attention. One is praying -and the other weeping, instead of awaiting with placidity whatever may -have happened. I say to myself, Madame Dupré is an _esprit fort_. She -will consider that a man must have his coffee, were the skies to fall. -That is a thing that girls cannot be taught. I tell that little fool -Blanchette, ‘If thou wilt take an example, look at his mother, our good -neighbour of the Lion d’Or!’” - -“If I were thou, Jean Goudron, I would hold my peace. I would not meddle -with what concerns thee not,” said Madame Dupré, pushing against him -with her great broom in her hand. - -“_Comment!_ my coffee? Does not that concern me?” cried old Goudron, -with his grin. - -Madame Dupré made no reply. Her round face was red as the embers on the -hearth. She swept the dust out of all the corners, knocking her brush -against the wall, making a great noise, and sweeping everything towards -him. He got a mouthful of this dust, which, as it had not been stirred -for some time, was of a piquant kind, and coughed. - -“Suffocate me not, _ma bonne femme_,” he said. “I have done thee no -harm!” - -“How can I tell that?” cried the poor mother, in a frenzy of suspense -and passion. “How do I know that thou hast not thrown an ill lot on my -boy? That little saint Ursule, thou hast done thy best to keep her from -praying for us; and it is thou, and such as thou, that make us ashamed -to pray for ourselves! Get thee out of my sight, with thy devil’s grin! -Thou shalt have no coffee here.” - -“Bravo!” cried old Goudron. “Because thy son has gone to _tirer_, the -whole world must stand still. There must be some one, _n’est-ce pas_, to -cheat the others, to put the good number into his hands? Yes, yes; there -must be a _bon Dieu_ wherever there’s a woman!” said the old man. But he -did not go much further, for suddenly, before he was aware, Madame Dupré -and her vigorous broom were upon him. She did not condescend to strike -or push, but taking the lean old sceptic at unawares, swept him forth -like a piece of rubbish. “_Va, canaille!_” she said. Old Goudron -sprawled and stumbled forth, saving himself only from a prostration on -the threshold by grasping at the first prop that presented itself. The -_conscrits_ were beginning to appear in the street with cockades in -their caps, singing and shouting. They stopped to give him a rude -salutation. They were all safe; they had drawn good numbers; they were -wild with joy. “Look at old Jean Goudron! he is _ivre-mort_! The _bonne -mère_ has swept him out of the house!” “Pauvre Mère Dupré!” said one -among them, with a sob of excitement. Madame Dupré recognised the -meaning of his tone. She came out, her broom in her hand, a paleness -stealing over the red in her cheeks, and leant against the lintel of her -door. She did not see the old man scowling and grinning at her, though -he stood close by, waiting for the event. All was mist and darkness to -her, save one thing. In the middle of the street was a figure alone, -walking down slowly, looking at no one. His step, the sight of his -folded arms and bent head, the stumble he made now and then, as he came -over the rough stones, were enough, without words. Her eyes, too, were -full of the giddiness of the calamity. She could see nothing but figures -moving confusedly; faces looking out of the houses on the different -sides of the village street all peering at him. It was Baptiste, with -the ribbons of the _conscrit_ hanging sadly over his ear, and a big 3 in -the front of his cap. - -Helen looked out from her window just as this sad sight appeared. She -felt a pang of guilt, as if it had been her fault. Oh! why had she not -gone to the early Mass to pray that he might have a good number? It did -not occur to Helen that some one else must then have got a bad one. She -heard a rush down the stairs, and saw Blanchette rush out across the -street and fling herself upon him. Poor little Blanchette! poor dumb -mother, not able even to cry! Their arms met about him, one on each -side, as if to tear him out of the hold of fate. - -It is terrible when a great calamity happens in the morning; there is -such an endless day to realise it in, to turn it over, to see it in -every possible light. Ursule came back almost immediately, following -Baptiste, with her head bowed upon her breast. “You have heard, -mademoiselle?” she said with a sob. “The _bon Dieu_ has not thought fit -to hear our prayers. There has been a want of faith on our part, or some -other has prayed more strongly than we. We must not complain, -mademoiselle, for if the _bon Dieu_ heard us always, it would be very -easy to be Christian. But only for my Blanchette it breaks my heart. Oh! -if I were one of the saints in heaven--God forgive me for making so -bold--I could not, I would not refuse any one! I would not take a -denial! But when you are praying and praying, and there is no answer, -heaven seems so far away, mademoiselle.” - -“And there is nothing more that can be done?” Helen said, dropping a few -tears of sympathy. - -“Yes, mademoiselle, there is my coffee to make,” said old Goudron, who -made his appearance just then; “which is their duty, what they are put -into this world for, these girls--not to say incantations nor make a -fuss about young good-for-nothings like the _conscrit_ yonder. My -coffee, _petite hypocrite_!” he cried, pushing before him the little -shrinking figure. Helen felt her countenance flame. - -“You are a wicked, horrible old man,” she cried in English, to relieve -her mind, “and I hate you! Come in, M. Goudron,” she added, with an -effort; “the coffee is made; come in and take it here.” - -“Mademoiselle is too good,” said the old man, surprised; but he let -Ursule go. Helen had been too late to help in the praying, but perhaps -there might be something left which she could do. Mr Goulburn was late. -He had not yet come down-stairs; and Margot, though she too had run out -to take part in the melancholy excitement, could be brought back more -easily than poor little Blanchette. Helen heroically poured out a large -basin of coffee for the odious old man, whose sneer made her shiver; and -he was so little prepared for this attention that for the moment he was -entirely subdued. - -“Mademoiselle is very good to take so much trouble,” he said. “The -coffee is excellent. I have always been told that no one understood how -to be comfortable like Messieurs the English. Comfort! it is even an -English word!” - -“We try to be good to each other--that is what makes us comfortable,” -said Helen, with youthful severity. The coffee was served in little -round basins of thick and heavy white crockery ware, and M. Goudron -broke down his bread into it, and ate it with a spoon, which disgusted -the English girl much, chiefly because it was not her way of taking the -morning meal. - -“I perceive,” said M. Goudron, “you think I am not good to my -grandchildren, mademoiselle--notwithstanding that I feed them and lodge -them, and allow them to give me a great deal of trouble. They cost me -more than any one would think. They are not young ladies like -mademoiselle. Why should not they go out into the world and gain their -living like others? It is because I have a soft heart,” the old man said -with a grin. “They are old enough to gain their living, yet I keep them -at home. Is not that much? What would you have me do more?” - -Helen did not know what to say. “You will not let them do anything they -want to do,” she cried, with hot partisanship; but she was aware that -there was not much reasonableness in the complaint, and this took away -precision from her tone. - -“One of them wants--to marry M. Baptiste, who is not what I approve, who -is not _rangé_ nor serious, but a young good-for-nothing,” said M. -Goudron. “Fortunately, mademoiselle, that is put out of the question by -this morning’s luck.” - -“Fortunately!” (“Janey,” said Helen in English, “I cannot bear him much -longer. He is horrible; he is disgusting; he is like the ogre in your -fairy tale.”) “Fortunately, M. Goudron! when they love one another! when -they will break their hearts! when----” - -“Ah, bah! Excuse me, mademoiselle; you are young and romantic, like all -the English ladies; but I am prudent. I think of Blanchette’s real -welfare; and mademoiselle, who is Protestant, a religion of good sense, -does not desire me, I hope, to bury Ursule alive in a convent. Pah!” -said M. Goudron, spitting on the floor in sign of his disgust, a -proceeding which elicited a restrained shriek from his young hostess. - -“Janey, call Margot, call Margot! I cannot put up with him any longer. -No one ever does that in England,” she said, turning away with a face of -horror. - -“Shut a girl up in a convent?” said M. Goudron. “No, you are prudent -people; you have too much good sense. A girl who can do all that is -necessary in a little _ménage_--who can make the kitchen very well, and -mend my clothes, and do all that is needed, and is cheaper than a -servant;--to shut her up in a convent, where she will no longer be of -use to any one--and with a _dot_, if you please! Were they to take her -with nothing, we might think of it. That is what mademoiselle would wish -me to do--to give one, with her _dot_ to the nuns and priests, whom I -abhor, and to give another to Baptiste Dupré; and for myself to hire a -servant, who would gad about from morning to night, and cost me as much -as both put together! Is that what mademoiselle would have me do?” - -Helen made no reply, for just then a hurried step had come in at the -door, and a new tumult of anxiety, of emotion, seemed to pervade the -house. There was a little pause and whispering outside, and then the -door was thrown hurriedly open, and Blanchette came in, a fountain of -tears. - -“Oh, pardon, pardon, _chère_ mademoiselle! It is because I am so -unhappy. I think I shall die of grief. Grandpapa! I am come to ask you -upon my knees to have a little pity upon us. Oh, _ma bonne, douce, -gentille demoiselle_, help me! perhaps he will hear you. He is so rich, -it would be so easy for him to do it. Grandpapa, if you will help us, I -will be your slave, I will never complain any more; I will do anything; -I will never ask to go out, nor for any toilet, nor for pleasure. _Mon -Dieu!_ he turns away his head! he will not even listen. Oh, _mes chères -demoiselles_, help me! He is so rich--what would it do to him? He would -never feel it. We should all be happy and pray to God for him--and he, -he would never feel it at all!” - -“How dare you say I am rich! Do not believe her, mademoiselle; she is -talking of things she knows nothing about. _Petite sotte!_ you had -better get up and go home, and think of your duty a little.” - -“Here is my duty, _grandpère_,” said poor Blanchette, on her knees. “Oh, -help me, _mes bonnes demoiselles!_ He does not care for God, nor for his -children; but he cares for his _locataires_. If Baptiste goes away, his -mother will be ruined, and he will be lost to me, and I shall die. Oh, -my poor Baptiste! he never was wicked, only foolish a little, like all -the young men; and he knows better, a great deal better now. Grandpapa, -if you will only be kind, if you will do what we ask you, we will pray -God for you on our knees every day, as Ursule does. Oh, mademoiselle, -Ursule is a saint! she prays for him just the same as if he were the -kindest; and so will I. And when you die, which cannot be long, for you -are old, you will find the advantage--God will listen to you because you -have listened to us. He will not remember the wicked things you have -done, nor how hard you have been, nor----” - -“This is something which is admirable,” said the old man, grinning more -horribly than ever. “Mademoiselle, my granddaughter is of opinion that I -am wicked, that I am hard, that I am old and will shortly die. _Bien, -très-bien!_ It is to please me she says all these pretty things. _Va, -petite imbécile!_” He put out his foot furiously to push the kneeling -girl away. - -But Janey, who had been standing by listening all this time in unwonted -silence, looking on with very curious eyes, investigating the strange -chapter in human affairs thus exhibited to her, stepped in to the -rescue. - -“You _are_ old, M. Goudron,” she said, “and you are not good. Papa is -good, though he is old, but not you. He would do whatever I ask him. If -you will not give Blanchette what she wants, I will ask papa, and he -will do it for Janey; and then what Ursule gets from God will be for -papa, and not for you; and all the village will say, ‘Down with that old -Père Goudron and _vive l’Anglais_!’ Nobody loves you, M. Goudron,” -continued Janey, “not one. You are a very bad old man; you never do -anything that is kind. It would be better to be a wolf in the wood than -you, for the wolf would not understand, and you hear me talking to you. -And when you die, which can’t be long, you will be made into an old -cinder” (Janey said _tison_). “You are very like one now; I think you -must feel the fire burning you already,” cried Janey, vindictively; “you -are so dried up and withered and wrinkled and wicked. _Tiens_, -Blanchette, do not ask him any more; I will get it from papa.” - -Janey put out her hand majestically, interposing her small person -between the old man whom she had denounced and poor Blanchette, who had -risen to her feet and turned her large astonished eyes, full of tears, -upon the child. Janey, in her four feet of stature, towered over them -all, her pretty hair streaming back as on a breeze of indignation, her -eyes blazing. No consideration of circumstances or possibilities -affected Janey. She was sublime, for she was absolute, above all -reasoning. And while Blanchette started to her feet, half in fear of her -grandfather, half in wondering hope at the impulse of this little -heroine, the old man, on his side, cowered and shrank before her. He had -one humanity in him, he was fond of little children; and Janey, the -strange little foreign creature, exercised a kind of fascination over -him. He tried to change his grin into a conciliatory smile. - -“_Tenez, tenez, ma petite demoiselle_,” he said, with a broken sort of -whimper in his voice; “do not speak to an old man so. When you ask me -for something in your pretty little voice, I will do it. I am not -wicked, as you say; it is they who are wicked, robbing me of everything. -But you are a little angel. Naturally your papa will do whatever you ask -him. He is a _milord_; he is rich, very rich, like all the English; and -I too will do what you ask me, though I am not rich, but poor. But you -must not say ‘_À bas le père Goudron!_’” cried the old man again with a -whimper. He twisted all his lean person into a grimace of deprecating -amiability, drawing his long legs under him, clasping his bony hands, -putting his grotesque head on one side, while Janey stood impassive, -disapproving, majestic, stretching out one small arm as a shield over -Blanchette, who for her part, arrested in the very act of weeping, stood -with her pretty lips apart, her eyes very widely opened, and the tears -dropping down her cheeks. - -Just then Mr Goulburn was heard coming down-stairs. He was in good -spirits this morning: first he was heard whistling a favourite tune, -then he began to talk to Margot, who had come in and was sweeping -loudly, knocking her broom into all the corners by way of blowing off -her emotion, as poor Madame Dupré had done. “So poor Baptiste has drawn -a bad number,” they heard him say, and at the words Blanchette’s half -arrested tears burst violently forth again. - -“Oh, monsieur,” cried Margot, outside, “what good one can do when one is -rich! If the Père Goudron would but be charitable one time in his life, -and give the money for a substitute! Otherwise their hearts will be -broken, and it will be ruin to the Mère Dupré.” - -“Ah, a substitute!” he said, while the little company within listened -with breathless attention. Then there followed a bar or two of Mr -Goulburn’s favourite air, and the renewed knocks against the wainscot of -Margot’s broom, and the step of the Englishman, lighter than usual, his -daughter thought. Had he got good news? He pushed the door open, then -stood surprised at the group he saw. “Ah!” he cried, “it is early to -receive visitors, Helen.” They all turned their eyes upon him, -Blanchette putting her hands together instinctively. Two pairs of -entreating feminine eyes caught Mr Goulburn’s first glance; then his own -fixed upon the little central figure, whose looks were less entreating -than commanding. “Why, little Janey, what have you got to do with this?” -he said. - -“Papa,” said Janey, speaking in French--on the whole, she now spoke in -French with more dignity than in English, her utterance in her native -tongue being still made sweet to foolish parental ears by a few -cherished baby errors--“papa, I have promised that you will give what -old M. Goudron is too wicked to give--the money that Blanchette wants -for Baptiste. She will tell you how much it is. I have said,” said -Janey, with a falter in her small voice, for she began to feel the need -of crying, being only six after all--“I have said that my papa would -give the money for Janey. I know, I know,” she added, bursting into her -native speech, “that you will dive it for Janey, papa.” - -Mr Goulburn stood, looking much astonished, while this appeal was -addressed to him. He looked at old Goudron, crumpled up in his chair -with his deprecating look, and little Blanchette dissolved in tears, -turning dim, imploring eyes upon him; and at Helen, who was old enough -to know better, who ought to have put a stop to it. But he had not the -habit of economy in money, and it did not occur to him, as it might have -done to, alas! a better man, to consider a demand of this kind for a -considerable sum out of mere kindness, to be at once out of the -question. It was not out of the question to Mr Goulburn. When a man’s -first quality is to be honourable and just above all things, he has to -assume a sternness of self-restraint which sometimes makes him appear -less amiable to superficial eyes; but one who is less decided upon such -points is free of that bondage. He had spent money largely all his -life, and he was not startled when he was asked for it, as most of us -are who have to gain it by the sweat of our brow. He had never done much -more than turn it over in his hands, gaining, yet sometimes losing, by -chance, by luck, by hair-breadth hazards, but never by the strain of -daily toil; and he had been in the habit of giving it away freely, -whether it was his own or others’, all his life. But he was somewhat -annoyed by this demand. Helen should have known better. She knew that he -was not now a millionaire, that his resources were limited. These -hesitations made a cloud over his face when little Janey began to make -her little speech. But suddenly the cloud rolled off in a moment, the -light broke out. He had not a noble face; a physiognomist would not have -trusted it, an artist would have thought nothing of it; there were -ignoble lines in it, something which told of cunning, a furtive -look--but all at once it was transfigured. He broke out into a half -laugh, half sob-- - -“I oughtn’t to do it; I’ve no right to do it! But I can’t refuse to dive -it to Janey!” he cried, with that clamour of mingled feeling in his -voice, and drew the child triumphant into his arms. - -How hoarse and broken the sound was! Helen took fright. “Papa, you are -ill!” she cried. - -He went on laughing, not able to stop himself. “Not a bit,” he said, -sitting down and panting for breath. “_Bonjour_, M. Goudron; you are a -wise man, you are not led by the nose like me. Janey, my pet, tell your -Blanchette to dry her eyes. We can’t have any crying such a bright -morning; and let her send this _conscrit_ to me.” - -“It would be better, a great deal better, for him to accept the lot he -has drawn, and serve as be ought, and give up all follies,” said old -Goudron, gathering himself up out of his chair. He stood for a moment -balancing himself on his long legs, somewhat crest-fallen, yet -recovering his grin. “I have to thank mademoiselle for her excellent -coffee,” he said, “and her hospitality, truly English. _Tenez, -mademoiselle la petite_; you will say _au revoir_ before I go?” - -Janey put her two hands behind her, and fixed him with two glittering -eyes. “I am afraid I shall see you again, but I wish I never might,” she -cried. “You are a bad, bad, _horrible_ old man!” - -“And you, you are a _charmante petite demoiselle_,” said M. Goudron, -grinning at her till his old face seemed cut in two. - - - - -CHAPTER XII. - - -The day of the _tirage au sort_ was not one which could be spent like -other days, after the supreme excitement of the morning. There was a -great deal of wine consumed in Latour, and a perfect babel of talk. It -soon became known in the village, after a great many excited -communications between the Lion d’Or and M. Goudron’s house, that -_l’Anglais_ had offered to procure a substitute for Baptiste. At first -the little eager world was incredulous of such an extraordinary -announcement. _L’Anglais!_ a stranger, one who had nothing to do with -the Duprés or the Goudrons, or even with the district, or any interest -in the Lion d’Or! but it was very evident that something was going on in -which the stranger and Baptiste and Blanchette and all their respective -families were involved. Madame Dupré, who had been assisted to her room -by a whole assembly of weeping and sympathetic neighbours, had been -disinterred from the midst of them and conducted across the street by -Baptiste, very solemn and pale, yet with an expression quite different -from the despair on his face when he had come home from the Mairie with -his fatal number. It was Blanchette who, laughing, crying, with the -tears on her cheeks and a voice broken with sobs, yet an extraordinary -gleam of happiness about her, had flown across the street, light as a -bird, to call them. They had all disappeared into the rooms on the -ground-floor, where there had been a tumult of talking and crying, two -or three voices audible together, a thing never heard before since the -English family, who spoke, the Latourois thought, almost in whispers, -had taken possession. And then the Curé had been sent for; and M. le -Maire himself, coming home after presiding officially over the business -of the day, still with his scarf on, and in all the pride of office, had -stepped in. This diverted the attention of many from the noisy youths -who had escaped, and who were celebrating their freedom--and from those -who had been drawn, and who were trying to forget it and drown their -despair. And when Madame Dupré came back, a changed woman, her head -high, her countenance radiant, the whole community was stirred. It was -true then? Many were the wistful women who crossed the road after, and -hung about the door, and cast anxious looks at the window. Why should -Baptiste Dupré be the only one to be delivered? _L’Anglais_ probably -did it out of mere eccentricity, they thought, not out of regard to -Baptiste, and no doubt he was enormously rich, and did not know what to -do with his money; and if he bought back Baptiste, why not Jean and -Pierre? The mothers of Jean and Pierre, who had drawn the numbers 2 and -4, could not see the difference. They hung about the door all the day, -thinking if he would but appear they might find courage to speak to him. -The lucky Baptiste to have caught his attention! M. Goudron himself was -not visible. He did not stand at the door and grin as he was in the -habit of doing. The commotion had subdued him at least, and if there had -been nothing else for which to thank _l’Anglais_, this was something, -for these poor women, with their hearts full, felt that they could not -have borne Père Goudron’s grin. And soon it became whispered in the -crowd that it was Antoine who was going to accept Baptiste’s place. He -had served already, being so much older, and most people were very glad -to hear that he was going out of Latour. It would be so much the better -for the other young men. Antoine had announced himself as ready to be -any one’s _remplaçant_; things had been going badly with him all the -winter, and the money tempted him. There had been great bargainings in -the room where so much unusual talking had been going on and so many -people crowded together; and at last, by the help of the Maire and -Curé and old Père Goudron himself--who, now that nobody expected -him to supply the funds, could not keep himself out of the -negotiations--Antoine consented to take fifteen hundred francs as the -price of his service. He was giving himself, as he declared, -“dirt-cheap”; but as Mr Goulburn, though he was so liberal, had his -wits about him, and old Goudron was the keenest at a bargain in all -Burgundy, the whole preliminaries were arranged the same morning, and -the money was to be paid as soon as possible. - -“For we are birds of passage,” the Englishman said, “there is no knowing -how long we may stay.” That same night, no later, all guarantees having -been given, Antoine was to get his price; and thus, after thanks and -blessings innumerable, the scene ended. It was a relief to them all when -the outpourings of gratitude were over and all those effusive people -gone. “In England they would have felt it just as much, but they would -not have made such a fuss,” Mr Goulburn said with a sigh of relief. - -“You could not have done it in England,” said Helen. “I think it is very -good of you to do it, papa.” - -He looked at her with a smile on his face. “Do you know, I think so -too--it was very good of me. But it was all for Janey,” he said; “it -will come off her fortune. I have got her fortune laid by all safe. I -don’t speak of yours, Helen, for you know you have something from your -mother. You have a hundred a-year, and as it has always been left -untouched to accumulate, there should be a good deal more than a hundred -a-year now. It is as well you should know, in case of----” - -“In case of what, papa? You said we were birds of passage. Did you mean -anything? Did you--think we might have to go away?” - -“Not I! I don’t know why I said it. The fact is we _are_ birds of -passage. What have we to do here? I am very comfortable; I don’t want to -change; but as a matter of fact, things might happen----” - -“Papa, perhaps I ought to have told you; they are expecting -visitors--English visitors--at the _château_.” - -She looked at him after a moment, and gave a sudden cry of alarm. He had -become not pale, which is one thing, but white to the very lips. “Do you -know who they are?” he said. - -“Only their Christian names: one is John and the other Monsieur Charles, -who has been in India.” - -She said this with an uneasy feeling once more that M. Charles who had -been in India could be but one person, and looked up with some anxiety -to see if her father would take the same view. - -“That does not tell very much,” he said with a laugh; “most men who are -not called John are called Charles. Are they brothers? It is annoying. I -daresay you wonder why I should care; but the fact is, Helen,” he said, -with an uneasy attempt at a careless manner, “I don’t want to come in -contact with Englishmen. Take care not to mention my name at all; ignore -me, that is the best thing to do. I won’t meet any Englishman. I’d -rather, a great deal rather, notwithstanding that things suit me very -well here, go away at once than have English visitors prying upon me.” - -“I am afraid you are not well, papa.” - -“It is that old Comtesse that has put it into my head. There never was -anything so absurd. I have been quite breathless and queer ever since -she told me I ought to be so. It is the most droll sympathetic -sensation--nothing more. I know I am not ill, not a bit ill--but I feel -it; in the face of my own reason and all the facts of the case. Never -mind, that will all blow over. And Helen, recollect what I say: be on -your guard if you see any Englishmen. Stop; if it should by any chance -be some one we know----” - -“That is so unlikely, papa,” said Helen, forcing herself to smile. But -she did not think it was improbable, in her heart. - -“It is very improbable; still we must be prepared for all that can -happen. Should it be any one we know, say that we have come here--for a -day or two. Say that we are--just leaving--or better, say that you are -alone, and that where I am you do not know.” - -It was Helen’s turn now to be pale. “Papa, how can I say all these -things?” she cried. “If I could, if the truth did not matter, the -Vieux-bois would know I was lying. And, papa! oh, if you would but tell -me! If it was only that you were ruined, why should you be afraid of -English visitors? I think I could bear it better if you would tell me -the truth. Is it only--what you call ruin, papa? meaning that you have -lost your money?” she said. - -“It is only--ruin. That is a tolerably big word. I don’t know what you -could wish more.” - -“But meaning that you have lost your money? You have not lost all your -money,” she said with some vehemence. “You have given--a great deal, to -poor Baptiste. We are in no want of anything. You cannot have lost it -all--that is not true.” - -A dull sort of smile came upon his face. “Such things happen every day,” -he said. “A man may lose all his money and may yet have what will do to -go on with. Besides, it is Janey’s, not mine.” - -Helen looked at him with such wistful wonder, with such a pained -entreaty in her face, that he went on with an embarrassed laugh, “The -short and the long of it, if you will know, is this--Ruin means not -starvation, as you may suppose, but owing money which you cannot pay.” - -A hopeful gleam flew across her face. “But then, so long as there is any -we can always go on paying. Ah, poor Baptiste! it would be hard to take -it from him now; but we could save a great deal, papa; and you shall -have mine if you like, and welcome. And perhaps they would take it in -instalments, as the poor people used to do at the Fareham Club.” - -“Hush!” he said; “you don’t understand anything about it. I want no more -conversation on this subject.” - -“But, papa, I do understand: what can be more simple? Take the money we -have, and pay as far as it will go, and then we could go home.” - -“You are a little fool,” Mr Goulburn said. - -Helen was pained. Did she not understand? and yet it seemed so entirely -simple. She did not insist any more, feeling that her father looked -ill; that it was unkind to press him for the moment. “If any of the -people to whom he owes money should come here,” she said to herself, “I -should know what to do.” It was with this feeling that she set out to -see his friends. Janey was in the garden with Margot’s children, -perfectly happy; her sister was not sorry on this day of emotion to be -alone. She walked away quickly to the _château_, and her story about the -_tirage_ and those upon whom the bad numbers had fallen, was full of -interest for the ladies; they wanted to hear every name, and how the -unfortunates had borne it. - -“Pierre Courvoye! Oh, it will not do any harm to Pierre; and I think a -few years’ steady service and discipline will be of use to Jean too.” - -“But poor old Elisabeth!” cried Cécile. - -“She will be better without him; at least she will not see him going -wrong; and perhaps he will do better in the regiment.” - -“But Baptiste? it will ruin Baptiste and poor Mère Dupré, and break -little Blanchette’s heart,” the girls cried. - -When they heard that Mr Goulburn had bought him a substitute there were -no bounds to their enthusiasm. “Your papa, then, is a saint, he is a -benefactor, he has a heart of gold!” they cried. - -“But, _mon enfant_,” said the Comtesse, “I fear you must have allowed -him to be exposed to emotion. Never forget that there must be no -emotion; you must avoid it as you would avoid poison.” - -This flutter of interest and kind, pleasant talk and praise sent all -that was melancholy out of Helen’s head. She was to return home early, -but this was the evening of Madame la Comtesse’s dinner, and they were -then to meet again. “Shall I tell her?” whispered Cécile. - -“Oh no, no; let it be a surprise!” cried the more mischievous Thérèse. -They went out with her to show her how all the young larches were -pushing out their tassels, and the crocuses coming up by hundreds in the -grass. Helen returned to the village by the longer way. There was a -grand entrance to the _château_ which was scarcely ever used; a short -avenue with two curious tall bits of building on either side of the -gate, half towers, half houses, three storeys high, giving a -half-ludicrous air of defence in the midst of a line of low and innocent -hedges. When important visitors came this was how they went in; and, as -it happened, she had scarcely emerged from between the two obelisks of -houses which blocked the gateway, when she saw the Comtesse’s great -lumbering old family coach, the _berline_, as they called it, swaying -along the road, drawn by the two long-tailed horses from the farm, with -old Léon on the box, who was called Monsieur l’Intendant in the village -when the people wanted to please him. Helen’s heart began to beat. She -felt sure that the occupants of the _berline_ must be the English -strangers whom she looked for with so much expectation, yet fear. She -gave a hurried glance at them as they lumbered past. She saw two heads, -but her eyes were hazy with over-anxiety, and her excitement confused -her. She could not tell who they were, or if she had seen them before. -The carriage passed her. She breathed more freely. How foolish! she said -to herself. Was she disappointed that after all it was not Charley -Ashton? or was she relieved? or what was it? She could not tell. Her -life had been full of a vague expectation, which had gone to her head, -which had kept her amused, excited, disturbed, alive to everything. And -now it had failed. Was not she glad? She ought to have been; it would -keep safe her father’s secret, and save him from all disturbance. But -Helen’s first sensation was as if she had fallen out of the clouds. The -earth is a very steady, very satisfactory thing to come down upon, and -by far the safest footing; but still, when you drop from a height there -is apt to be a momentary jar. - -She was so full of this really involuntary, unwilling sensation, and so -anxious to feel glad that all cause for apprehension on her father’s -part was over, that she did not hear the much louder jarring and -grinding of the wheels with which the big _berline_, as soon as it had -passed her, was stopped. Helen felt slightly unsteady so far as she -herself was concerned. Her steps wavered; there was a ringing in her -ears. It had been, she said to herself, something to look forward to, -and it was over; and she was very glad it was over, and papa happily -escaped from all annoyance. Things were getting steadier before her eyes -every moment, her step was getting more assured. Then all at once she -heard voices in the air. “I certainly will not wait for you,” in a -somewhat severe tone, and in familiar English accents. - -“Never mind, you will just have time for your own salutations, and I -will follow directly,” some one said. - -Helen’s feet, in spite of her, swerved, stumbled, took her half-way -across the road, like feet that were drunken and beyond guidance. She -had not been mistaken after all. Whatever was to come of it, had she not -known it all from the very first? She was not surprised now, though the -discovery set her heart beating once more as if it would break out of -her breast. Of course it was he. Could anything be more precise than -the description, M. Charles who had been in India? She had been quite -sure of it all along. - -“Once more I have to ask, is it you, Miss Goulburn? I am sure it can be -no one but you.” - -“Yes, it is me,” said Helen, simply (but nobody pretends that grammar -and nature are the same in respect to this pronoun. She was much -disturbed, and she could no more have said I than she could have flown); -“and I thought it must be you they meant,” she added, with more -simplicity still, “though I heard nothing but your Christian name.” - -“Who was it that spoke of me? It is only by accident I have come here. I -was going to Sainte-Barbe to find out if anything had been heard of -you--if I could find any trace of you.” - -“Sainte-Barbe! we left that, Mr Ashton, immediately----” - -“I know: after you had seen me.” - -Helen sighed. It seemed impossible to her to lie as her father had told -her--to say anything to him that was not true. It was very hard even to -say what she did falteringly, “We did not mean to stay there, anyhow.” - -“Miss Goulburn,” he said, “I have heard a great deal since I have been -home. When I saw you last I knew nothing. Miss Temple--I mean my -stepmother--is very, very anxious about you. She wants you to go and -live with her, and my father wishes it too.” - -“Mr Charles, that is very, very kind,” said Helen, shaking her head. - -“Miss Goulburn, nobody in the world can take more interest in you, can -have thought more of you than I, since you were a little girl at the -school feasts. And in India I always wondered how you had grown up--if I -should still find you when I got back. I don’t know if you are aware of -all that has happened?” - -“Papa is ruined,” said Helen in a very low voice. - -“Ruined! Ah, yes; and something more.” - -Helen trembled, tottering along by his side. “I asked him to tell me, -but he wouldn’t. Don’t tell me, I had rather not know. Most likely,” she -said, with a thrill of much pain in her voice, “when he knows you are -here he will go away.” - -“I am almost sure he will. And you have friends here?” - -“Oh yes; all the people are our friends, every one. But what does that -matter?” cried Helen, with a smile of desperation. “It need not make any -difference. We shall go all the same. We shall not mind. But why you or -any one should want to harm us, Mr Charles, I cannot tell. We never did -harm to any one. Why should we have to fly from one place to another? -We have done nobody any harm.” - -Young Ashton looked at her with the tenderest pity in his face. “I -came,” he said, “to take you home, if you would come, if I could find -you, to Mrs Ashton. Every effort has been made to find you. We did not -know what to wish--that he might not be found, or that you might. Pardon -me, it was for this I came.” - -“Oh no; for a very, very different purpose, Mr Ashton! I know that quite -well--I know exactly,” said Helen, with a little heat. Then she stopped -confused. What had she to do with it? Whatever he came for, what was it -to Helen? Angry! was she angry? But for what, in the name of heaven? -Then she was angry with herself for her irritation. The tears gathered -thick in her eyes. “It will be better, much better, to let us alone,” -she said; “what does it matter to any one where we go or where we stay? -Never mind us, please. Go the _château_, where they expect you. You can -say I will not come this evening; you need not say why. And let us -alone, Mr Ashton. What can it matter to you if we are here or anywhere -else? We have done no harm to you.” - -“Miss Goulburn, you don’t know John; but he has been a sufferer; he is -very bitter, he will not let things alone. If I could have formed the -least idea that you were here--but even if I had known, what could I do -to keep him from the place where his bride is living? And if he has any -suspicion he will not be silenced. When I saw you--you with your open, -candid face--walking so quietly along the road, and he by my side with -the spirit of a bloodhound in him---- And yet how glad I am that you are -here! But your father; good heavens!” cried the young man; “what a -position for you to be in! you, so young, so innocent, knowing nothing!” - -Just then they were met by a party of country people going home. “_Bon -soir_, mademoiselle,” they cried with a little acclamation of kindness, -the men taking off their hats; and one old woman paused to say, “You -should be happy to-night if any one should, _ma bonne demoiselle_.” - -“You have been doing something kind,” said young Ashton, looking at her, -his face full of tender admiration and sympathy. - -“Not I, not I!” Helen cried. The tears came down her cheeks in a -torrent. “It is papa, poor papa, that has been kind. You don’t know how -good he is. He has made some of the poor people very happy; and his -reward,” she cried, “will be to be driven away. Oh, why should that be? -Papa, who used to be so rich, who had everything; and now that he is -quiet here, in a little wretched village, you come and drive him away!” - -Young Ashton’s countenance changed. It grew grave, almost severe. “I do -not drive him away,” he said. “If there was anything I could do to make -him safe, I would do it; but he will know better than you do that I -cannot. Tell him that Sir John Harvey is here. He will understand that -better than anything. Not in search of him--not knowingly, but still he -is here. Do they know at the _château_? Can they give any information? -Will they put John on the scent? Pardon me for using such words--he is -my cousin, but he is a hard man. Do they know who you are?” - -Helen drooped her head with a bitter sense of shame. Even now she did -not know what the real stigma was; but the shame of a false name bowed -her to the ground. “They do not know us,” she said almost inaudibly, “by -our true name.” - -And as she stood before him with her head bent down and that flush of -humiliation on her face, Ashton’s heart was too full to keep silence. A -cry of painful sympathy came from his lips. He took her hand and kissed -it with passionate sympathy and anguish. “My poor child, my poor child!” -he cried. “You, you! to have this burden to bear. Leave him, for God’s -sake, and let me take you home.” - -“Leave him! now, when he is badly off and in trouble?” This idea brought -a kind of smile to Helen’s lips. “But, Mr Ashton, I think you mean very -kindly. I will tell him, and you can say to them at the _château_ that -he was not very well, that the excitement had told upon him, and that I -could not leave him to-night. They will understand that. And don’t make -them think any harm of us, not more harm than you can help. They have -been very sweet to me,” Helen said after a pause, her tears dropping -again; “such friends! and Thérèse, Mr Ashton, Thérèse, remember! She is -not Cécile, but she is nearly as good as Cécile.” - -“I know nothing about Thérèse or Cécile!” he cried. “Helen, oh, forgive -me, I am almost mad! Are you to be swept away from me once more? Am I to -lose you again?” - -She shook her head sadly. “What does it matter? We never did know each -much,” she said. - -“I will come to the village after it is dark. I will wait about on the -chance of seeing you; perhaps even I might be of use. Don’t refuse me -this,” he cried; “don’t refuse me so much as this! If it is I that must -drive my own happiness away, at least let me see you once again.” - -“Yes; it is true, if you are a friend, you might be of use. You might -help me, perhaps,” Helen said simply, “if you will be so kind. That is -the house, that tall one with the green shutters. It will be very kind -if you will come.” - -She turned away, making a gesture to him to go back. They were opposite -the Lion d’Or, where still the _conscrits_ were hanging about with their -coloured ribbons, and Baptiste receiving once again perpetual -congratulation. Antoine, with his hands in his pockets, strolled along -in the middle of the street, biting a straw which he held in his mouth. -He was looking at M. Goudron’s windows with bended brows. Amid all the -peaceful surroundings, he alone caught Charley Ashton’s eyes as a -sinister figure meaning mischief; but he was far too much occupied with -other thoughts to waste any upon the village bully at a moment so full -of heavier trouble and pain. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII. - - -Helen went home with slow steps and a heavy heart. - -A heavy heart, indeed; it had beaten wildly enough within the last -hour--now it lay in her breast like a lump of lead. This morning, though -there was nothing happy in her position--though she knew that some great -cloud of misery and doubt hung between them and everything they had -hitherto known, and that even the tranquillity of the moment, such as it -was, might be interrupted in a second, in the twinkling of an eye,--yet -the triumphant light-heartedness of youth had been able to triumph over -all these things. And there had been so warm an atmosphere of life -about them, so much interchange of feeling, keen sympathy, and the -profound happiness of making others happy, that very little sense of -being there as a stranger had remained in Helen’s mind. They were not -strangers--they were more at home in Latour than they had ever been in -Fareham. Here everybody knew them, everybody had a friendly word for -them; more than that, the English family, with its careless, liberal -ways, had now secured the affection of the village. She herself had -never known before what it was to have friends like Cécile and Thérèse, -or to be interested with such familiar kindness in any poor girl as she -had been in the fortunes of little Blanchette. At Fareham the love of -the village publican’s son with the retired tradesman’s daughter would -have been nothing to the great young lady, secluded among her woods and -parks. But here they were more interesting, and concerned her more than -any romance. She had a share in the lives of so many people, and her own -life was full of tranquil occupations, of sympathies, of friendships; -every cottage round about contained something or somebody that -interested her. But what of that? They must all be left behind, as all -her other habits of living, all her previous existence had been. She -would have to give up those first personal friends, not knowing if she -should ever see them more, not hoping to do so--and go away from the -homely little life which had given her her first lively sense of -individual existence--for what? to go where? Helen could not tell. The -world was all dark beyond this one clear spot in which the afternoon sun -had just sunk behind the cottage roofs, and the whole sky overhead was -red with gorgeous reflection. To-morrow, the fine spring morning which -these ruddy lights prophesied, would rise serenely over the same roofs, -and Margot would light her fire, and little Blanchette, out of her -dreams, would awake joyfully to recollect that her troubles were all -over. But where would Helen be? She did not know, but surely away from -Latour, away from everything she knew, out into the world, which always -figured itself before her as darkness--the gloom of night, the clanging -of a great train, pursuing its noisy precipitate way through an unseen -country, to the unknown out of the known. She stood for a moment at the -door, looking wistfully round her at the familiar scene. The houses with -their thatched roofs rose dark against the great glow of redness in the -west. In the distance the homely spire of the church rose up protecting -over them; voices were in the air, all cheerful, confused, half heard, -with now and then one distincter note striking in, as by turns one -figure would start up and separate itself from the little company still -lingering in front of the Lion d’Or. - -Somewhere near a woman was singing a baby to sleep, in a sweet drowsy -voice, broken by the rock of her chair upon the wooden floor. On the -other hand a group of little truants, pattering in their _sabots_, were -being pursued homewards to bed by the half-laughing, half-angry mother. -Helen looked round her with wistful eyes, casting a last glance along -the road which led to the _château_, the most dear of all. Along this -road Antoine was sauntering slowly, his hands in his pockets, looking -back as he went, with his eyes always fixed on M. Goudron’s house. His -was the only non-sympathetic figure in all the scene. It broke the -spell. Helen turned from him and breathed her farewell to the village in -one long sigh. - -The prattle of Janey was the first thing she heard when she went in. The -child was seated on her father’s knee. She had been telling him a story -about Margot’s children, with whom she had been playing. - -“Petit-Jean does not know what a big city is, papa; he thinks Paris is -like Laroche” (Laroche was the next village, and had a street twice as -long as that of Latour, and was looked upon as almost a _chef-lieu_). -“He said, was England like the little island in the pond at the -_château_? Margot’s little children they are very ignorant, they don’t -know anything, papa.” - -“And my little Janey knows a great deal?” he said laughing, yet with a -thrill of another sentiment in his voice; “but everybody, my pet, has -not travelled like you.” - -“No,” said Janey, complacently. “Only think, I came from India when I -was a little tiny baby--if I could only recollect I should know India -too, and then London, and then that place on the sea where we bought our -things, and then Sainte-Barbe, and then---- Papa, after all this, when -are we doing home?” - -“Should you like to do home, Janey?” This time the laugh was so broken -that it was more like a sob. - -“Oh yes, papa. I should like to have my big doll Marianna, that I put in -my bed when we came away. Will she always be in my little bed all this -time, staring with her big eyes? I forgot to shut her eyes when I put -her in. Fancy a little girl lying for years and years with open eyes!” - -“It is not years and years, Janey.” - -“Yes, papa, it is longer, longer than any one can remember--far longer -than _that_,” cried the child, stretching her arms to the widest. “I -want to do home.” - -“Here is Helen coming to put you to bed,” he said. She was in his arms -as she sat there, but he strained her closer, kissing her little -upturned face again and again. “My little Janey, my little darling,” he -said, “wherever you are you will not forget your poor father, who was so -fond of you?” - -She did not take much notice of this address, being used, more or less, -to speeches of the sort, but slid down from his knee. Helen had to -postpone her explanation till the ceremony of putting the child to bed -was over. Should she be obliged to wake her up again in the dark as had -been done before? And how would it be possible here, thirty miles from -the railway, to fly as they had done from Fareham? Janey chattered -while Helen went over all those miserable calculations. It was almost -dark when she went back to the room in which her father sat alone. - -“Have you not gone, Helen? I thought I heard the Précepteur asking for -you at the door.” - -“I am not going, papa.” She came and sat down by him in the dark, which -hid her countenance from him. She laid her hand softly upon his. “Papa, -they have come.” - -“How you startle me, Helen!” he cried querulously. “Oh, I remember: the -English visitors. Well! I hope you were discreet and did as I said?” - -“You were right,” she said, “and I was wrong. I thought it so unlikely; -but don’t they say here that it is the unlikely things that happen? -Papa, one of them is Charley Ashton, whom we met at Sainte-Barbe.” - -“Good Lord!” he cried, starting from his chair; then after a pause -reseated himself. “I will keep out of the way,” he said. “I regretted -afterwards that I left Sainte-Barbe when I did. Charley Ashton is not -the sort of fellow to betray any one: and I think,” he said with a half -laugh, “that he was very, very much struck with you. I should not wonder -if that was why he has come back to this neighbourhood--although -Sainte-Barbe is a good way from here.” - -These words scarcely conveyed any meaning to Helen’s ear. All she made -out was that her father was not so much alarmed, not so thoroughly -roused to think of his own welfare as he ought to be. - -“Papa, he got out of the carriage to talk to me. He spoke of you; he -said I was to warn you, and that this would be enough: I was to tell you -his cousin is with him, Sir John Harvey----” - -“My God!” cried Mr Goulburn. This time he got up, pale as ashes, but -soon fell back, not out of carelessness but weakness. His hands resting -upon the table shook it with their trembling. He dropped back again into -his chair, his under lip falling, his face like that of a dead man. - -“He has been a sufferer, and he is very bitter. If he gets any suspicion -he will not be silenced. This is what Mr Ashton said. I don’t know what -it means, papa,” said Helen, with a quiver of her lip, “nor why any man -who comes here, any man! should make you run away as if you were a -criminal----” - -“It is because I am a criminal, Helen.” - -“Papa!” - -“No, no,” he said, trying to smile, “not that. God knows I never meant -any harm; but I was led on from one thing to another, and nobody can -understand another man’s temptations. I went farther than I should have -done. Some people--that could not afford it--were brought into trouble -through me; that is all, Helen. I owe a great deal of money, as I told -you. This Sir John is one of the people. It is nothing but money, money. -If I had killed their fathers and mothers, they would not have felt it -half so much. It is money, as I tell you--nothing but money. And now I -must get up and go away from here. Ill, and getting old, and tired, -tired to death----” - -He put down his head into his hands, which trembled; his whole stooping -figure shook. He was certainly thinner, weaker, and far older in -appearance than when they came to Latour. Helen sat beside him, looking -at him with a wretched half-sympathy. Perhaps, up to this moment, it had -been herself she had been thinking of most, herself who had done no -harm, who did not even know why it was that she was to be driven from -the new roof where she had found refuge. Now her mind turned, but with a -languid misery, to realise what her father was feeling. He was himself -the cause of his own sufferings. But did that make them easier to bear? - -“Poor papa!” she said, involuntarily touching with her hand his -trembling arm. Yes, he was ill, and getting old, and how natural if he -were tired, tired to death! All Helen’s present trouble fell into a sort -of dull and aching pity for him, who was the cause of it. She sat for a -little while in dead silence; and then she said, “What are we to do?” - -It was some time before he made her any reply; he was panting for -breath; there was a hectic colour on his cheeks like fever. “If you had -but stayed in the house!” he said. “What did you want with these people -at the _château_? They were strangers--and you should avoid strangers. -It will always be like this wherever we go. You will make friends, and -then you will wonder that it is so much harder to go away. What right -have we to make friends? we cannot get any good out of them. We who must -be like this, without any place to rest the sole of our feet, till -we”--he paused a moment--“till I die.” - -A faint dolorous wonder had crossed the mind of Helen. She would not -leave him, nothing would make her leave him, lonely as he was. But that -momentary pause, and the substitution of I for we, touched his -daughter’s heart. She put her hand again softly on his arm. - -“Papa, we could not go away by night, all this long, dreadful way--and -Janey. If we were to go early, early in the morning, would that not do? -It is not so cold now, and the diligence goes so early. That would be -best, not to attract any attention; or if we could leave her with Margot -till we got settled----” - -“Leave--my child!--do you want me to leave my child?” he cried, as if -she had suggested something cruel--“till we get settled?” and he -laughed. “The only use of that would be to give them a clue to trace us -by. We could not live without news of her, and letters are destruction. -Do you think we could have been quiet here so long, so quiet, if there -had been letters coming after us? No; we must go altogether when we go. -But suppose that I were to keep out of the way,” he said in a half -entreating tone; “suppose that I kept my room; suppose--I don’t know -what is the matter with me--I have lost my courage. This man cannot stay -very long with the Vieux-bois, Helen. Don’t you think if I were to shut -myself up, to see no one? You could say I was ill----” - -“He is going to marry Cécile; they will talk of us, they will describe -you, and there will be Mr Ashton, who knows us. It might be right--I -mean not very wrong, for me; but he, why should he tell lies for us?” -said Helen, mournfully. - -Her father recovered himself as by a miracle. He sat up in his chair, -and his nervous trembling ceased. He even laughed. “I will manage -Charley Ashton,” he said. - -Shortly after he was summoned to see Antoine, who had come with the -notary to receive the money which had been agreed upon as the price of -his services as Baptiste’s _remplaçant_. Mr Goulburn got up quite -revived and restored, and went to his own room, where the two men -awaited him. It was his bedroom, but also his sitting-room; the small -business he had occupied himself with, since his arrival in Latour, -having been all performed there. In a large old bureau, which stood -between the window and the fireplace, were all his papers, his writing -materials, the few books he had picked up. In a drawer of this bureau he -kept his money. Probably there were none of the secondary vexations of -his ruined life which affected him so much as the necessity of keeping -his money in a drawer, and counting it out to every claimant; but the -sums that were necessary for their living were so small that as yet he -had not been much disturbed by it. This was the first occasion on which -he had taken any serious sum from the stores with which he had provided -himself. The notary sat at the table. Antoine, striding across a chair, -placed himself in front of the window, between his companion and Mr -Goulburn. He watched every movement of the Englishman, who took no heed -of his dark looks. “This is one of the worst of your French customs,” he -said pettishly. “In England I should have given him a cheque on my -bankers without any trouble.” It was not in English flesh and blood not -to say this, though, even as he said it, Mr Goulburn remembered, with a -bitter pang, what so often he managed to forget, that no English banker -would honour a cheque of his, or pay any regard save that of hostile -curiosity to his dishonoured name. - -“Monsieur, it will be long before a peasant will trust to your cheques; -it is not always even that they care for bank-notes. Gold, hard gold, -that is what they like best; but Antoine has education, and is very well -content with the bank-notes.” - -“Perfectly content,” said Antoine. He had his eyes fixed upon the -movements of _l’Anglais_. Mr Goulburn took out one thing after another -from the drawer. First, the morocco letter-case which he had sent Helen -to fetch on the night of the flight from Fareham, then a pocketbook -bursting with papers; then, finally, the thing he was looking for, his -chequebook, which he took out with a sigh. - -“In England I should fill up one of these forms, and all would be done,” -he said, showing it. - -Antoine bent curiously forward to look. “Is it money?” he said, with -some eagerness, yet suspicion; a book of bank-notes! It seemed not at -all unnatural to Antoine that an Englishman should travel with such an -article at hand. - -“Not till monsieur puts his signature,” said the smiling notary. “Look! -it is a _livre à souches_. Here is the counterfoil on which monsieur -marks the cipher. It is very ingenious; but in the country in France -there is nothing we trust in like _des bons gros sous_. We like to hear -the money tinkle, _n’est-ce pas_, Antoine? Not that I say anything -against a bank-note, and an English bank-note, monsieur; that is well -known to be unimpeachable all over the world.” - -“Do not be afraid,” said Mr Goulburn, putting back the cheque-book and -the morocco case, and opening the pocket-book--“these are notes of the -Bank of France.” Antoine looked at it, devouring it from under his heavy -eyebrows. What countless sums might there not be in that drawer! First, -the leather case, no doubt full of _valeurs_ of one kind or another; -then the book of English money, half as thick as a _paroissien_; then -the bursting pocket-book full of French notes. There is no end to the -wealth of those other English; and to think that all should lie almost -within reach of a man’s hand, in a drawer against Père Goudron’s outer -wall! - -Mr Goulburn took out the notes one by one, three notes for five hundred -francs each--a fortune! but nothing to the riches that remained. He took -them out from a sheaf of others carelessly, closing the pocket-book -again and laying it down quite at his ease, not at all excited by the -possession of so much money, almost within reach of the dangerous eyes -that were watching him. - -“Here is your money, my _brave homme_,” he said. “M. le Notaire tells me -all the formalities have been gone through. Do not put it away in a -drawer, as I have to do, but invest it, Antoine, invest it; put it -somewhere where it will bring you in good interest. That is what we call -a very pretty little nest-egg in England. If you manage it well, if you -take care of it, there is no telling to what it may grow.” - -“Monsieur gives you very excellent advice,” said the notary. “I hope you -will take it, Antoine. There are a few little things against you, as -indeed there are against most young men, but I hope you will clear them -all off, and come back to the village when your service is done with -your _livret_ in the best possible order. You have helped to give peace -and comfort to one house, and that should be a pleasant thing to think -of.” - -Antoine received all these good wishes and good counsels with an air of -preoccupation. Fifteen hundred francs! it was a fortune. Still, what it -was was nothing to what was in the pocket-book which lay so carelessly -on the bureau. A thirst, a hunger got into his mind. Was it his fault? -was it not rather that of the Englishman with his careless ways? Never, -never, in all his life, had he seen what he believed to be so much money -before. Instinctively his eyes glanced round under cover of his dark -brows. There was the window on one side, a window which gave upon the -street, within reach of a man of Antoine’s height; and on the other the -door. The bed was at the other side of the room. A clever person might -get through a great deal of work without even awaking the sleeper, -without doing any more harm. - -Helen went out to the door an hour or two later, when her father--who -complained of fatigue and agitation, and was querulous and peevish with -her, as if the visit of the English strangers was her fault--had gone to -bed. It was still not very late. Everything was in full activity at the -Lion d’Or, and the sound of the voices, and now and then a scrap of -song, still sounded into the quiet air of the night, softened by the -distance and by the milder atmosphere, humid and soft, which had -succeeded the long frosts. It made the girl’s heart beat to see some one -standing waiting for her in the shadow of the house. The moon was -shining behind, and all in front of Père Goudron’s was in the blackest -shadow. Helen had never had a lover. It was not of that she thought now, -as she opened the door cautiously; but yet there was something in this -meeting which made her heart beat strangely. Young Ashton came close to -the door. - -“I have told them I always walk at night; they think everything possible -to the eccentricity of an Englishman,” he said with a half smile, “so -that I am at your disposal whatever you may be going to do.” - -“We are to do nothing,” she said. “He will keep his room; he will say he -is ill. Indeed he is not well, Mr Ashton; something is the matter with -him, I cannot tell what. He is nervous, he is not himself; he says he -has no courage to go away. Perhaps you will not stay long at the -_château_?” - -“You wish us to be gone?” he said, with a tone of vexation. - -“Can I help it?” said Helen. “Do you think I shall have a moment’s rest -till you are gone?--or after?” she added mournfully; “for how can I tell -who may come next?--some one not so kind as you.” - -“That is what I think,” he said anxiously; “you will never feel safe. If -it were I that was the danger, whatever it might cost me, I would go; -but it is not I. It is John, and he has come to see his future wife. One -cannot expect him to go, do you think? I am not in his case.” - -He said this with much marked meaning, and looked at Helen so closely, -that she could not but remark it, and wonder, with a nervous tremour, -what did he mean? - -“Miss Goulburn,” he said, “this is not the time to talk of such things, -is it? I am going back to India soon; and I want to marry. I know it -sounds brutal what I am saying. If you will marry me, it would be one -way of settling all this. We could see him placed comfortably somewhere -out of the way, in Spain perhaps, and you would not need to go home to -be troubled by what is said. It is wicked that you should be dragged -about, you so innocent as you are, flying from one place to another. I -cannot bear to think of it. Even your name---- Will you take mine, -Helen? If you would do it, I cannot tell you how happy it would make -me. I never had any hope; but this has always been in my mind since that -school-feast when you were only a little girl.” - -Helen did not remember anything about the school-feast. She was -perplexed by this reference to it which clouded over the sharp -distinctness of the proposal which preceded it. And when he paused she -could not speak, she was struck dumb, half by the sudden business-like -character of the proposal, and half by the wonder of it. She had never -thought (had she? she was not so sure after the first moment) of -anything of the sort. She stood bewildered, and gazed blankly at him in -the blackness of the night. - -“I have been too hasty, and frightened you. I knew I should; but how can -I help it? There is no time to lose. Tell me only one thing: you are not -going to marry any one else?” - -“Oh no, no,” said Helen; then she added simply, “No one has ever asked -me before.” - -He came a little closer and took her hand. “I thought you must have seen -at Sainte-Barbe,” he said. “I was half out of my mind with joy to see -you, and next day miserable when I found you had gone. Helen, if you -think you could like me, there will be plenty, plenty of love on my -side. And think what a motive I should have to take care of your father. -We could settle him somewhere--you and I together--where he would be -safe, quite safe. And after a while they will give up thinking about -him. It would be for his advantage,” said the young man earnestly. “Give -me a little hope, and I will keep John off--he shall never suspect. No,” -cried Charley, vehemently, “I will not make any condition. I will keep -John off, anyhow; you may calculate upon me. I will be your watchman to -keep danger away, whether you give me hope or not.” - -“Mr Ashton,” said Helen, “you are very, very kind. How can I give you -what I have not got? Hope! I have not any. Before you came I felt as if -I must give up, and let things happen as they would.” - -“But you don’t feel that now?” he said eagerly; “you think it is worth -while to try again, to fight your best, however hard it may be, not to -give in? That is what you feel now?” - -“Yes; it is you that have given me hope; not that I can give it you.” - -“Don’t you see it is the same thing?” he cried. “It is because we are -two of us--not one poor individual standing alone, but two to do -everything together: that makes all the difference in the world.” - -Helen did not speak, but she felt it, she could not tell why. Yes, there -was a difference. The burden was lighter; there was a change in the air; -the road did not seem to lead away entirely into the darkness as it had -done an hour before. Two of them!--was that the reason of the change? - -“Helen! that would be all, almost all, I wanted--if you feel so too.” - -She did not make any direct reply; but she said, “I could not go to -India, and leave him. It would not be possible to leave him. If he were -well, if he were safe--but how could I leave him now?” - -“He would wish it,” said young Ashton very decidedly, “if he knew. He is -not a bad man, Helen.” (He paused here, and made a little mental -reservation with natural severity.) “He does not want to make you -wretched, dragging you after him. He would wish it if he knew.” - -There was another pause, and then Helen abandoned this subject -altogether, and said, with a little quiver in her voice which--was it -possible?--sounded half like laughter, “You were--perhaps: they thought -it possible--to have been the _futur_ of Thérèse?” - -“Folly!” he cried. “John thought it would answer; as if any Englishman -would make such a bargain: the woods to look after, and a very pretty -young lady! What would he have said, I wonder, if he had been brought in -cold blood to Cécile? But he did not know my heart was full of some one -else; that is his only excuse.” - -At this moment a bell tinkled inside, and Helen started; he was standing -very near to her now, close up in the shadow of the doorway, two that -looked like one. And she did not make any objection. But now she -disengaged herself softly. - -“It is papa who wants me,” she said. - -“Then it is a bargain, dear. I will be on the watch; I will keep off -John. I will come and see what you think to-morrow night.” - -“Good night,” she whispered. It sounded like an echo of the last word he -had said. - -Mr Goulburn had raised himself half out of his bed, his eyes were -feverish and shining. “Who was that?” he said. “You were talking to some -one at the door.” - -Helen stood with a candle in her hand, which threw a vivid light upon -her face, bringing out its soft brilliancy of tint, the blush that hung -over it like a faint rose-shadow, the dewy dazzlement of agitation in -the eyes amid the surrounding darkness. She said very softly, with a -little catch of her breath, “It was Mr Ashton, papa.” - -Mr Goulburn lay back upon his pillows with a relieved face; he laughed. -“That is all right,” he said--“now I shall sleep in peace. I have two -guardians instead of one.” - -“Papa thinks so _too_,” Helen said to herself, as she went into the room -where Janey was sleeping. It had all been very sudden, and she did not -understand it; but there was a wonderful difference. “It is because -there are two of us--not one standing alone.” Were there ever words that -meant so much? And papa thought so _too_. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV. - - -“Harford? No, I don’t know anybody of the name,” Sir John had said; but -while Charley was out after dinner, exercising that inalienable -privilege of an Englishman to do absurd things, which everybody -recognises in France, he heard a great deal about the English family in -the village, which made him think. Helen was said to have spoken of -Fareham, which Sir John knew very well; and Ashton had recognised this -mysterious English girl, whose presence here was so unaccountable. And -there was a father in bad health--and a child. What could such people -want at Latour? “You shall see her at dinner,” Cécile said; but she did -not come to dinner, and Sir John, who had frowned at the prospect of a -dinner-party, as he chose to call it, on the first night of his arrival, -frowned still more when Helen’s apologies were made, with great -earnestness and regrets far more eloquent than anything Helen would have -thought of expressing, by the wife of the Précepteur. If she was to -come, why didn’t she come? What was the meaning of it? Could it be some -entanglement of Charley’s? his cousin thought. - -“Had they anything to do with Fareham?” he asked late that night, when -Charley had come in, glowing and radiant, from his night walk. “I don’t -understand about these English people in the village. Where did you meet -them? who are they? I don’t want any equivocal people here, in Cécile’s -very village. What could they have to do with Fareham? I never heard -the name there.” - -“I met them somewhere in the parish,” said Charley, evasively. “I forget -exactly in which house. You don’t know all the people in Fareham parish. -I believe it was at a school-feast----” - -Of how much service that school-feast had been! Sir John was more -satisfied, but uncertain still. - -“The father is ill,” he said. - -“So the Comtesse said,” said Charley, with caution. He was too much on -his guard to commit himself. - -“A strange place for a sick man--not a doctor, except the parish doctor, -within thirty miles. What, in the name of wonder, could have brought -them to Latour?” - -“I suppose,” said Charley, “it is a very cheap place.” - -“Cheap? There is something in that,” said Sir John. Then he paused, and -fixing his eyes upon his cousin, “I’ll tell you what,” he said, “I -shouldn’t wonder a bit if it was another victim of that scoundrel -Goulburn,--some poor wretch who has lost every penny, who has dragged -himself here, to die perhaps. Don’t you think it would be civil to go -and see him, as he is ill? They take no end of interest in him here.” - -“There is no hurry about it,” said Charley in dismay; but Sir John was -very persistent. He spoke of it again next morning, and the proposal was -received with enthusiasm by the ladies. - -“We will go together,” Cécile said, who indeed could not contain her -impatience till her friend had seen and given an opinion upon her lover. -Sir John was a fine, big, imposing Englishman, a pattern of all that a -Sir John ought to be--somewhat easily put out in temper, and therefore -affording all the excitement of dramatic uncertainty to the vivacious -Frenchwoman, who had never as yet found the uncertainty more than -piquant. She liked him the better that he was not always on the watch to -pay her little attentions like the men she was accustomed to, and prized -his approbation all the more that it was so doubtful, and that it took -so much trouble to secure it. Cécile was very anxious to exhibit her -large, important lover to Helen; and she was also eager to secure -Helen’s admiration and approval, of which she felt no doubt. That he was -not as the other frivolous young _fiancés_, or even as this cousin, -Cécile felt proudly confident. Sir John, it may be added, was a man of -thirty-five, _rangé_, serious, a public man, a personage. In all these -points of view Cécile’s young bosom swelled with pride in him. As has -been already insisted upon, virtue, seriousness, and duty are, amongst -at least one important portion of the upper classes, of the very highest -fashion in France. - -Charley did all he could to change their purpose. He said, with a little -hesitation, that he had seen Miss Harford, that he had stopped to ask -for her father during his walk, and that the invalid meant to keep his -bed for a day or two. This, however, had no effect upon the party, which -set out very cheerfully in the noonday sunshine, after the second -breakfast, to show the village, and to see the English friends who had -become so important in the life of Cécile and Thérèse. It would be vain -to attempt to tell, since the arrangement, as the reader is aware, never -came to anything, with what swift and silent observation the Comtesse -and her daughters had scrutinised and decided upon Charley. At the first -glance he had succeeded in “pleasing” Thérèse, who knew very well that -it was her mother’s purpose to marry her, according to the simple -formula of her nation, and who at first believed M. Charles to have come -to the _château_ with the same ideas. In this point of view all the -ladies found him quite _convenable_, but--The Comtesse herself -questioned Sir John very closely when his cousin went out after dinner -for that walk which quite chimed in with her ideas of the English -character. - -“M. Charles is aware of the situation, of course?” Madame la Comtesse -said. “It is well that there should not be any mistake on this point. He -knows my intention in respect to Thérèse, and the dispositions of the -will, &c.? So far as appearances go, I find him very suitable, and that -he will be pleasing to Thérèse is probable. There is nothing against -the arrangement. But we must know how it appears to him on his side. -There must be no step taken by us which does not meet a response. M. -Charles on his part, has he expressed his sentiments? Does he find my -daughter pleasing to him on his side? It is necessary to be more -explicit on the part of the gentleman: has he given you to -understand----” - -“Oh dear no!” cried Sir John, alarmed. He had sounded Charley, but had -not got a promising response, and now thought it wisest to ignore the -plan altogether. “Oh, certainly not. I have not said a word to him, my -dear Comtesse. Fancy bringing an Englishman here with the idea that he -was on sight! Oh dear no! I brought him on the chance that they might -fancy each other, the most likely thing in the world--a pretty girl like -Thérèse, and a nice young fellow. It was the most natural thing that -they should fall in love with each other.” - -“Ah, fall in lofe! that was not my idea,” said Madame de Vieux-bois--Sir -John spoke his native language, in which she was not an expert. And -after this conversation the Comtesse put her daughters on their guard. -“Mes enfans,” she said privately, “we will postpone the question. Ce -Monsieur Charles ne me plaît pas. There is something about him---- And I -find, besides, that it is too soon to think of marrying Thérèse: she is -but seventeen. It will be enough to lose thee, _ma_ Cécile--enough for -one year.” - -Madame la Comtesse was far too careful a mother to permit her child’s -thoughts to dwell upon any one who might be found unresponsive. The -girls understood more or less, and they declared their mamma to have -reason, as indeed she had in the fullest sense of the word. This, -however, subdued Thérèse a little; not that she felt disappointed in -respect to Charley Ashton, but that she no longer felt herself in the -important position of being about to make the great decision of her -life. She could not take Helen aside, as she had intended to do, with -pretty airs of gravity, and ask her advice with solemn meaning. “Est-ce -qu’il te plaît?” she had intended to say, curving her young brows with -all the seriousness that became so momentous a question. She felt that -she was coming down from an anticipated elevation, when she had no such -important decision to make. And Cécile, too, was disappointed. The -crisis was _manqué_. It failed in the double seriousness, the weighty -character she had intended it to have. If they were but a little more -reasonable, these Englishmen--a little more amenable to rule! All the -time, however, Cécile piqued herself very much upon the delightful fact -that her John and she had come together by no arrangement, but had for -their part proceeded on strictly English principles, and fallen in love. - -It would be difficult to describe the embarrassment of Helen, receiving -this party of visitors, meeting the friendly enthusiasm of her -companions with the knowledge of her own secret, which she could not -disclose to them, in her heart, and with the very much more dreadful -secret of which she was the guardian, pressing itself upon her, -confusing her mind and weighing heavily upon all her thoughts. She dared -not look at Charley at all. To have met him even alone after the -revelations of last night, after the strange incomprehensible change in -their position towards each other which it had brought about, would have -been confusing beyond measure. But when, added to all this, there was -the terrible figure of Sir John inspecting her with British suspicion, -asking her in every look, Who are you? what business have you here? and -the consciousness of her father lurking in his room, whom the mistaking -of a door, a wrong turning, might betray,--it may be supposed that no -inexperienced girl, standing upon the threshold of her life among things -unrealised, could have had a more terrible half-hour than had Helen, -alone with this group, having to parry all their questions and meet all -their looks without breaking down utterly or running away. She had -thought it best to send Janey out to the garden, lest the child, who -would have been of so much assistance to her, might make some unwitting -disclosure. And there she stood alone, clasping her little delicate -hands together, to meet them all, to conceal what was in her--alas! to -deceive them. The tears were trembling very near poor Helen’s eyes, her -voice wavered now and then as if it would break altogether, her little -figure swayed; but yet she stood firm, though she could not tell how she -did it. The girls put down her trouble naturally to her father’s -illness. They kissed her and whispered sympathy into her ears. “Du -courage!” they said, with tears of tender pity and fellow-feeling. “If -mamma could but come herself!” But they had no doubt that mamma could -send something that would be of use. “It is the emotion of yesterday,” -they concluded, with all the ease of spectators. And then Sir John had -to be told the incident of yesterday and the goodness of monsieur. This -was a blessed relief to Helen, whom he had begun to interrogate about -Fareham and all she knew about it. - -“I suppose you did not know the last people that lived there? One of -those great _nouveaux riches_, those men that live like princes on other -people’s money. He turned out to be a swindl----” - -“Helen,” whispered Cécile, drawing her apart before the sentence was -completed, “Est-ce qu’il te plaît? I want you to give me your most -honest opinion. Je veux qu’il te plaît! Tell me exactly, exactly what -you think--for you must like him,” said Sir John’s bride, with a pretty -flush of impetuous eagerness. Thérèse, who had believed that she too -would have had the same question to put, had surprised certain turns of -the head--certain looks which Charley addressed to her friend--and she -was curious beyond measure, and bursting with a thousand questions. When -the visit was over poor Helen watched them go away, waving her hand to -them from the door, keeping up her smile to the last moment. She did -not lose the last suspicious glance of Sir John, who looked -(accidentally) at her father’s window with all the force of an inquiry, -but she scarcely got the comfort of Ashton’s anxious, tender look of -sympathy which told all his story to Thérèse. She was at the end of her -strength, but nevertheless, she had to rouse herself to go to her -father, who wanted to know every particular of the interview. - -“I heard Harvey’s voice,” Mr Goulburn said. “There was always something -objectionable in his voice. Big Philistine! Cécile de Vieux-bois is a -great deal too good for him. He has dined with me dozens of times, but I -think it was always in town, and at my club. He could not have any -suspicion. Did he seem to you to have any suspicion, Helen?” - -“He had a great deal of suspicion, papa, but I don’t think he knew what -he suspected. He can’t understand what we are doing here. Provided,” -said Helen, with a little French idiom of which she was unconscious, -“provided he does not come another time and take us unawares.” - -“He shall not take me unawares, you may trust to me, Helen; I shall not -budge till the big brute is gone.” - -Her father spoke in a reassuring tone, as if promising for her sake to -abjure all imprudence. Their positions seemed to have changed, she could -not tell how. She was no longer the wistful follower in a flight, the -motive of which she was ignorant of. One would have thought rather that -it was some indiscretion of hers that had brought this danger upon him, -some rashness which he was too generous to reproach her with. “I will do -my best for you, you may trust to me,” was what he seemed to be saying; -and this brought the confusion in her mind to a climax. She went about -all the long day after like one in a dream. - -“It cannot be for cheapness these people have come here,” said Sir John -to Charley. “You heard that story about the substitute? That does not -look like poverty. Besides, I don’t believe the man is ill. The girl -didn’t look as if it were true. He is keeping out of our way. Depend -upon it there is something shady about him. I think I’ve seen the girl -before.” - -“Very likely; she is very young, but she has been out a little,” said -Charley hurriedly, anxious to avoid any following out of the subject. -“One meets everybody one time or another. Even I, who have spent my time -in anything but balls----” - -“Yes; by the way, how is it you seem to know the girl so well?” said Sir -John. - -“I wish, if it’s all the same to you,” cried Charley, out of patience, -“that you’d speak a little more civilly. I don’t see why you should call -a young lady whom you know nothing of, ‘the girl,’ in that contemptuous -way. Yes; it does matter to me. I don’t know that I ever met any one in -my life that I admired so much.” - -“Whew!” Sir John gave a prolonged whistle of amazement; “why, she’s not -fit to hold the candle to Thérèse,” he said; then added drily, “the more -reason why I should find out all about them. I am a great deal older -than you are, and I don’t mean you to make a fool of yourself if I can -help it, Charley.” - -“I think you had better mind your own business,” the other said, in high -revolt. - -And thus Sir John acquired a double motive. He questioned Cécile at -great length, and even took her to task for giving her confidence so -easily. “If it should turn out, as is most likely to be the case, a -person entirely unworthy of your friendship!” he said. - -The _château_ was all in agitation over this subject, the girls -indignantly protesting, the mother disposed to take alarm. Decidedly the -possession of a serious, _rangé_, important English lover of thirty-five -brings its penalties with it; but perhaps, indeed, a lover of any age, -however free and easy in his own relationships, would have been equally -anxious to guard the lady endowed with his valuable affections from any -connection with inappropriate acquaintances. For the moment, however, -his zeal did not increase the comfort of the house. - -The day was feverish and long--how long and feverish and full of alarm -and apprehension perhaps only Helen knew. She sat at watch at her window -all the day, trembling whenever she saw any one approach from the -direction of the _château_. In the afternoon Charley came in and -consoled her, but rather with a repetition of that sentiment about two -being better than one, than with any more immediately satisfactory -information. Helen thought the day would never come to an end; and there -seemed no comfort in the fact that sooner or later it must come to an -end, for what was there to hope but that to-morrow would be like it? -After dinner, when the village was all still, her father looked -cautiously into the sitting-room. “I must get a breath of air,” he said, -half apologetically, half reproachfully. It was as if this imprisonment -to his room was Helen’s fault. - -“Papa, I don’t think I can bear it another day. Let us go away, let us -go away!” she cried. - -“I thought it was you who objected to going away,” he said peevishly. - -Helen sat down again before her little lamp at the table. This time she -had some darning to do. She sat and listened for every step, for every -breath. Oh, to go away, to go away! she said to herself. To go where? -She could not tell. Was there safety anywhere? Was there any spot on -earth where this sickening, shameful danger, this concealment would not -come again? Was it not out of the world, away from life and its torments -altogether, where alone they could be safe? After a while Mr Goulburn -came back. He was nervous too, and shaken by the alarm that seemed in -the air. - -“I don’t seem happy in the village to-night,” he said, “though it is all -as quiet as usual. I think that big bully must use up all the air for -his own breathing, I can’t get any.” He opened the _persiennes_ as he -spoke, then drew them close again. “I think I shall go into the garden, -Helen. I must get breath somewhere. I have shut the front door. Go to -bed. I shall go and sit in the summer-house to get my breath.” - -“Will you take some of the Comtesse’s drops, papa? She said they were so -good.” - -“Ether,” he said--“simple ether; it smells too strong. What do I want -with your old wife’s medicines? No; I’ll go and sit out in the garden -and get my breath. Poor child, you are tired, and it is no wonder. But -all is safe now for the night, Helen; go to bed.” - -All was safe for the night. The dreadful day was over with all its -terrors--everything was still. The village had gone to sleep all the -earlier that it had been so late on the night before. Helen felt too -much alarmed to open the door again to look out for Charley Ashton. She -took her father’s advice passively, and went to her room, where Janey -was sleeping peacefully. Something, she could not tell what, kept her -from undressing. She lay down upon her bed to wait till her father -should come in from the garden. He might want something before he went -finally to rest. But Helen was worn out with the long trial of the day, -and lying across her bed fully dressed, she dropped to sleep. - -All was safe for the night--so some one else thought who was standing -under the shadow of Père Goudron’s wall. The moon was veiled and dim, -but yet was shining and casting a shadow more dark than the ordinary -darkness of the night. It was not possible to see what it was at the -corner under the window, but something moved; it was as if a part of the -darkness detached itself slowly from the rest; where all was black, a -something blacker than the air, yet separate from the wall, rising -upward. It moved noiselessly across the front of the house. All was -quiet, so still that a breath might have been heard, but nothing was -audible. A faint glimmer showed where Mr Goulburn in his impatience had -opened the _persiennes_. He had drawn them close again, but he had not -fastened them. He had a contempt for bolts and bars in this quiet place. -They were open, and the window was open, showing a little glimmer of -light. But in the darkness even that far-away glimmer showed. The moving -thing below put up a hand and cautiously, softly opened the unfastened -_persiennes_, then climbed up noiselessly, a long, dark, -undistinguishable figure, into the room, drawing the shutters close -behind. Was all safe? There was a pause, and the empty room became full -of a living presence, a breath, a danger. Beyond the folding-doors, -which were closed, Helen slept profoundly the sleep of utter weariness. -Across the passage the faint little ray of the _veilleuse_ shone -steadily through the half-opened door. The question was--Did any one lie -there, sleeping or waking? The intruder took what was, in the -circumstances, a long time to consider. Then he advanced silently. To -himself it seemed that the whole house creaked and shivered under his -feet, but Helen, fast asleep, heard nothing; and if out in the garden a -vague sound reached her father’s ears, he imagined it was only Helen -moving about her bedroom, where her light was still burning. That -watching light seemed to make all safe, and the little _veilleuse_, on -the other hand, guarded the empty chamber. The thief trembled before it. -He paused and wiped his forehead, not daring to confront it. But he had -gone too far now not to go on. The man’s heart, which was beating -wildly with excitement, gave a great jump when, peeping in, he saw the -room vacant, the bed unoccupied. He went in and closed the door. - -All were sleeping quietly in the house, except Père Goudron, who lay -quiet enough, but not asleep, thinking of the folly of _l’Anglais_, who -had given away so much money for the sake of a young man who was nothing -to him, and wondering in what way he could manage to secure some of -those same superabundant riches for himself. He could not himself -violently have robbed _l’Anglais_, or any one else. But he, too, had -seen the book with the French notes, and he longed for a share of them. -He was turning over in his mind what fable he could invent, what tale of -poverty he could tell, to beguile some more of those notes out of the -rich man’s pocket. He heard the creak, the startling sound of movement, -but thought nothing of it. His lodgers did not keep the regular hours he -did; they were like all the English, early one night, late another, -never to be relied upon. But he lay still and pondered, intent upon -inventing some story by which he, too, might get a share of the spoil. - -Mr Goulburn, for his part, sat on the bench in the garden, and tried, as -he had said, to get his breath. It had never been so bad before. His -heart laboured, thumping like a steam-engine, creaking and struggling as -if the machinery was all rusty and out of gear. What was the meaning of -it? There had never been anything the matter with his heart till that -old witch at the _château_ decided that he had heart disease. She was -not an old witch; but that is how men of middle age describe their -female contemporaries who have displeased them. The moon was high in the -sky, but veiled and watery, giving a sort of milky whiteness to the -atmosphere rather than light. Under this faint pale glimmer he sat with -a small acacia waving its long leaflets over him. It must be a sultry -night--certainly there was no air to breathe; he could not get any. -Harvey with his big English lungs must have exhausted it, he thought, -with a faint joke in his mind in the midst of his bodily distress. No -air to breathe. He bethought himself by-and-by of the Comtesse’s drops, -which, after all, might do some good. At first he thought he would call -Helen to get them for him. Then a pitying recollection of her wan face -crossed his mind. He would not disturb her, poor child; he would go -himself. He rose and came in slowly, his labouring heart sounding in -the stillness, his very limbs feeble with its excited action. - -A moment more and the quiet of the sleeping house was broken by a -hideous commotion. There was a sound of a door pushed open, a loud -exclamation, a momentary conflict of voices, the door dashed back -against the wall. Then a wild, long cry, a dull thud upon the floor. By -that time Père Goudron had got out of his bed, and was calling upon -Blanchette and Ursule, and scrambling for a light, and Helen waking in -wild terror out of her sleep, had sprung up and seized her candle. She -was so transported with anxiety and terror that the voices that followed -conveyed no information to her ear; but M. Goudron heard the -_persiennes_ dashed open, and a muffled leap into the street. Next -moment Helen’s cries resounded through the house and rang out into the -night. - -“Papa, papa, speak to me!” she cried; “speak to me, papa!” - -Madame Dupré, who had just fastened up her last shutter, heard it, and -rushed to the door--then ran back again and dragged Baptiste out of bed -in his first sleep. - -“_L’Anglais!_--something has happened to _l’Anglais_,” she said. - -And then by degrees one house after another woke, and eager heads peered -forth at the doors and windows. Baptiste, rushing across the road half -dressed, with Auguste at his heels, was called to from one side and -another in a dozen startled voices. - -“What is it? What has happened?” they all asked breathless. He answered -only by repeating what his mother had told him. - -“_L’Anglais_--something has happened to _l’Anglais_,” Baptiste said. - -Two men were coming down the road from the _château_. It was not much -more than ten o’clock, and Sir John had come out with Charley, much -against the will of the latter, to smoke his cigar. - -“I’ll take a turn with you,” the baronet had said. “It’s muggy to-night, -with all those trees about. If you had hit it off with Thérèse, Charley, -I’d have advised you to thin these woods. But it’s no use thinking about -that. What an odd piece of luck, however, that you should have found -this Miss--Miss----” - -“Helen,” said Ashton, with a bitterness he could scarcely restrain. -Rather this familiarity than to speak of her by a false name. - -“Miss--Helen--that’s it. Cécile never says the other name. You don’t say -you know the father, Charley? I’d advise you to find out what sort of -person he is, and all about him, before you go any farther, old man. It -is queer that, just at the other one’s door, so to speak, you should -have found this Miss--Helen.” - -“I wish you would not speak of the other one, John. It is very -disrespectful to a very charming young lady. There has never been any -other one. You offend me when you talk so, by offending her. I have the -greatest reverence for the ladies here--both----” - -“You need not be so particular. She would not be offended. She knows -very well that this marriage is _manqué_, and she is not inconsolable. -But, look here: you must not go a step further till you know all -particulars. I say, what is that? What an infernal row!” said Sir John. - -The sound of the sudden cry affronting the silence, and even the fall -that followed, ringing out into the great quiet with all the intensity -of a sudden calamity, reached them both, though they were scarcely -within sight of Père Goudron’s house. They rushed on without another -word, Charley quickening his steps to a run, as they perceived where the -tumult was. By this time dark figures were coming out into the street -from the cottages near, and everything was in commotion. M. Goudron’s -door stood wide open; the _persiennes_ had been thrown open also, and -what seemed a flood of light poured out into the street. Charley rushed -in, and Sir John followed. In the midst of a group of eager spectators a -pale figure was lying on the bed. He had struck his forehead against -something as he fell, and a drop or two of blood slowly congealing upon -it showed the blow. His lips were open, hanging apart, dry and parched, -his eyes half closed, and showing a dull, inexpressive light. The two -Englishmen went forward, joining themselves to the group. The village -doctor, half dressed, stood holding a mirror to the dry lips. Old -Goudron, like a living skeleton, with a nervous quiver in his old bones, -held a candle, like Time or Death himself assisting at the deathbed. In -one corner Ursule was praying on her knees. Helen stood, pallid as the -dead face itself, supporting the pillows on which he was propped, at the -head of the bed. - -Sir John was slow to take in the chief feature of the scene; he mastered -everything else before he perceived that: the doctor, with the little -mirror in his hand, upon which no stain of living breath was to be seen; -the old bony figure by the bed; the young daughter, silent and -distraught; then his eyes fixed themselves on the face of the man round -whom they had all collected. His sudden shout shook the room. He cried -out in astonishment, in consternation and horror. “My God! it is -Goulburn himself!” Sir John said. - - - - -CHAPTER XV. - - -Mr Goulburn was dead. - -It was hard to tell how it had happened. There was the mark on his -forehead of a blow, but to all appearance it was a blow accidentally -inflicted as he fell, and not done by any hand, and it was not -sufficient to have been the cause of his death. That the state of his -heart sufficiently explained. But whether it was the sight of the thief -which had brought on the final paroxysm, or whether they had come into -actual conflict, or if the disease was so far advanced that any trifling -shock would have done it, it was more difficult to decide. All the -drawers of the bureau were found pulled out, and the one in which the -money had been kept was rifled. Even on this point, however, the _juge -de paix_ found it difficult to refrain from blaming the deceased for his -own loss. The keys had been left in the drawer--could anything be more -foolish? it was a premium upon robbery; the shutters unfastened, so that -any one could push them apart; the window open within that, the room -left vacant, protected only by the _veilleuse_, and the keys in the -drawers. It was the Englishman himself who had laid a trap for the -robber, who had invited him, actually invited him to come and help -himself; but he had fallen into the trap which he had laid. It was -difficult for the prudent Frenchman not to breathe a fervent “served him -right,” with such variety of expression as the exigencies of a more -elaborate language required; but no trace could be found of the thief -and possible murderer. He had evidently jumped from the window, leaving -the shutters open and the room fully displayed, but it was not till -after his escape that the village had been roused. Père Goudron had -heard the leap, but nothing more. In the investigation that followed, -suspicion was directed against Antoine, who had been seen by several -persons watching M. Goudron’s house; but it was conclusively proved that -Antoine had left that afternoon for the _chef-lieu_, where he had gone -to complete all the necessary arrangements for his acceptance as -Baptiste’s substitute. He had been escorted a league on his way by -several of his friends, so on that point there could be no mistake. - -The affair of _l’Anglais_ made, as may be supposed, an enormous -sensation at Latour. Nothing like it, so far as was known, had ever -happened in the village. The _juge de paix sat, en permanence_, for a -number of days examining everybody. They even examined the other -Englishmen who were living at the _château_, and who declared themselves -acquainted with the victim. They were very sharply questioned indeed, so -that it occurred to Sir John that they were themselves suspected of the -deed, an idea which was the cause of endless discourses on his part, and -disquisitions upon the differences between English and French law, very -much, it need not be said, to the disadvantage of the latter. The -Comtesse for her part scoffed at the _instruction_ altogether. She would -hear nothing of a possible murder. The man, she said, had death in his -face; had she not said so, the first moment she saw him? She had seen -him but once, but she had been fully aware what was to be expected; so -fully that she had not even urged him to return home, which she would -have done had the case seemed to her less serious; for it was better -that he should die in Latour than that he should die in the railway, or -in an inn, where his daughters would have no one near them but absolute -strangers. Madame de Vieux-bois justified her own previsions on this -point by sending at once for Helen and little Janey, who, after their -father had been laid in the little burying-ground among all the little -crosses, with their blue and yellow decorations, came to the _château_ -grateful, but half stupefied with all that had happened to them. Helen, -at least, was in this condition, for poor little Janey’s despair had -been brief, as was natural at her age. But the elder sister had gone -through a great many terrible experiences during those two or three -days. She had been examined at great length by the magistrate, not only -on the circumstances of the fatal night, but on all the antecedents of -her family, the reason of her father’s residence at Latour, why he had -left England, everything about him; and then she had undergone an -examination by Sir John, less solemn perhaps, but not less harassing. -Sir John was strongly opposed to the engagement, which Charley Ashton -instantly proclaimed. He declared it to be entirely out of the question, -and risked a quarrel not only with his cousin, but with his betrothed -and her family. Madame de Vieux-bois, indeed, did not hesitate to agree -with him that if the match was so extremely unsuitable as he said, it -would be well that it should be put a stop to; but she had herself no -responsibility in the matter, and her interest, she confessed, was much -more strong in Helen than in M. Charles, who, she was glad to think, _ne -la plaisait pas_ from his first appearance. But Cécile and also Thérèse -were very eager for Helen’s happiness, and very indignant that any -attempt should be made against it. - -“What!” cried Cécile, beautiful in her generous wrath and wonder, “_les -Anglais!_ who believe in nothing but lofe, who blame so much all our -arrangements between parents, our ideas upon marriage! You who say there -is nothing but a _great passion_ which should bring two people together! -Look at the book of M. Taine of the Academy, he who is such an admirable -writer, who has so much observed England. That is what he says, and I -believe it, I! Lofe, that is the true bond, not a similarity of -circumstances, the _dot_ and the position, and how it will advance one’s -career. But you--you--an Englishman, so English! you,” she cried, with a -ring of disappointment in her voice,--“you, _mon D’John, mon fiancé à -moi!_ that you should try to separate them because my Helen, my poor -friend, is---- - -“Come, Cécile,” cried Sir John, “is---- that’s just it. It’s not that -she is poor. To be poor is bad enough, I don’t say that I approve of it; -but it is the bad connection, that is what I dislike. A bankrupt, -a--a--swin---- Well, I won’t call the dead man names. That is what I -object to. I don’t say a word against the girl; but, after all, Charley -is my cousin, and a young fellow with all his life before him, and, hang -it all! it is my duty to take care of him.” - -“And Helen is my friend!” said Cécile. She was shaken in her idea of her -lover’s perfection, and she was shaken in her confidence in the English -nation, and the pre-eminence of “lofe” in all their affairs--which she -had hitherto devoutly believed in, and of which Charley Ashton’s -conduct had given her delightful assurance. As for Thérèse, she was -fully of Cécile’s opinion, but yet could not help feeling that if M. -Charles had behaved like a reasonable creature, and fulfilled the -expectations formed of him before his arrival, it would have been better -for himself. For herself, Thérèse was glad things had happened -otherwise; she was relieved that her mamma had given up all intention of -marrying her for that year. But so far as M. Charles was concerned, for -him it would have been a great deal better. With this reservation, which -on the whole quickened her zeal by mingling it with a grain of pity, -Thérèse threw herself generously and warmly into Helen’s cause. - -When the _instruction_ was terminated, and all had been investigated -that could be investigated, there was a complete failure in every -attempt to trace the criminal. The French law, so suspicious and -peremptory, failed just as English criminal proceedings, so much more -halting and imperfect, so often fail. Antoine’s _alibi_ seemed complete. -There was no evidence to be found which connected him with the incidents -of the fatal night. Mr Goulburn’s English cheque-book was found indeed, -torn up and defaced, on the road by which he must have travelled to the -_chef-lieu_ of the department; but the culprit, whoever he had been, -would most likely have travelled by the same road. The only other thing -which that culprit had dropped was the morocco letter-case which Helen -had brought from her father’s room at Fareham on the night of their -flight. After all the examinations were over, this was restored to her. -She came in, carrying it in her hand, to the library where Sir John was -spending his morning. It was nearly three weeks after her father’s -death, and hostile though Sir John was, both to the dead father and the -living daughter, it was partly on their account that his visit had been -prolonged. He did not choose to leave them in possession of the field, -and he was anxious to save Charley, as he said to himself, from the -clutches of the girl, who, being Goulburn’s daughter, was no doubt an -adventuress too. A violent controversy on this subject had, indeed, been -going on between the two men, when Helen softly opened the door and went -in upon them. Sir John was seated at a writing-table with a flushed and -angry countenance, while Charley, not less excited, paced about the -library. It was a large, long room on the upper floor, with a row of -long windows looking out upon the woods and the park. The two men, whose -angry voices she had heard without paying much attention to them as she -approached, suddenly stopped with embarrassed faces as she made her -appearance at the door. Sir John, with an air half of anger, half of -surprise, pushed back his chair from the table and looked at her, while -Charley hurried to her side and took her hand to lead her forward. - -“Did you want me, Helen?” he said, in a tone doubly tender, drawing her -hand within his arm. At this little exhibition Sir John uttered an angry -“humph!” - -“I came to bring you this,” said Helen. “I do not know what it is best -to do with it. We brought it out of Fareham with us. Papa always said it -was Janey’s fortune. But if it is true, as you say, that he owes people -money--yes, I know it is true; he told me so himself--this ought, -perhaps, to be taken to pay some of them. As for Janey, she is very -little, she does not want much now, and I have a hundred a-year--that -will be enough for her and me.’ - -“Let me see it,” said Sir John, with some eagerness. - -Nobody had been allowed to see the papers so long as they remained in -the magistrate’s hands. He opened them out with a great deal of -interest, shaking one after another out of the case. As he looked at -them, opening each in succession, gleams of excitement passed over his -face. He made hurried calculations under his breath; there were coupons, -vouchers of money invested, many things quite unintelligible to Helen. -Sir John’s fingers trembled with eagerness as he turned them over; there -were various kinds of excitement and pleasure combined in his -survey--pleasure in so much money recovered, for himself as well as his -fellow-sufferers, fierce satisfaction in finding the culprit as bad as -he hoped, the delight of being able to think and say “I told you so,” -all intensifying the pleasure of a new incident after long suspense. The -two others looked on with very different feelings. Helen was not alive -to the meaning of it all. She stood by even with a kind of consolation -and gentle content in the thought that whatever wrong her father might -have done would now be partially made up. She did not look at the face -with which her lover regarded these discoveries, the disgust and pain -and shame on his countenance conveyed no idea to her inexperience. She -did not like Sir John, but she thought his exclamations, his looks of -cruel elation, were only his disagreeable way of showing pleasure in the -recovery of the money. She stood looking on for some time quite calmly. -And then she said, “Will you divide it among the poorest people, please? -He would have liked that best.” - -Sir John broke out with a fierce laugh. “No,” he said rudely, “I cannot -do sentimental injustice, Miss Helen. Your father had made a pretty -provision for you, I must say; you ought to be obliged to his -providence. But for this lucky chance, whoever suffered, he had very -well feathered his nest.” - -“Harvey!” cried Ashton, vehemently, “how can you speak before _her_ of a -lucky chance?” - -Sir John pushed back his chair farther from the table and looked at -them. “I call it so,” he said, “in every point of view. It is the best -thing that could have happened for the man himself, and it is the -highest luck for the children, and for you, if you insist like a fool in -connecting yourself with such a----” - -“Silence!” thundered Charley, making a step forward--“not another word!” - -“I know nothing to prevent me saying as many words as I please,” said -Sir John, eyeing him with exasperating coolness. - -Helen stood between the two excited men in the quiet of her innocence, -not understanding for the first moment what their angry voices meant. -Then her pale and almost passive face became transformed; slowly, -gradually, the light rose in it, kindling her eyes, quickening the -colour on her cheeks. She turned from one to the other, listening, -entering into the meaning. At last she detached herself entirely from -her lover, drawing her hand from his arm, and stood alone, with a kind -of proud humility. She stopped till Sir John had made that last remark. -His tone, the very sound of his voice filled her with wonder and dismay. -She knew no reason for this hostility. - -“My father is dead,” she said with simple dignity; “if he has done wrong -he is in God’s hands; and we are two girls, fatherless and motherless. -Is it with us you are angry, Sir John? It must be with me, for Janey is -a child. What is it that I have done? If it is anything that I can put -right, and you will tell me, I will do it. Why is it you look and speak -to me so?” - -Sir John was taken entirely aback. He looked at her and faltered. She -put Charley away with her hand, with a smile and quivering lip. She -would stand alone while he spoke to her. - -“No,” she said, “not you; do not come near me. Let him tell me what I -have done wrong.” - -Sir John Harvey was a man of experience. He knew how to conduct himself -in most emergencies. He was not apt to be put out. But when he found -himself confronted by this young, solitary, friendless creature, who -had but one person to stand by her in all the world, and he the one whom -her powerful, prosperous enemy was endeavouring to detach from her, the -courage and the strength were taken out of him. Sir John, so big and -strong and well-to-do, faltered before the small, weak, desolate girl. -He could not meet her eyes; his voice and countenance failed him. - -“I--I have nothing to say to you, Miss Goulburn,” he said. “I did not -approve of your father; he has made a great deal of mischief, and ruined -many people; but he is dead, as you say. I don’t pretend to judge him. -The only thing is,” he added, getting courage as he went on, “the only -thing is--what you must see yourself--that a connection with you cannot -do any man any good; that it must, in short, more or less, do harm. -Your giving up this,” he continued quickly, careless of Charley’s loud -interruption, “is very creditable to you. It will make everybody think -better of you. Still, notwithstanding----” - -“Helen, if you listen to that man, if you stand any longer and hear me -insulted, I will think--I will believe you care for me no longer,” -Charley Ashton cried. - -She looked from one to the other with tears in her eyes. “I have nobody -in the world to tell me which is right,” said Helen. She was far beyond -shedding of tears, the moisture in her eyes was a powerful concentrated -dew of suffering through which her troubled eyes looked out. At this -moment there came another knock at the door, a quiet little knock low -down, as of a creature of small stature, sounding against the lower -panels; and then a small voice called from the same altitude, “Helen, -Helen, open, Helen! I tan’t open the door.” - -Sir John turned his face and his chair round towards the little voice, -and sat there attentively expecting what was to come. Charley made one -step to it and opened it, leaving the passage free. Janey appeared in -the threshold in her black frock, her fair little face rising out of it -like a flower, her little figure, so lightly poised, standing against -the background of the panelled wall. She looked round upon them with the -perfect calm of childhood. Then her eyes were caught by the pocketbook -on the table. Janey was not afraid of Sir John nor of any one in the -wide world. She went up to the table and took the precious case into her -little hands. - -“This is Janey’s fortune,” she said, looking up with a smile into the -face of the man beside her. “Are you doing to keep it safe for me?” - -He sat and looked at her, helpless; he would have knocked down any man -who had seized upon it--wrested it from the most powerful claimant; but -before the little child he was helpless. He gazed at her blankly, -stupidly, in the height of his dismay. - -“I will not dive it to Sir John,” said Janey, “because he does not look -kind. He does not like Helen or me; he did not like papa: but I will -dive it to Charley, for he is the one that is good. Catch, Charley!” -cried the little girl, throwing the precious case like a ball across the -table. She clapped her hands when Ashton caught it, with a laugh of -childish pleasure. A ball or a fortune, what did it matter to Janey? -“And look, Helen, who is coming!” the child said. “I was sent to tell -you, but I forgot. Here she is coming! she is coming! and we are all -doing home to our own house, and never to cry any more.” - -In another moment Helen’s forlorn solitude, her helpless loneliness were -over. She flew past Sir John, who rose stumbling to his feet, and -Charley, who stood bewildered with Janey’s fortune in his hand, and fell -into the outstretched arms of a smiling and weeping woman who had come -in after Janey, at the open door. - -Doubt, and danger, and suspicion of herself and of everything around -her, had been closing about Helen. She had looked around her vainly into -the blackness and found no guidance, no one even to tell her what she -ought to do. She had no mother, nor any friend that absolutely belonged -to her; nevertheless, when she flew into Mrs Ashton’s arms, the world -had settled down again out of those giddy whirlings and confused -eccentricities. She did not know what she might be called upon to do or -to give up; but life had taken its natural shape again to the -bewildered girl. She was not out of the labyrinth, but she had found the -clue. - -After the arrival of these strangers, Charley Ashton’s father and -step-mother, the village of Latour advanced daily in its knowledge of -the ways of the English,--a most curious and interesting study, which -gave great amusement to the cottagers. Mr and Mrs Ashton took the -apartments in M. Goudron’s house which had been so sadly vacated by -_l’Anglais_, he who had escaped from all his pursuers by a night journey -more sudden than any of his previous flights. The Latourois had been -very sorry for the man who had died among them; but they were very glad, -as was natural, to forget that tragical conclusion, and to amuse -themselves with all the difficulties about monsieur’s bath, and madame’s -tea. The Curé looked with amused tolerance, yet contempt, at the -costume of the clergyman, and at the droll pretences of that Protestant -personage to be a priest like himself; and Madame Dupré, with an effort, -for the sake of the benefactor who had liberated Baptiste, put up with -the fastidiousness of the new visitors who turned up their noses at her -_pot-au-feu_, and expected to find the refinements of the Trois Frères -in the little _auberge_. “Talk of French cookery!” the new-comers cried; -and they endeavoured to teach Margot how to “cook a joint” over her -handful of charcoal, and to make English mustard out of the -dark-complexioned powder which was all that was to be had in Latour. To -see them walking about for ever, taking perpetual constitutionals, -filled the villagers with wonder. But it would be impossible to describe -the interest of Blanchette and Baptiste when there dawned upon them a -pleasing certainty of the fate which was reserved for mademoiselle. -Little Blanchette was the one who had divined it from the first. The day -M. Charles had come to the _château_, that very day she had read it in -his face. The loves of Cécile and Sir John afforded them no such -sympathetic satisfaction. And indeed, Sir John took his departure -immediately, carrying with him the valuable case which held Janey’s -fortune. He washed his hands, he said, of the other matter. The Ashtons -were on the spot to look after it for themselves, and if the father did -not object to such a connection, of course it was no concern of his, who -was merely a cousin. A cloud, a faint veil of separation, fell between -Helen and the girls at the _château_, in consequence of Sir John’s -opposition. Perhaps it gave Cécile her first experience of the -difficulties that attend marriage with an Englishman. She did her best -to be loyal both to her friend and her future husband, but the conflict -was not without pain. - -But what did any such paltry pain matter in the opening of the new day -which came to Helen out of the clouds of the morning, sweet and dazzling -in all the glories of life and spring? Her oldest friends put her hand -into her lover’s hand, and his father said the blessing over them. Let -all the Sir Johns in the world object, what harm could it do? They went -to Paris and bought the bride her Indian outfit,--she who had nothing. -Helen’s hundred a-year had accumulated as her father had said. It came -from her mother, and was honestly hers, and there was no reason why she -should not use it. And it was at Paris that the young pair were married; -and from thence that they set out to their distant home. But before -they left Latour there was a pretty ceremony, at which their presence -was indispensable. Helen and little Janey put aside their black dresses -and put on white ones to honour Blanchette’s marriage. And when the -religious ceremony took place, after the first day’s performance at the -Mairie, the bride herself, holding her husband by the hand, turned aside -and led the way among all the iron crosses on the graves to the place -where _l’Anglais_ lay under a green mound, without any name. He had -forfeited his name, his good fame, and honour. Nevertheless little -Blanchette wept over the mound, and, kneeling down in her veil and -myrtle crown, laid a white wreath upon the grass, and said a prayer for -his soul. Did it do him any good in those dark countries whither the -fugitive had taken flight “unhousel’d, disappointed, unanel’d”? - -“Ma bonne, douce demoiselle,” said Blanchette amid her tears, “how he -was good to us, monsieur votre père! Never shall a week pass when you -are far, far away from Latour, but Baptiste and me, we will say a prayer -for the repose of his soul.” - -The others said nothing, but stood silent about the nameless grave. What -harm he had done, what suffering he had caused! and yet he was but as -other men, and gratitude gave him a prayer and a tear. - - -THE END. - -PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS. - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DUKE'S DAUGHTER (AKA LADY JANE) -AND THE FUGITIVES; VOL. 3/3 *** - -***** This file should be named 63903-0.txt or 63903-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/3/9/0/63903/ - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this ebook. - -Title: The Duke's Daughter (aka Lady Jane) and The Fugitives; vol. 3/3 - -Author: Mrs. Margaret Oliphant - -Release Date: November 28, 2020 [EBook #63903] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -Produced by: Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team - at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images - available at The Internet Archive) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DUKE'S DAUGHTER (AKA LADY -JANE) AND THE FUGITIVES; VOL. 3/3 *** -</pre><hr class="full" /> - -<div class="c"> -<a href="images/cover.jpg"> -<img src="images/cover.jpg" height="550" alt="" /></a> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<p class="c"><span class="ltspc">THE DUKE’S DAUGHTER</span><br /><br /> -<small>AND</small><br /><br /> -<span class="ltspc">THE FUGITIVES</span></p> - -<hr /> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“Lady, you come hither to be married to this count?”<br /></span> -<span class="i0">“I do.”<br /></span> -<span class="i10">—<i>Much Ado about Nothing.</i><br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<h1><span class="smcap"><span class="ltspc">The Duke’s Daughter</span></span><br /> -<br /> -<small>AND</small><br /> -<br /> -<span class="smcap"><span class="ltspc">The Fugitives</span></span></h1> - -<p class="c">BY<br /> -<br /> -MRS OLIPHANT<br /> -<br /> -<br /> -IN THREE VOLUMES<br /> -<br /> -VOL. III.<br /> -<br /> -<br /> -WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS<br /> -EDINBURGH AND LONDON<br /> -MDCCCXC<br /> -</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_1" id="page_1">{1}</a></span> </p> - -<p class="c"><span class="ltspc">THE FUGITIVES<br /><br /> -(<i>CONTINUED</i>)</span></p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_2" id="page_2">{2}</a></span> </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_3" id="page_3">{3}</a></span> </p> - -<h1>THE FUGITIVES.</h1> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VI" id="CHAPTER_VI"></a>CHAPTER VI.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Next</span> morning Latour was more cheerful than usual. The men who had come -to inspect the woods were not indeed picturesque figures, nor of a very -elevated class, but still they made the village street lively, which was -delightful to Janey, and cheered Helen in spite of herself. Everything -looks a little more cheerful, more comfortable, in the morning. The sun -shone down the village street, catching <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_4" id="page_4">{4}</a></span>here and there upon a little -window in a thatched roof, upon the weather-cock on the tower of the -<i>château</i>, and on the church spire—and shedding a ruddy glow, touched -with frost, over all the country. The woods looked as if they had been -crimsoned permanently by the red tint in the sunshine, so harmonious -were their hues. The road was flecked by yellow bars looking like rays -of gold; everything was mellow and warm in colour, notwithstanding the -chill of coming winter in the air. Little groups of men took their way -in a broken stream towards the woods. Some of them burly French farmers, -of the better sort, with close-cropped heads, and overcoats of -picturesque green-blue, that favoured tint which is “the fashion”; some -in blouses, not so ambitious; with one or two wood merchants from the -neighbouring towns, prim and well-shaven, in the frock-coat of -respectability. There had been a great<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5" id="page_5">{5}</a></span> deal of drinking and bargaining -in all the <i>cabarets</i> about, the evening before. The villagers had given -their advice, especially those among them who were the least creditable -members of society, the poachers of the <i>commune</i>, who knew every tree. -Some of them, the idlest, the least satisfactory of all, to whom the -loss of a day’s work was rather a pleasure than a misfortune, -accompanied the intending purchasers to the woods.</p> - -<p>“Keep up by the pond, monsieur,” said one of these fellows, attaching -himself to Mr Goulburn. “There is some oak that might build ships of -war——”</p> - -<p>“The best trees are on the Côte du Midi,” said another. “If monsieur -will confide himself to me——”</p> - -<p>“I don’t mean to confide myself to any one, my good fellow,” Mr Goulburn -said. He walked along a little in advance of the two, with an air alert -and vigor<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6" id="page_6">{6}</a></span>ous, restored by the new possibility of traffic.</p> - -<p>Janey ran by her father’s side, clinging to his finger, and chattering -all the way. “What are they saying, papa? They speak so funny. Why don’t -they speak English? Couldn’t they speak English if they liked?”</p> - -<p>Mr Goulburn was a man who liked to be popular. He was of the class which -servants declare to be “not the least proud.” “My little girl thinks you -could speak English if you liked,” he said, turning to Antoine, the most -noted poacher in the district.</p> - -<p>“Ah! je voudrais bien! I should then have the pleasure of talking to -these demoiselles,” the man said, taking off his hat.</p> - -<p>“I don’t like him,” said little Janey. “He has a big cut on his head; he -has eyes like the ogre in ‘Jack the Giant-<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_7" id="page_7">{7}</a></span>killer.’ What does he want -with you, papa? He will take you into a cave, and he will eat you up. I -like the other one best.”</p> - -<p>The other was Baptiste, who was the son of the landlady at the Lion -d’Or. It was he who advised the Côte du Midi. He knew all the coverts as -well as the partridges did, or the old wolf that lurked in the darkest -shades of the forest. And his woodland likings had brought him woe; but -he was bent upon defending <i>l’Anglais</i>, who was his private property for -the moment, his mother’s lodger, from the clutches of Antoine.</p> - -<p>When they came as far as the <i>château</i>, Janey consented to give up her -father’s finger, and to withdraw from the procession of the wood -merchants. The <i>château</i> was not one of those deserted grey houses they -had passed on their way from Montdard, but a fine medieval building, -sur<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_8" id="page_8">{8}</a></span>rounded by a moat, and modernised under Louis Quatorze. It occupied -three sides of a square, and at the end nearest the village was -distinguished by a noble tower, covered with a pointed roof, from the -windows of which the lights always shone at night, like a sort of -lighthouse to the village. Helen stopped to look at it with a little -quickening of natural interest. There was nothing about it of the luxury -of the English home. It stood close to the road, no privacy of exquisite -lawns or wealthy foliage withdrawing it from the humblest of its -neighbours, a poor little plot of shrubs occupying the centre of the -square within the gravelled drive. The long row of large white windows, -very close to each other, which ran round two sides of the square, were -undraped and unornamented, not a curtain, not a piece of furniture, -showing from the outside. The great<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_9" id="page_9">{9}</a></span> door underneath them stood open, -and showed only a narrow corridor, and a bare stone staircase, mounting -between two white walls. Helen stood and looked at it wistfully. She -scarcely seemed to remember her own past life—it was a life which had -no sort of connection with the cottages of Latour, the women in their -white caps, the strange existence of the Lion d’Or; but here there was a -kind of link of connection. If there were girls in the <i>château</i>, theirs -might be a French version of her old life. They would be in the -neighbourhood, in the village, something like what she had been. If they -but knew! “But I hope,” she said to herself with a sigh, realising -vividly the imagination that had presented itself to her, as if the -fancied daughters of this house were certainly existing, “I hope that -nothing will ever happen to <i>them</i>!” As the thought passed<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_10" id="page_10">{10}</a></span> through her -mind, the very creatures of her fancy appeared at the open door, two -girls, she thought about her own age, though they were both older than -Helen, dressed in the gloomy mourning of France, without an edge of -white anywhere. They came out with a little clamour of talk, their -voices louder than Helen was used to, though finely modulated and -sweetly toned. Their French gave her that sense of giddiness, as if her -head was turning round, which a new language imperfectly understood is -apt to give. She went on, thinking it rude to stand and stare after they -appeared; but the attraction was strong, and she turned when they had -gone a few steps farther, to go back again, almost meeting the two girls -as they came out of the gate. Their pleasant voices seemed to make a -difference in the air. When they perceived her their lively talk broke -off suddenly.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_11" id="page_11">{11}</a></span> Helen felt sure they were asking each other in -undertones, “Who is that? Where has she come from? Do you think she -looks nice?” though all in their French. She scarcely liked to look at -them, but her heart beat; for they seemed to make a pause and consult -each other. She wondered would they speak to her? It went to her heart -when, after that consultation, they went on, though with a momentary -hesitation. “They do not like the looks of us, Janey,” she said.</p> - -<p>“Where are they doing to?” said Janey. “What are they thinking about? I -wonder if there are any little children in that big funny castle. Little -children are everywhere,” said the little girl mournfully, “but you -tan’t play with them. Helen, don’t you want to do home?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know; perhaps it would not be home now—not like what it used -to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_12" id="page_12">{12}</a></span> be. But you are too little,” said Helen, with a sigh; “if I were to -tell you, you wouldn’t understand.”</p> - -<p>“I understand more better than you,” said Janey, promptly, “for papa -tells me everything. I know,” she said, clapping her hands, “I am not to -be called the old name any more. I am little Janey Harford. Papa told me -so. It is because of naughty, wicked men. Is it not funny, Helen? And -you are Helen Harford too. I sing it to myself, over and over, not to -forget. Nursey wouldn’t know who we were, if she were to hear. We are -all different people now. Dolly, that I put in my little bed is me, and -I’m little Janey Harford.” The child made a little chant of it as she -frisked along the road. “I’m little Janey Harford, I am little Janey -Haar-ford!” It was a piece of delightful fun to Janey. What child can -resist the pleasure of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_13" id="page_13">{13}</a></span> being not me, but somebody else? The spirit of -an adventurer was in the little girl. She did not cling to the -superstitions of propriety and an honest life as Helen did. The -mystification charmed her. “It will not be you and me, but it will be -two other girls,” Janey said. Perhaps the profound gravity of this new -step was lessened to Helen also by its effect upon her little sister. -“It is I who am silly,” poor Helen said to herself. She reminded herself -how common it was for people to travel <i>incognito</i>. “That means out of -their right name. The Queen does it!” Helen said suddenly to herself, -with a sense of relief and consolation unspeakable. She knew that august -lady could do no wrong.</p> - -<p>They went back slowly through the village, following at a long interval -the young ladies from the <i>château</i>, in whom<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_14" id="page_14">{14}</a></span> Helen felt so great an -interest, and who stopped to speak to M. le Curé, and turned round, -plainly indicating to him the two figures in the distance. M. le Curé -looked very closely at Helen and Janey when he passed them a little -afterwards. He was an active, spare, tall man, in his long black -<i>soutane</i> and his three-cornered hat of fluffy beaver on his head. He -let his eyes rest with a lingering look of pleasure and interest upon -the child. Most likely he took Helen, who looked older than her eighteen -years, for a young mother with her child, and the Curé knew how to win -the hearts of parents. Now that all the intending purchasers had passed, -there were very few people about. The cottages did not stand open, as at -Fareham; here and there a woman washing her vegetables outside the door, -or chopping her wood into small pieces, would break the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_15" id="page_15">{15}</a></span> monotony, but -there was no lively coming and going of gossips and neighbours. At one -of the two larger houses an old man had come out, and was standing at -the door. He had a handkerchief tied round his head, and a long coat, -half a dressing-gown, folded across his long legs, and was looking out -with the keenest malignant eyes, as if in search of some one. The Curé -passed this personage with a stiff nod, but the other only grinned in -reply. He grinned also at the young strangers as they came along, and at -a lady who suddenly appeared from the door of the other house, dressed -in the simple morning dress, fitting the figure behind, but falling -straight and loose in front, which is common in France. There was a -little conversation between these two, in the high-pitched voices which -made every word audible.</p> - -<p>“Madame goes out early,” said the old<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_16" id="page_16">{16}</a></span> man. “M. le Précepteur perhaps -has gone to the forest to lay in wood for the winter?”</p> - -<p>“No; Monsieur le Précepteur has his public duties to think of. Persons -in the public service have not time to consider their own advantage,” -said the lady.</p> - -<p>“Ah, how right madame is! how fine is devotion to one’s country!” cried -the old man, with a grin which divided his long face into two halves, -shrivelling up both. He laughed when his neighbour had passed, and went -on laughing sardonically under his breath. Then his eyes fell upon Helen -and the child. “Tiens! des Anglaises,” he said.</p> - -<p>Even Janey knew now that <i>des Anglaises</i> had something to do with her -small self. She drew up her little person with conscious dignity, -averting her head as she walked past.</p> - -<p>“Bonjour, mes demoiselles,” he said,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_17" id="page_17">{17}</a></span> and straightway addressed the -alarmed Helen in a speech which drove all idea of amusement out of her -head, comical though his grimaces were. To be addressed in so much -French bewildered the girl, especially as he seemed to be asking -something of her which she could not fathom. “Belle appartement, beau -jardin, pension si on le veut.”</p> - -<p>What was it he was offering her? She blushed to the roots of her hair, -and faltered in her English-French, “Pardonnez-moi, s’il vous plaît. Mon -père n’est pas ici. Je ne sais pas. Mon père est——”</p> - -<p>Helen’s words failed her. She pointed with much embarrassment along the -road by which her father had gone.</p> - -<p>“Ah! monsieur est là-bas? in the woods? Bien, bien, bien! I will wait -for monsieur,” said the old man.</p> - -<p>The girls quickened their steps as they got away from him.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_18" id="page_18">{18}</a></span></p> - -<p>“What does he want, Helen?” Janey said in great alarm.</p> - -<p>“Oh, I think he wants us to lodge there,” said the elder sister, -scarcely less uncomfortable.</p> - -<p>The little girl looked up in her face with a dismayed and frightened -countenance. “Are we doing to stay here—always?” little Janey said.</p> - -<p>The question appalled them both, but the one knew as little as the other -how to answer it. They went on softly in the sudden gloom which this -idea spread round them. To drop suddenly from the skies from one new -place into another, might be amusing enough for a little while; but to -remain—always, as Janey said! Helen’s imagination was scarcely less -young than her little sister’s. To-day and always were the only -alternatives. They held each other fast by the hand, and walked along -the village street, feel<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_19" id="page_19">{19}</a></span>ing a sudden dreariness steal over the whole -scene. It had relapsed into its usual quiet, though there were ranges of -tables outside the Lion d’Or, and the rival <i>auberge</i> on the other side -of the street, to accommodate the thirsty visitors when they should -return from the woods. In the distance the young ladies from the -<i>château</i> were disappearing round the corner. The woman who had been -washing her vegetables had also disappeared, but another had come out to -help her who was chopping the wood. And the old man still stood at his -door, peering up and down the village. It was strange to go on -disturbing the silence, interrupting the sunshine, in a place so quiet; -their steps seemed to send echoes through all the tranquil place.</p> - -<p>“Is it always so quiet?” Helen asked timidly when they reached the Lion -d’Or. The mistress of the house stood at the door, shading her eyes with -her hand, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_20" id="page_20">{20}</a></span> looking out for the return of the expected purchasers. -She was a buxom woman, in a white cap, with long, heavy ear-rings and -bright eyes.</p> - -<p>“Does mademoiselle think it so quiet?” she said. “Wait till they begin -to come back. <i>Ma foi!</i> it is a crowd, a tumult. In half an hour we -shall not know where to turn to find a seat that is unoccupied. Ah! the -‘<i>vente des bois</i>’ is a great day. There is nothing like it out of -Paris. But in Paris it lasts continually, that is the difference. -Mademoiselle has been in Paris?”</p> - -<p>“Only for a day.”</p> - -<p>“Aha! that is nothing at all. Paris cannot be seen in so little time. -The English go too quickly, if you will pardon me for saying so. Paris! -Figure to yourself that I was there, mademoiselle, effectively there, -for all of a month. I know Paris at my fingers’ ends.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_21" id="page_21">{21}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Are the young ladies very nice,” said Helen, hesitating—(she did not -know how to say nice, that accommodating word. “Les jeunes dames, -sont-elles très-agréables”—which, even to her English ear, did not -sound right—was what she said)—“at the <i>château</i>?”</p> - -<p>“<i>Comment?</i>—ah! you would say the demoiselles who passed just now. Yes, -not amiss. We do not find fault with them,” said Madame Dupré, with a -slight shrug of the shoulders; “but speaking of Paris, mademoiselle. Ah! -if I could but have sent my Baptiste there, what a happiness! He might -have been clerk in one of the best <i>magasins</i> on the Boulevard. But boys -are obstinate beyond all things, beyond the very mules. He prefers his -village, and the woods, and the <i>chasse</i>. He gives me a great deal of -inquietude, my boy. Should he draw a bad number it will be an evil day -for the Lion d’Or.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_22" id="page_22">{22}</a></span> There is always that hanging over us. When a poor -woman has several sons, instead of being a help to her it is but opening -the gates to evil. She who has only one may keep him safe. And what does -it matter, when they are helpless children, how many sons you have, -mademoiselle? Till the <i>tirage</i> is over, I shall never know a day’s -ease. Sometimes I think it is better to have no children at all, as old -M. Goudron says.”</p> - -<p>“Is that old M. Goudron?” said Helen, pointing to the old man who still -stood at his door and watched, with his red and yellow handkerchief tied -round his head.</p> - -<p>“He is what we call a <i>richard</i>, mademoiselle, the most rich person in -the village. He has so much that he thinks it is a crime to be poor; he -thinks it is your fault, not circumstances. His poor little -granddaughter lives with him in that big house, and he leads her a life! -Fancy,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_23" id="page_23">{23}</a></span> mademoiselle, the poor girl loves my Baptiste! they have always -had a fancy for each other; and if the old man would give her a <i>dot</i> as -he promised, and Baptiste drew a good number——”</p> - -<p>“What is a good number?” said Helen, in her ignorance. She did not know -what it meant. That the young man’s fate should depend on the very -insignificant fact whether he drew five or fifty, was incomprehensible -to Helen.</p> - -<p>Madame Dupré on her side was equally incapable of understanding how any -one could be ignorant on the subject of the conscription. It did not -require a very strong inducement to make her talk. And she launched -forthwith into an eloquent denunciation of the evils of the system. “A -low number is a good number,” she said; “but figure to yourself, -mademoiselle, what will happen to me if it comes otherwise. Either my<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_24" id="page_24">{24}</a></span> -Baptiste marched away to the life of the <i>caserne</i>,—such a life, such a -life, <i>mon Dieu!</i> and though he is a good son, he is idle, I do not deny -it—he loves to wander; it would be his destruction,—or all that we -have taken from us to buy a substitute. Often it is a thousand francs, -no less. Think of that, mademoiselle, a thousand francs! and I but a -poor widow with four children. When I think of it in the night my sleep -goes from me. Certainly M. Goudron has reason. Children are the chief -pleasures in our existence, but it is true that they are at the same -time our torment—they are our cross that we must bear.”</p> - -<p>She lifted up the corner of her apron to her eye, but seeing under its -shadow the first person of the crowd coming into sight, she returned at -once to her business.</p> - -<p>“Quick, Jeanne!” she said—“the soup! they come.” And sure enough, the -one<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_25" id="page_25">{25}</a></span> figure was soon followed by others. Madame Dupré lost not another -moment. She took the long rolls out of the basket and put them by every -plate. She set upon the table, at equal distances, the <i>vin du pays</i>, -which was given with the meal. Her long ear-rings swung in her ears with -the vehemence of her movements, her cap-strings floated in the air. She -sent little Auguste, the waiter, in three directions at once, and, -wonderful to relate, he went. Auguste was ubiquitous; he could carry any -number of plates, full or empty, and a laden tray on four fingers of his -extended hand. His feet, in their low shoes, twinkled over the floor -like lightning. He was never still for a moment. The two girls stood -looking on at all these arrangements till Madame Dupré ran against them. -“Pardon me, mes demoiselles,” she said, “you will be better up-stairs. -When monsieur your father comes back<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_26" id="page_26">{26}</a></span> he will like to find you in your -own apartment. The Lion d’Or is very well regulated, but there are -<i>mauvais sujets</i> that will take more wine than is good for them. When -the bustle is over, Auguste shall mount up-stairs with the young ladies’ -breakfast.”</p> - -<p>This speech, delivered without one pause for breath, was very puzzling -to Helen, who had only understood approximately. But she understood -enough to lead Janey, very reluctant, up-stairs. And here they watched -the return of the buyers, which went on for the next two hours, one -group and another coming in till the whole village was overflowing. The -most important among them had maps of the property, to which they -referred, perpetually pointing out to one another the different lots, -and quarrelling about the position of their bits of timber. Mr Goulburn<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_27" id="page_27">{27}</a></span> -returned as he had gone away, with young Baptiste and Antoine -discoursing to him on either side. He had the air, radiant and -satisfied, of a man who had done a good morning’s work. He listened to -all they said to him with a smile, but he did not accept Antoine’s -offers of guidance in the matter of cutting up the wood he had bought, -or getting the best price for it. “We will talk of that afterwards, my -good friends,” he said. He was willing to hear what they said to him, -but he did not pledge himself to follow either. Meanwhile it was quite a -gay scene from the windows of the Lion d’Or. The old man still stood at -his door, exchanging a word here and there, and asking eager questions -about the buyers. He had nothing to do with the old Count’s wood, but to -have something happening was a godsend to him. As<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_28" id="page_28">{28}</a></span> for little Janey, the -bustle in the street was delightful to her. She leaned out of the -window, keeping Helen in terror. She called “Papa,” making a pretty -babyish grimace as she looked down upon him, watching her opportunity to -drop something upon his head or his plate. However impatient of others, -he was always tolerant of Janey’s freaks. Her countenance was as gay as -that of the happiest child in Christendom; and his was bright with -satisfaction and pleasure. It was not possible to Helen to change so -easily. She gazed upon the happiness in both their faces with an envy -that perhaps had a little disdain in it. How easily they threw over -their burdens, while she—— And once more it became apparent to Helen -that they were very likely to remain a long time at Latour.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_29" id="page_29">{29}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VII" id="CHAPTER_VII"></a>CHAPTER VII.</h2> - -<p class="nind">“<span class="smcap">I have</span> bought a corner of the wood; I could not resist the temptation. -So far as I can see, I must be able to make my own out of it. Well, -perhaps it was foolish; but I must do something, and there is no -likelihood of loss at least.”</p> - -<p>Thus he explained himself somewhat lamely, with a consciousness that -what he was saying must sound very strange to her. What did Helen know -about his plans, or whether it was foolish or not, and why should he -have explained it to her? It alarmed her as much as everything else in -the strange and terrible<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_30" id="page_30">{30}</a></span> imbroglio through which she could see no -light.</p> - -<p>“Papa, I—— You said you were poor——”</p> - -<p>“Poor! And you think it is inconsistent with poverty that I should buy a -few miserable bits of wood? You have made great progress lately, Helen, -to permit yourself to sit in judgment on your father.”</p> - -<p>She looked at him piteously, with an appeal in her face. “I don’t know -about it, papa; how can I know, or how can I sit in judgment? Will you -please not tell me anything? Because I don’t understand, and then it -looks as if I understood.”</p> - -<p>“It seems to me you are no better than a fool, Helen.” But when he had -said this he went away, and relieved her from the pressure of the new -burden to which she was so unaccustomed.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_31" id="page_31">{31}</a></span> The excuse, the apology -conveyed in his explanations, gave her a sense of confused misery, -incongruity, impossibility, which was almost the worst of all. Oh, why -had he ever told her anything? Why had he raised her against her will -into that position in which she was forced more or less to judge against -her will? She sat, when he had gone, at the window of the little room -up-stairs, which was the best room in the Lion d’Or. The white curtains, -it need not be said, were fixed fast as if they were glued to the -window. To draw them aside would have been more terrible to Madame Dupré -than to break a moral law; the one might have been condoned by public -opinion, but the other! Helen sat within the primly fixed muslin which -veiled all the world without, and sometimes shed a few tears quietly, -while she made an attempt to mend Janey’s frock.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_32" id="page_32">{32}</a></span> It was not a -handicraft she understood, but at least she could fasten the two gaping -sides of a rent together, and that was always some good.</p> - -<p>But Janey was enchanted with the corner of the wood which her father had -bought. He took them to see it in the afternoon, Antoine and Baptiste -both following—Antoine as the possible wood-cutter for the removal of -the trees, Baptiste as the host and natural care-taker of the strangers. -With the latter, Janey had already made great friends in her fashion. -The means of communication between them was limited, but that has little -to do with real amity. When there had been something in the conversation -which pleased Janey, she left her father’s hand, and came up running and -smiling to this new ally. “N’est-ce pas, Monsieur Baptiste?” Janey -cried; and the young fellow replied with a broad grin, “Oui, -mademoiselle.” Janey’s little laugh rang through the trees after every -interpellation of this kind. It was an admirable joke, which pleased -everybody. As for Antoine, he did his best to attract a similar -confidence, but without any success. He was not young and smiling like -his rival. He was a tall and powerful man, with the head of a brigand, -black-eyed and black-bearded, and his smile was uneasy and unreal; but -Baptiste was brown and curly, his hair all hyacinthine, his boyish -moustache curling<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_33" id="page_33">{33}</a></span> over a perpetual smile. And the road into the woods -was so cheerful and bright, that no wonder Janey was delighted. The oaks -had begun to blaze in red and brown; the feathery larches drooped their -delicate branches against an illuminated background of autumn tints; big -green laurels and hollies made solid towers<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_34" id="page_34">{34}</a></span> of green among the varied -copse. A few magnificent foxgloves still remaining threw up their shafts -of flowers, and there was not a bit of brushwood that had not some -cluster of scarlet haws or trailing russet of a bramble to make it -bright. The corner which Mr Goulburn had bought was like a little -pine-forest in itself—a regiment of tall and even firs. The sun was -slanting in upon the red and golden columns upon which the dense yet -varied roof of green was supported. Underneath, the brown carpet of -fallen foliage, years upon years of growth, made slippery elastic -cushions, which, with here and there a bank of emerald moss breaking -through, were warm and soft. There were projections of twisted roots to -make thrones of, and a tinkle of an unseen rivulet close by filled the -air with music, when it could be heard for the sighing and murmuring<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_35" id="page_35">{35}</a></span> -overhead as the wind swept through the boughs. “Oh, let us never do away -again! let us stay here for ever and ever!” cried little Janey; and then -her little voice rang off into peals of laughter as she called out, -“N’est-ce pas, Monsieur Baptiste?” “Oui, ma bonne petite demoiselle,” -said Baptiste, with his genial grin. He did not understand a word, but -what did that matter? Mr Goulburn was touched by his child’s enthusiasm. -“We shall not stay for ever and ever, but we may stay a good long time, -my little Janey,” he said; “it is a pretty place and quiet. Even Helen -thinks so, who is never pleased.”</p> - -<p>The same night, when they were rising from the table in the little -<i>salle à manger</i> where they had just dined, the old man whom Helen and -her little sister had seen in the village street came in with his hat in -his hand. He came<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_36" id="page_36">{36}</a></span> up to their father with elaborate politeness. -“Monsieur will pardon me,” he said. “I know what is required by persons -<i>comme il faut</i>, and though I have nothing to say against my good -neighbour Madame Dupré, yet it cannot be denied that the arrangements of -the house leave much to be desired. Would monsieur do me the favour to -look at my apartment which is to let? I have already had the honour of -mentioning it to mademoiselle. My house is the best house in Latour. -There is a garden, which is laid out after the best models. If monsieur -will permit me to show it to him, he will make me happy.”</p> - -<p>Mr Goulburn had been puzzled by the preamble about the wants of persons -<i>comme il faut</i>. Everything that was unknown was a little alarming to -him; but he recovered his placidity when the word <i>appartement</i> met his -ear.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_37" id="page_37">{37}</a></span> “It is true,” he said, “the arrangements of the Lion d’Or leave -much to be desired, as this gentleman says. Shall we go and inspect his -house as he proposes? It would not be a bad thing to do.</p> - -<p>“Oh no, no, no!” cried little Janey, like a little fury. This time her -father was not so much touched by her opinion. He told her she was a -little goose, and finally he went out himself with old M. Goudron, -desiring severely that the heroine of the afternoon should be put to -bed. The day is over early in October, and when the two girls went up to -their room, and lighted their solitary candle, it was a great deal less -cheerful than in the ruddy woods, with the sunshine penetrating between -the tall columns of the pines. The rush-bottomed chairs groaned at every -movement upon the wooden floor. There was no fire, though the evening -was cold, and the candle threw but a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_38" id="page_38">{38}</a></span> miserable light upon the two -little wooden beds and the humble furniture, of which there was so -little. “I want to do home,” sobbed little Janey as she went weeping to -bed. And Helen sat down again, and put the two gaping mouths of the rent -together; or, rather, finished the joining of them which she had begun -in the morning. She felt that it was not very well done. The daughter of -a millionaire, with all kinds of servants at her call, how was she to -know how to mend her little sister’s frock? If that had been all! Helen -felt herself able to learn; but how to arrange into something that was -comprehensible this jarred and broken thread of life she did not know. -By-and-by the nightly noise began below, which had ceased to disturb -little Janey’s sleep. Madame Dupré kept good wine, and Baptiste was a -favourite in the village. The men came in, in their heavy boots,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_39" id="page_39">{39}</a></span> and -talked in voices louder than the clodhoppers of an English village. -Often Helen sprang to her feet and ran to the door, thinking there was -some deadly quarrel. It was only Jean or Pierre more eloquent than -usual. Opposite, at the Cheval Blanc, there was the same tumult; but the -village round about these two noisy places was as silent as a sleeping -city. It was too cold for the women to stand about the doors and have -their evening gossip. Helen went to her window and peeped out by the -side of the blind when she had finished her mending. She could see M. -Goudron’s house opposite, and her father standing in the moonlight -outside the door. A little superstitious thrill ran through her, she -could not tell why; and just then Antoine came up, and stood and talked. -They came back to the inn together, the big hulking figure of the -villager, in his blue<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_40" id="page_40">{40}</a></span> blouse, towering over Mr Goulburn. Helen did not -like the man, but her dislike of him did not seem enough to account for -the sense of alarm with which she saw them cross the street together. -She was relieved when her father came into the light under the window -and entered the Lion d’Or.</p> - -<p>Old Goudron was one of those born fortune-makers whose gift is as little -capable of being crushed by circumstances as is the genius of a poet. He -would have amassed wealth on a desert island. He had dealt in every kind -of merchandise in his day, and it was believed that the manner of his -traffic had not been always blameless. He had gone through all the -possible industries of the village: he had dealt in ship stores at -Marseilles, in wine-casks at Dijon; he had pounced on a hundred small -gainful speculations which only a keen micro<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_41" id="page_41">{41}</a></span>scopic eye, always intent -on profit, could see. He had neglected nothing, overlooked nothing, by -which a penny could be made. Even now that he was old, and the <i>richard</i> -of the village, supposed to possess unbounded wealth, his eyes were as -keenly open as ever to all the possibilities of adding to his store. -When he stood at his door with the handkerchief tied about his head -nothing escaped him. If a child dropped a <i>sou</i> on the road it was -supposed that old Goudron picked it up. Money stuck to his fingers, the -people said; they were half afraid of him, yet almost reverential of his -genius. M. Goudron, however, to this one faculty, which is cosmopolitan, -added others which belong more exclusively to his country. He scoffed at -religion in all its forms, and he was republican of the republicans. He -scoffed at most things, it is well to add. His long countenance, cut in -two<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_42" id="page_42">{42}</a></span> by the mockery of his characteristic grin, was that of a vulgar and -mean Voltaire, always on the watch for an opportunity of reviling. -Naturally such remains of his family as were left to him did everything -that in them lay to thwart all the objects of his life. His children -were dead, and he had but three grandchildren remaining to him in the -world. Of these, two girls lived with him in his house, suffered all his -caprices, and crossed him in every instinct of his nature; and the -remaining one, his son’s son, his natural representative, was a -spendthrift and good-for-nothing, abroad somewhere in the world, of whom -the old man knew nothing, except that he was sure to turn up some time -to reclaim his part of the succession, from which, according to French -law, he could not be shut out.</p> - -<p>Thus M. Goudron knew that his cherished money, when he left it be<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_43" id="page_43">{43}</a></span>hind -him, would go to Blanchette, the girl who wanted to marry Baptiste Dupré -without a <i>sou</i>; and to Ursule, who had a <i>vocation</i>, and was bent on -becoming a nun; and to Léon, who was a good-for-nothing, and spent every -penny he could get before he earned it. This was not a pleasant prospect -for the old <i>richard</i>. Perhaps it embittered him against the world. It -certainly made life so much the harder for the two poor girls who were -his descendants, but who had no sympathy with him. Though he was so -rich, they were exactly like the other cottage girls of Latour. Margot, -the good woman who lived in the next cottage, came in, before she -attended to her own household, to do what was wanted for M. Goudron’s -lodgers; but Blanchette and Ursule, though they were heiresses, did all -the household work in their own apartment up-stairs. Margot’s children<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_44" id="page_44">{44}</a></span> -chopped the wood and drew the water; but it was Ursule who kept the -house in that chill and waxy cleanliness which is the French ideal, and -Blanchette who cooked, and washed, and served the table. Work, indeed, -is reduced to its easiest proportions in a house where there are only as -many rooms as are absolutely wanted, and no carpets in these rooms; and -where the kitchen fire is a little pan of charcoal, capable of being -lighted or extinguished in a moment. Margot, with her smiling brown face -and her white cap, did all this for the lodgers down-stairs. She swept -their bare <i>salon</i> at an unusually early hour in the morning, waking the -girls by the vigorous sounds of her broom, and dusted the long formal -candelabra and large bronze clock which half covered the old mirror over -the chimney-piece. When they came in on the first morning there was a -log blazing in the wide chim<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_45" id="page_45">{45}</a></span>ney, sending its ruddy sparks and almost -all the warmth it produced up that vast aperture. Janey coming in, flew -to the fire with delight, putting her little hands out to the ruddy -glow. “It is as nice as the forest,” Janey said; “I am so glad we came -here!” Margot let her brush of feathers drop, and folded her arms, and -looked on with a broad smile.</p> - -<p>“The little one is charming,” she said. “She is not so tranquil, -mademoiselle, saving your respect, as most of you other English. Do you -never talk, what we call <i>causer</i>, among yourselves?”</p> - -<p>“I do not know what is the difference between <i>parler</i> and <i>causer</i>,” -said Helen.</p> - -<p>“Ah, mademoiselle, such a difference! I am too ignorant to explain; one -feels it, one does not know how to describe. <i>Tenez</i>! if mademoiselle -knew the young persons up-stairs—Ursule, who is as good as a little -saint; she has her mind full of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_46" id="page_46">{46}</a></span> religion, she is always serious. -Mademoiselle knows that she has a <i>vocation</i>, and but for that old Père -Goudron, who is Voltairian, who is—hush! he has ears that go over all -the house. <i>Bien!</i> Ursule talks, <i>elle parle</i>; but her sister, little -Blanchette, who is the little merry one, she who is always singing, she -who chatters, chatters all day long, and never is quiet—<i>elle cause</i>. -Now mademoiselle will see the difference. And perhaps the English, too, -<i>causent</i>, though we never hear them, when they are at home, as we are -here.”</p> - -<p>“It is because we only know a few words,” said Helen. “I should like to -<i>causer</i> like Mademoiselle Blanchette, but——”</p> - -<p>“Ah!” cried Margot, “here is a beginning! Mademoiselle is ten times more -pretty when her face lights up. When we allow ourselves to criticise,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_47" id="page_47">{47}</a></span> -this is what we say of the English—‘They are too serious; they have -what we call <i>figures de bois</i>.’ When one chatters, when one smiles, all -is changed. She is charming, <i>la petite</i>.”</p> - -<p>“What is she saying about <i>la petite</i>?” said Janey. “<i>La petite</i>, that -is me! I want to know what she says.”</p> - -<p>“Je dis que vous êtes charmante, mademoiselle,” cried Margot, with a -laugh. “You see I understand the English. If the little demoiselle will -condescend to amuse herself with my little Marion and Petit-Jean, she -will soon learn to chatter like the rest. Monsieur your father speaks -very good French, and I hear that he knows himself in affairs to -perfection, mademoiselle. They say he had the best bargain of all in the -‘<i>vente des bois</i>,’ and that he will make enormously by it. Ah, the -English, they are the people for affairs!” said<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_48" id="page_48">{48}</a></span> Margot, admiringly. -“But to imagine that one like monsieur should have taken the trouble to -come all this way to little Latour for the ‘<i>vente des bois</i>!’ That -shows how the English always have their wits about them, while we, who -are on the spot, and who ought to know, we are so <i>bête</i>, we let those -good bargains slip out of our hands.”</p> - -<p>“We did not hear of it in England,” said Helen; “we were travelling——”</p> - -<p>“Ah! and one knows how to join affairs to one’s pleasure when one is -English. It is extraordinary; they never forget themselves,” Margot -said. “But monsieur is rich?” she added interrogatively. “It makes -nothing to him to gain a little, to take the profits out of another’s -hands. It is <i>pour s’amuser</i>, to distract himself, to forget the <i>ennui</i> -which is peculiar to the English.”</p> - -<p>“We were once rich,” said Helen,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_49" id="page_49">{49}</a></span> “but we are not rich now; papa says -so. And we have no <i>ennui</i>, as you call it, in England,” she cried -indignantly.</p> - -<p>Margot smiled; she could forgive the patriotic denial, but she was aware -that she knew better. “All the same,” she said, “it must be sad to live -in a perpetual fog and never to see the sun. For that I could never -support your England, notwithstanding all that you have there. Of what -use is wealth when you cannot see the sky?” said Margot. Helen was too -indignant to reply.</p> - -<p>But in the course of the first day she got a great deal of information -from Margot, who told her all about the young ladies at the <i>château</i>, -who talked English <i>comme deux diablesses</i>, the woman said—and who were -indeed English-mad, and betrothed, one of them, to an Englishman. When -Helen asked once more in her halting French, whether they<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_50" id="page_50">{50}</a></span> were -<i>très-agréables</i>, meaning “very nice,” Margot answered with a shrug of -her shoulders—</p> - -<p>“I do not know anything to the contrary. What does that matter to us -others if the aristocrats are <i>agréable</i> or not? They are not as we are, -they are not of us. They have got their <i>château</i> and their <i>bois</i>, and -all that, though many people think they have no right, and should not be -allowed to retain it. But I say to my man, ‘What is that to us? We have -not the money to buy it. Let them stay. Madame la Comtesse is better -than old Père Goudron, who would buy it all if it were taken away from -them. So why should we interfere?’ That is what I always say——”</p> - -<p>“Interfere!” said Helen, not knowing what to think.</p> - -<p>“Jacques, who is my man, is not always of my opinion, mademoiselle. He<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_51" id="page_51">{51}</a></span> -says, why should there be a <i>château</i> for one and a little cabin for -another? But I say, ‘Hold thy tongue, <i>mon homme</i>. How would it -advantage thee?’ It is hard, nevertheless,” said Margot, “that we should -have to go and buy our own woods to warm us in the winter. The trees -were not made by M. le Comte; they are there for all the world. Yet we -must spend our little money, and go to the <i>vente</i>, and pay for what has -grown out of the earth! This is an injustice. When anything passes -through a <i>fabrique</i>, and is manufactured, I allow that it should be -paid for; but that which grows by itself, which comes out of the ground, -that is different. Figure to yourself that I am talking politics to the -English young lady. <i>Va</i>, Margot, thou art a fool for thy pains! -Naturally mademoiselle is Conservative—she loves the aristocrats, like -all her nation?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_52" id="page_52">{52}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know,” said Helen, surprised. She had heard her father rail -against aristocrats, but she had understood that it was because the -great people round Fareham had been uncivil. She had never supposed the -existence of such a feeling in a cottage, and it puzzled her too much to -make any reply possible. “But surely——” she began, then stopped, for -she was not very sure of anything in French, and even in English could -not venture upon a political argument. She returned with some difficulty -and discomfort to the original question.</p> - -<p>“The young ladies at the <i>château</i>, are they not good to the poor?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, <i>les pauvres</i>! Yes, yes; they are kind enough. When one is ill they -will come and demand, ‘What can one do for you?’ It is true, -mademoiselle; but one does not like to have it thus forced upon one -brutally that others are better off<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_53" id="page_53">{53}</a></span> than one’s self. That humbles you. -I prefer, for my part, that they should not interfere. <i>Assez!</i> let us -talk of something else,” said Margot, taking up her <i>plumet</i>, which in -her fervour she had allowed to drop from her hand. This was the worst of -Margot’s ministrations. When she became interested in the conversation, -the feather-brush always dropped and the dusting was suspended. As for -Helen, she felt her world widening around her. She forgot the strange -sentiments she had been hearing, and the strange position in which she -found herself. On one hand, there was little Blanchette with her story; -and on the other, the young ladies at the <i>château</i>, who spoke English. -Her heart filled with excitement and hope. They were nothing to her, but -they opened once more the ordinary world, and delivered her from her own -tribulations and thoughts.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_54" id="page_54">{54}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VIII" id="CHAPTER_VIII"></a>CHAPTER VIII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Helen</span> and her little sister were left very much to themselves for some -time after they settled in M. Goudron’s house, and the village life -going on round them soon became interesting and important to the -strangers. Little Janey played all day long with Marie and Petit-Jean, -and acquired a Burgundian accent, and an ease of speech much beyond that -of Helen, who still talked as with a shadow behind her of her governess, -and was tremulous about her genders, and afraid of the subjunctive mood. -It was wonderful how soon they came to know the stories which hid under -each little thatched<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_55" id="page_55">{55}</a></span> roof. Though Helen did not dare in the face of -public opinion to unfasten the closely strained curtain that covered her -windows, she managed to draw its fulness towards the centre, leaving a -little corner by which she could see what was going on. The chief thing -she saw, it must be allowed, was old Goudron standing at the door -watching everything that went on with his hungry old eyes, and grinning -with malicious pleasure at every mishap. Nothing escaped the old man, -and his grin was the chief thing in Latour which soured the milk of -human kindness, made the good wives cross, they could not tell why, and -exasperated the men. He was always there with malignant and mocking -words whatever happened, to say that “I told you so”—which makes every -misfortune a little more unbearable;—“if you had listened to me.” The -house next door was the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_56" id="page_56">{56}</a></span> only house in the village which made any -pretensions to gentility. M. le Précepteur who lived in it was not a -schoolmaster, as the English reader may suppose, but the collector of -taxes, a Government <i>employé</i>, who held on with a very stern clutch to -the skirts of the aristocracy, as a man well born, with a wife who found -herself sadly out of place in this desert. When madame went by in her -pretty toilets, M. Goudron had always a gibe. The public virtue of M. le -Précepteur, and his devotion to the country, was his favourite subject. -“<i>Quoi</i>, madame! it is too much to have an old Roman for a husband. -Again you go out alone,” he would say. Madame knew that her -irreproachable husband was playing billiards at the moment, thinking -very little of public duty, and still less of the enormity of leaving -her to go out alone, but she held up her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_57" id="page_57">{57}</a></span> head and smiled disdainfully. -“In our class, monsieur,” she said, “we are trained from our cradles to -recognise that each has their share of duty—society for the women, but -for the men the country. It is difficult, I am aware, to make it -comprehensible among the <i>bourgeois</i>,” she added, sweeping past with the -sweetest smile. Old Goudron grinned, but he had his match. Helen watched -their passages of arms daily. The <i>employé’s</i> wife was a good mother and -an excellent housewife, but neither for home nor children would she have -relinquished the grandeur of her caste. She paid visits at the -<i>château</i>; she patronised the Curé; and visited the good Sisters, who -kept their little school at the other end of the village; and maintained -her little social circle with the stateliness of a duchess. Once a-week -she had her little reception, which<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_58" id="page_58">{58}</a></span> was attended by M. le Curé, M. le -Vicaire (for it was a large parish), and the notary. Once a-week she and -her husband dined at the <i>château</i>. Regularly as the weeks came round -were these social rules observed, for, as she justly remarked, “Without -society one vegetates, one does not live.” It was much in the mind of -this one representative of high life in Latour, to open her doors to the -strangers. The father’s appearance was perfectly <i>comme il faut</i>; and -though Helen was shy, she had still the air of a young person who had -been instructed, and might have been <i>né</i>, like madame herself.</p> - -<p>Nobody else in Latour had a <i>salon</i> or the ghost of a <i>salon</i>. But -Helen, peeping from her corner, soon got to know which of the cottage -wives looked out anxiously for the return of their husbands, and which -reposed with pride<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_59" id="page_59">{59}</a></span> and calm upon the certainty of Jean or Jacques’ -sobriety and good behaviour. She began to know the different clank of -the <i>sabots</i>—from the little patter of the children, in their dark-blue -homespun frocks and close little caps, to the heavy resounding tread of -the big boys and men. She knew M. le Curé’s measured step, and the pause -he made to leave his wooden overshoes behind when he went in to see a -sick man; and the brisker little trot of M. le Vicaire, who had been in -the war, and who was a fiery little martyr, tramping leagues off to the -edge of the parish to see the sick, or any one who called for his aid. -On Monday every week M. le Curé went to the <i>château</i> to say a mass for -the old Count in the little chapel, and stayed afterwards to take his -<i>déjeûner</i>, the second breakfast, which, till all these masses were -over, was the first meal for<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_60" id="page_60">{60}</a></span> the good Curé. It was on Thursday that the -priest and the Précepteur and his wife dined at the Château of Latour, -and on Sunday was the reception of madame next door. On Sunday all the -village was astir. There was a great deal going on in the church in the -morning, and a tolerable amount of people there—a far larger number -than was justified by the professions of the villagers, who disowned all -the habits of piety, and made themselves out much less Christian than -they were. It is the fashion to be religious in the upper classes, and -all who would aspire to belong to them in France: and it is the fashion -among the peasantry to hate the Church; yet notwithstanding, there were -a great many people at High Mass, wherever they came from. M. le -Précepteur was there with his wife in her prettiest toilet, and their -little girl as fine<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_61" id="page_61">{61}</a></span> as a little girl could be; and M. le Maire and the -adjoint both thought it expedient to set a good example to the -community. But it was only the morning that the best of Catholics -thought it necessary to devote to the services of religion. Even Madame -la Comtesse at the <i>château</i>, though orthodox to the fingers’ tips, took -care to assure her guests that vespers were not a duty, <i>pas -obligatoire</i>, and in the afternoon and evening all the merriment of the -village, such as it was, was in full swing. The Lion d’Or and the Cheval -Blanc were both full; and in a large loft belonging to the former there -was dancing, which Helen and Janey watched with a fearful joy through -the open window. To be able to see this, even at a distance, was an -amusement they had not hoped for; yet Helen was very uneasy as to -whether it was justifiable on Sunday even to look on at<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_62" id="page_62">{62}</a></span> a dance. But it -was not very riotous dancing, or even very gay, as we are led to suppose -the amusements of our gayer neighbours are. They took their pleasure -very seriously, these Burgundian peasants, just as our own country folks -do. The violinist of the village had no great variety of music in his -<i>répertoire</i>, and the peasant couples, solemnly circling round and round -with their hands on each others’ shoulders, displayed little of that -characteristic gaiety of France which we hear so much about.</p> - -<p>Down below, in front of the windows on the benches outside, the men -drank steadily and talked, till it became too cold, while the women -sitting by, knitting their stockings, sometimes threw in a word. They -made a great deal more noise than similar assemblies do in England, but -there was not much more mirth. Very often a passing show, a travelling -establishment<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_63" id="page_63">{63}</a></span> of pedlar’s wares—a “Cheap Jack,” or at the worst, a -dentist in a triumphal car, making their last rounds before the winter -set in, would arrive at Latour, and this made Sunday very piquant, -before everything succumbed under the chills of the declining season. -Madame Dupré at the Lion d’Or, in her whitest cap, with her long -ear-rings, occupied the large chair on these Sundays, leaving the -waiting to Auguste, and Baptiste, and Jeanne from the kitchen, whose -holiday it was to emerge from that hot and stifling place, putting also -long ear-rings in her ears, and a cap that might have been starched in -Paris, it was so <i>comme il faut</i>. Jeanne liked to show herself in the -<i>salle</i> among all the people on these Sunday nights. But Baptiste for -his part was always seeking to get away. He stole up to the dancing-room -to have one waltz with his Blanchette, then<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_64" id="page_64">{64}</a></span> rushed down to get a -<i>chope</i> for Jean Pierre, or a new bottle of <i>piquette</i> for Père Roussel, -or the absinthe which the little city clerk, who had come to help M. le -Notaire, thought it fine to call for. And thus the Sunday evenings went -on. Madame la Comtesse would have liked to shut up the <i>auberges</i> and -have Sunday kept as in England, if she could; and Madame Vincent, the -Précepteur’s wife, had fixed her reception for Sunday in order to -prevent her husband and the notary from patronising the vulgar popular -meeting in the Lion d’Or. But neither of these great ladies influenced -the village. The first it regarded as a hostile power, whom to thwart -was one of the first of its duties, the other as a laughing-stock.</p> - -<p>Mr Goulburn walked about the village for the first Sunday evening, and -amused himself, while his daughters at the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_65" id="page_65">{65}</a></span> window saw all the rude -little frolicking at a distance—the dancing-room with its open windows, -the oil-lamps burning hot and smoky in the gloom, the dancers gyrating, -not always in time, to the squeak of the village fiddle; and down below, -the light in the windows of the <i>salle</i> at the Lion d’Or broken by the -figures of the people who sat outside. The girls were not so soon bored -as he was. He was a man who liked to be popular, as has been said. He -went in to pay his respects to Madame Dupré and made her his little -compliments.</p> - -<p>“All the world is here,” he said, “to-night. I find you on your throne, -madame, the queen of the village.”</p> - -<p>Madame Dupré was so pleased that she accorded him a civility shown to -few. She got up to offer him a seat, and called to Baptiste to bring her -a certain precious little bottle.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_66" id="page_66">{66}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Monsieur must taste it—it is genuine,” she said; “it was brought me -from the hands of the monks who have the secret.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, the monks!” some one said; “they like to keep all the good things -to themselves.”</p> - -<p>“And with good reason,” said Mr Goulburn. “Could I make anything so good -as this, certainly I should keep it to myself.”</p> - -<p>This <i>mot</i> had a little <i>succès</i> in the company which pleased its -author. It is hard to say how far down we will go for applause without -any sense of lowering ourselves. Praise is always pleasant.</p> - -<p>“Monsieur has reason,” said Madame Dupré. “I am not <i>dévote</i>, but now -and then I like to hear one who will say a good word for the clergy.”</p> - -<p>Old M. Goudron, who was sitting by, took his cigar out of his mouth.</p> - -<p>“Madame is too good,” said the old<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_67" id="page_67">{67}</a></span> man; “she would say a good word for -the devil, if there is such a person, and if he were a customer at the -Lion d’Or.”</p> - -<p>“The clergy are no customers of mine, nor do I hold with them any more -than you do,” Madame Dupré began, with rising colour, when the -Englishman poured oil on the waves.</p> - -<p>“In my country,” he said, “the clergy are not a separate class as in -yours. They marry and live like other men; but no one in England speaks -of them as you do here in France. They do a great deal of good among us. -They take care of the poor.”</p> - -<p>“Pah! a married priest!” cried Madame Dupré, with an expression of -disgust. “I am no bigot, but I could not put up with that.”</p> - -<p>“And as for what monsieur says about the poor,” cried M. Goudron, “there -ought not to be any poor. A man who wants<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_68" id="page_68">{68}</a></span> help, who cannot keep himself -alive, there is no place for him in the world.”</p> - -<p>At this a little murmur rose, and one of the silent spectators spoke. -“We are all poor,” he said; “and when there is a bad harvest, or a bad -winter, or illness in the house, how are we to live without the help of -a kind hand?”</p> - -<p>“Ah, it is you, Paul le Roux; every one knows why you speak. There is -solidarity between the enemies of mankind,—the priest and the -aristocrat; they have but one end. It is for this they wander about the -village to take persons at a disadvantage who may happen to be badly -off. You do not see how their charity is an impudence. What! give you -their crumbs, and their fragments! ‘Take what falls from my table, I am -better than thou.’ It is an insult—such an insult,” old Goudron said -suddenly, with the grin that divided his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_69" id="page_69">{69}</a></span> face in two, “as I never would -venture to offer to any neighbours of mine.”</p> - -<p>At this there was a general laugh. “Père Goudron,” said some one from -the window, “will never fail in respect to his neighbours in that way.”</p> - -<p>“Never!” cried the old man, with his malignant grin.</p> - -<p>In the meantime young Baptiste had escaped from the table and the -drinking, and had gone back to the dancers, who were now beginning to -disperse. He went across the street with his Blanchette and her friends, -and secure in the occupation of both their parents, talked for half a -happy hour with her at the door. When he bade her good night at last, -and little Blanchette went in with the blush on her cheeks, Helen, -somewhat pale from her vigil, was standing at the door of the -sitting-room. “Will you come in?” she said. She<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_70" id="page_70">{70}</a></span> had been sitting there -a long time alone, since Janey went to bed, watching the dancers, and -listening to the squeak of the fiddle and the hum of all the voices. It -was not a kind of merrymaking which Helen could have shared; yet to see -people enjoying themselves, and to sit alone and look from a distance at -their pleasure, is sad when one is young. She was glad to see the bright -countenance of the other girl, who was in the midst of all that little -agitation of youthful life from which she was herself shut out. There -was but one candle in the bare little <i>salon</i>, and that was put away in -a corner not to interrupt the sight of the village gaiety outside. -Blanchette came in, proud of the invitation, and looked out with great -sympathy upon the scene she had herself left, where now the dancing -figures were fewer and more irregular, and the lights more smoky and -lurid than ever.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_71" id="page_71">{71}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Was mademoiselle looking at us all the time?” she said; and then she -suddenly took and kissed with fervour, to Helen’s great surprise, her -unwilling hand. “<i>Mon dieu</i>!” said little Blanchette, “but how sad for -mademoiselle!”</p> - -<p>“Oh, thanks,” cried Helen, much confused and not knowing what to do. She -would have liked to kiss the little girl who felt for her, but she was -too shy to do this. “It amused me very much,” she said with a little -sigh—perhaps she had scarcely thought that her amusement was sad till -Blanchette suggested it. “I think I saw you dancing with Baptiste.”</p> - -<p>“Oh yes, mademoiselle. He came as often as he could. Mademoiselle knows -that we are <i>fiancés</i>.”</p> - -<p>“Yes; but you are too young to be married,” Helen said.</p> - -<p>“Does mademoiselle think so? Bap<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_72" id="page_72">{72}</a></span>tiste is almost twenty. Provided that -he draws a good number, that is all we have to hope for. Will -mademoiselle say a little prayer for us when the moment comes? Ursule -has promised a candle to St Hubert if all goes well. Ursule has no -wishes for herself. She is a saint upon earth. All that she asks from -heaven is for me.”</p> - -<p>“But she is only a very little older than you are. Why should she have -no wishes for herself?”</p> - -<p>“Mademoiselle, she has a vocation,” said Blanchette with awe; the candle -shone back, doubled and reflected in those twin mirrors, from her eyes. -The gravity on her face brought out all its sweetness—a little face, -all alive with love, and hope, and reverential admiration, and faith. -Helen felt her own passiveness all the more from the contrast. She felt -half ashamed of her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_73" id="page_73">{73}</a></span> ignorance, and of standing, as she did, outside of -all this world so full of life.</p> - -<p>“What is a vocation?” she said.</p> - -<p>“Does not mademoiselle know? A vocation is something one does not talk -of carelessly, as we are talking; it is too sacred, when it is a true -vocation. She would have been at the Sacré Cœur now, had not grandpapa -been so——Figure to yourself, mademoiselle, that grandpapa is very -violent against the Church. He hates even the good Sisters, who are so -kind. When M. le Curé passes he spits on the ground. It is terrible,” -cried Blanchette, with tears in her eyes, “to be so old and to be like -that. If Baptiste draws a good number, he will not be able to refuse -that we should marry,” she added very seriously, too grave for blushing, -“and then perhaps my poor Ursule—— The holy mother will take her -without <i>dot</i>, they have such<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_74" id="page_74">{74}</a></span> faith in her; but she would not leave me -alone with the grandfather. Provided only that Baptiste draws a good -number!” the girl said, clasping her hands.</p> - -<p>“Surely, surely he will!” Helen said fervently.</p> - -<p>Little Blanchette shook her head. “If things would happen because we -wish them to happen!” she said—and then she added, “Baptiste, perhaps, -has been a little idle, mademoiselle; but all Latour wishes him well, -and the ladies of the Sacré Cœur have promised to make a <i>neuvaine</i> for -us. They would do anything for Ursule’s sister. I wish I had a little -more faith, mademoiselle,” she said, shaking her head once more.</p> - -<p>Helen had that vague confidence that what is desired must happen, which -is common to the very young, when their own feelings are not so deeply -concerned as to make them despondent; and though<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_75" id="page_75">{75}</a></span> she could not possibly -know anything about it, and her assurances that all would be well were -absolutely worthless, still they consoled Blanchette, who was very -grateful for the interest shown in her, and cried, and smiled, and -declared mademoiselle to be an angel. This was not unpleasant, on the -other hand, to the lonely little Englishwoman. To be sure Blanchette was -not a lady, but she was a girl, and the freemasonry of youth is warm. -Helen got quite excited as she speculated upon the chances which -involved the happiness of this young pair. She herself knew nothing of -such agitations. She felt to herself like a very pale little shadow -standing by looking on, while the others were involved in all those -hopes and fears. She, too, had been plunged into a stormy sea, but it -was very different from this one; Helen did not understand the change in -her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_76" id="page_76">{76}</a></span> own life, and notwithstanding all that her father had said, could -not feel at all sure that this mysterious chapter might not end as it -began, and Fareham and its splendours reappear again in her existence. -But as she sat down in the semi-darkness after Blanchette had left her, -her mind followed an altogether different line of thinking. Blanchette -was the perennial heroine of human story. All the romances, all the -poetry were occupied with troubles like hers. None of them took any -interest in the fate of a girl whose father was the cause of her -misfortunes, and with whose griefs no warmer thought of possible -happiness was twisted. She was altogether in the shadow, and sympathy -was not for her. She had not even a chance of sympathy without a -complaint, without, perhaps, betraying her father, which was impossible. -But with Blanchette everybody<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_77" id="page_77">{77}</a></span> sympathised, even the ladies of the Sacré -Cœur, who might be expected to be not too favourable to marriage. Helen -knew nothing of this phase of life. She wondered, with a shy alarm at -her own thoughts, if, as the novels said, something of the kind happened -in everybody’s experience? The thought made her laugh faintly by -herself, and made her blush, though without the slightest reason; and -then suddenly there came before her, like a scene in a theatre, the -<i>table d’hôte</i> at Sainte-Barbe, and the young stranger who had startled -her by his recognition, and who had been so glad to see her. Why had he -been so glad to see her? A little tremble ran over Helen, a flush to her -face, and she laughed again, this time more faintly than ever, then -sprang up and took down the candle from the oldfashioned marble-topped -sideboard in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_78" id="page_78">{78}</a></span> corner, and put it on the table, and got her book. She -had been reading a pious French book which she had found in her room, -because it was Sunday; it was not very engrossing. Her thoughts strayed -away from it in spite of herself. But she tried her best to hold them -fast and read very steadily. By-and-by the sounds outside lessened and -withdrew, and steps could be heard passing, one group after another, -taking their way home. The day of leisure was over, and to-morrow the -work would begin once more. Helen had begun to watch for her father’s -step among the heavier ones outside, when Blanchette suddenly put her -head within the door.</p> - -<p>“Mademoiselle!” she cried, breathless, “here is monsieur coming home, -and Antoine Roussel. Baptiste told me that I ought to warn you. One does -not like to say ill of one’s neighbours, but<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_79" id="page_79">{79}</a></span> Antoine is a <i>mauvais -sujet</i>. All the village says so. One cannot trust him. If mademoiselle -were to say as much to monsieur <i>son père</i>?—and good night—good -night—and a thousand times thanks, <i>ma bonne et chère demoiselle</i>.”</p> - -<p>Her head disappeared as quickly as it had come. Helen was a little -confused by the sudden warning, by the complications of the language -with which she was still so unfamiliar. To be addressed in the third -person still mystified her a little, and so did monsieur <i>son père</i>. But -she had a strong youthful prejudice against Antoine, who followed her -father about everywhere, and whom Janey could not bear. “But what will -papa care?” she said to herself, though indeed it was possible that he -might care for the altogether causeless prejudice of little Janey, if -not for any remonstrance of hers.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_80" id="page_80">{80}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IX" id="CHAPTER_IX"></a>CHAPTER IX.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">It</span> is curious with what ease we adapt ourselves to the completest change -in the very foundations of life; a little difference is vexatious and -irritating, while a revolution which carries us away from our own -identity, substituting a new routine, an entirely altered existence, is -comparatively easy. Mr Goulburn, whose affairs had been of the vastest, -who had been in the full turmoil of life, in the midst of society and -excitement, held at the highest strain, and running the most tremendous -risks, fell into the life of the village with an ease which bewildered -himself. He could not comprehend the soothing influences<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_81" id="page_81">{81}</a></span> of the calm -and good order, the silence and dulness which all at once enveloped him -like a cloud. Even Montdard was farther off from Latour than any part of -the civilised world is from London. Amid the woods of the Haute -Bourgogne it was more difficult to realise what went on ten leagues off, -than it was in England to understand how all the great affairs of the -world were going. He had bought that clump of pine-trees in a momentary -sympathy with the excitement of the country, and with a notion brought -from the old life which he had abandoned, that it was a good thing to -have something to occupy him. But he was not so keen even about his -fir-trees as he had expected to be. The leisurely habits of the country -got possession of him. He walked to the woods and looked at them, then -came home to breakfast, then amused himself with cal<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_82" id="page_82">{82}</a></span>culating the profit -to be made of them, and all that could be done.</p> - -<p>Never before in his active life had he been out of the world. He was so -now, and the distance confused all his faculties. He had lost sight of -everything he knew, of all that he had calculated upon, of all the -influences which had affected him before. The people about, in the -<i>cabarets</i>, by the roadside, talked politics indeed, but their -discussions seemed so fantastic and unreal to the constitutional -Englishman, that they rather increased than lessened his sense that he -was out of the world altogether, drifted into some other life. Those -wild theories of universal right, broken lights of communism, all the -more lurid because of the passion of proprietorship with which they were -mixed; the hatred of the aristocrats; the fear of the Church; all those -prejudices which were so extraordinary to his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_83" id="page_83">{83}</a></span> mind, looked to him like -something got up for his admiration and bewilderment,—scenes at the -theatre, which not even the players themselves could believe in. They -amused him greatly, being all sham as he thought, dramatic exhibitions -natural to the French character; he for one was not taken in by them; -but they convinced him more and more of the unreality of this life. He -had got into some enchanter’s cave, some lotus island; he did not know -at all what was going on outside. Was he a man for whom there was search -being made, and with a price upon his head? Or had he dropped out of all -agitations whatsoever, out of knowledge of the world? He could not tell; -he had not seen a ‘Times’ since he had left London. One terrible fit of -alarm he had gone through at Sainte-Barbe. But Charley Ashton certainly -could not have known anything, or he would have let it<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_84" id="page_84">{84}</a></span> somehow appear -in his looks, even if he had taken no ulterior steps. And how could any -one, however great an offender, however well known to the world, be -found in this place, which was not in the world? The idea seemed absurd. -Then Mr Goulburn amused himself with his calculations about the wood. He -was not in any danger from Antoine. A peasant and poacher of the rudest -French type was not very likely to take in a man of the world; and he -had no more intention of leaving the wood-cutting in Antoine’s hands -than of doing it himself.</p> - -<p>As for little Janey, she was as happy as the day was long, with little -Marie from the cottage next door, and Petit-Jean. Her French bubbled up -like a little fountain, all mingled with laughter. It was so funny to -talk like the little French children, Janey thought; and no doubt they -too could talk English like her if they would<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_85" id="page_85">{85}</a></span> take the trouble. Helen, -too, settled down as if she had been to the manner born. She, who had -scarcely ever threaded a needle for herself, mended the rents in Janey’s -frocks, and took pleasure in it. She learned from Blanchette how to -knit, and began to make warm stockings for her little sister. She taught -Janey her letters every morning. She had a great deal to do, to -supplement Margot’s exertions with the featherbrush, and arrange -everything as well as she could, the meals and all the details of the -house. And by-and-by Helen began to forget the strange way in which this -change had been accomplished. She forgot that midnight flight, the -dismal journey, the fugitives’ career from place to place. She could -scarcely have told any one what it was that had brought them to Latour. -Had they meant to come to Latour when they left England?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_86" id="page_86">{86}</a></span> Helen could -not tell. She was embarrassed, bewildered by the question, though it was -she who put it to herself. She had lived a life so retired and quiet at -home, that she had nobody to regret except Miss Temple, who had married -Mr Ashton; but this marriage had happened nearly a year ago, and Helen -had spent all the summer alone. The time we spend alone goes so slowly. -She had lived like a young hermit in the great house; even Janey she had -only seen when Nurse thought proper. She had nothing to do, nothing to -live by, nobody to think of. She had been awoke all at once from that -feeble dream of existence by the thunder-clap of the sudden flight. And -now she found herself like one who has fallen from a great height, or -recovered from a severe illness, or been picked up out of the -sea—living, and thankful to be living, ac<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_87" id="page_87">{87}</a></span>customing herself to this -surprising reality of existence, so true after so much that was not -true. Helen’s intellect had not very many requirements, and such as it -had could be supplied by that perennial fountain of dreams which makes -up for so much that is lacking in youth. She had no books to read, but -she told herself a long and endless fable through all the silent hours, -so much the more enthralling that she was always in it, the doer, or the -cause of the doing, present in all its succeeding scenes.</p> - -<p>The ruddy October weather had come to an end, and November had begun to -close in, dark and heavy, when the next incident occurred in Helen’s -life. This was when she made the acquaintance of the young ladies at the -<i>château</i>, who had looked very wistfully at her for a long time when -they met her, before they finally broke the ice. Helen herself had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_88" id="page_88">{88}</a></span> -thought it was “her place” to await overtures, not to make any attempt -at a beginning, which ought to come from the other side. It was the -morning after the first snow, when everything was white around Latour, -the trees hanging heavy with a load of crystals, the path sparkling -underneath their feet. Very few, indeed, were the people who were out to -brave it. Most of the villagers had got in their stock of wood, and -collected their potatoes, their winter supply of vegetables: no -improvident buying from day to day, except by the poorest and least -respectable of the population, was known at Latour. Those who had -gardens, or little farms, had stored up all their treasures for the -severe season. A great number of the men were busy in the woods; the -women kept indoors. Till evening, when the men came home, there was -scarcely a soul visible in the village;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_89" id="page_89">{89}</a></span> then there was a little stir, a -sound of heavy feet, and all was quiet again. Blanchette shivered when -she saw that Helen had prepared to go out—“Mademoiselle will die of the -cold,” she said; “and <i>la petite</i>! it is to kill her.”</p> - -<p>“But Ursule has been at Mass as usual,” said Helen, with a little -triumph, seeing the prints of a little pair of <i>sabots</i> in the snow.</p> - -<p>“That is a different thing, that is <i>obligatoire</i>,” Blanchette said, -with great gravity. “Mademoiselle knows that my sister is almost a -religious; and when it is so, what does it matter? cold or wet, is there -not the <i>bon Dieu</i> to take care of you?”</p> - -<p>“The <i>bon Dieu</i> takes care of us all,” said Helen.</p> - -<p>She was a Protestant, which, though no one knew what it was, was -certainly not a Christian, and therefore had no particular right to be -cared for by God. Still Blan<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_90" id="page_90">{90}</a></span>chette did not object to this supernatural -shield for Helen. She only shook her head as they left the door. These -uncovenanted mercies, though always to be hoped for, are risky; whereas -in the case of Ursule, there could be no doubt, on all sides, of the -perfect security of the guarantees. Janey was delighted to feel the -crisp and dazzling snow under her little feet; she ran and danced upon -it, stamping on the hard shining surface. “It is like a big, big cake,” -said Janey, “and me the little lady on it. Don’t you know, Helen, the -little lady with the stick?”</p> - -<p>It was a Twelfth-Day cake of which Janey was thinking, and Helen could -not help recollecting the very cake which had kept a tender place in her -little sister’s thoughts. It was one which had figured at the school -treat organised by Miss Temple, before she went away and married.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_91" id="page_91">{91}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Do you remember the little lady, Janey?”</p> - -<p>“She turned round and round,” said the child; “she had a stick and -pointed. Let me get a stick and point too.”</p> - -<p>What a different scene came before Helen’s eyes! the schoolroom at -Fareham all decked with holly, the great white cake sparkling like the -snow, the eager children drawing their characters,—and in the midst of -the party a splendid, shy little person wrapped in furs, who was the -giver of the feast, and to whom everybody looked with so much desire -that she should be pleased. She thought she could hear the horses pawing -with impatience at the door, and see little Janey flushed with -excitement, wrapped in the softest satin-quilted mantle, carried out by -the biggest of footmen to the most luxurious of carriages. Helen laughed -softly to herself—was it a dream? She thought of it as Cinderella<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_92" id="page_92">{92}</a></span> -might have thought of her ball had there been no young prince in it, -nothing to make the episode of special importance. Was it really true? -And it was at this moment, while Janey was pirouetting round and round -with the wand in her hand, and when Helen had just laughed to herself at -the strange recollection of the past, which was so unlike the -present—that the two Demoiselles de Vieux-bois came suddenly round the -corner and met them. There was a little pause on both sides. An “Oh!” of -startled expectation came to Helen’s Britannic lips, and the two young -Frenchwomen swerved for a moment, then stopped and held a hurried -consultation. Then one of them advanced with pretty hesitation, a blush -and a smile.</p> - -<p>“Pardon, mademoiselle,” she said; then added in very passable English, -“we have wished to call, but our mamma has been sick, and we were -doubtful to come alone.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_93" id="page_93">{93}</a></span> Perhaps you will let us make friends now?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I shall be so glad!” cried Helen, putting out her hands shyly, with -a sudden flash of light and colour coming to her face. They had thought -the English miss, like all English misses, pale and cold.</p> - -<p>“I told you so,” said the one to the other. “I am Cécile de Vieux-bois, -and my sister is Thérèse. We have wanted so much to speak to you. You -are English, and we have such dear friends in England.”</p> - -<p>“She has her <i>fiancé</i> there,” said the other, laughing. “She is going to -be English herself.”</p> - -<p>“Et peut-être toi aussi,” said Cécile, half reproachfully, in an -undertone.</p> - -<p>“<i>Crois pas</i>,” said the younger, shaking her head. She caught Janey up -and gave her a sudden kiss. “This little one is delicious,” she said, -translating her native idiom into English. “We have so much<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_94" id="page_94">{94}</a></span> remarked -her in church, everywhere; and you too, Miss——” she added anxiously, -lest Helen’s feelings should be hurt. “How shall we call you? Miss——”</p> - -<p>Helen’s face grew scarlet. She had never been brought face to face -before with this terrible difficulty. Her name had been of no importance -in Latour. If her father called himself by one name or another, she knew -nothing of it. Mademoiselle was enough for everything.</p> - -<p>“Please do not say Miss at all,” she said, the tears (and how sharp they -were, like fire more than water!) coming to her eyes. “I am Helen, and -she is little Janey. Will you call us so?”</p> - -<p>“But it will not be <i>comme il faut</i> to call you Helen the first time we -see you, without either Miss or Mademoiselle.”</p> - -<p>“We don’t say Miss in England,” said Helen stoutly; “no one says it who -is <i>comme il faut</i>,—only the servants.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_95" id="page_95">{95}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>The two French girls looked at each other with a little -surprise—perhaps they did not like to be supposed ignorant on this -point; or perhaps the fervour of Helen’s protest struck them, though -they could not tell what it meant. But they were too well bred to make -any further difficulty. “Do you like our poor little Latour?” said -Cécile. “It is so strange to us to see any new faces here. We shall be -so happy to have you all the long winter—that is, if you are going to -stay.”</p> - -<p>It was Cécile who spoke the best English. The younger one was playing -with Janey, and chattering in a mixture of languages which amused and -suited them both. Cécile and Helen walked on demurely side by side.</p> - -<p>“We shall stay if—if papa likes it,” she said.</p> - -<p>“Monsieur your father is not strong?” said Cécile, with a sympathetic -look. “I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_96" id="page_96">{96}</a></span> said so when I saw him first. I told mamma that there was -something here——” She put her hand to her lips, and the tears filled -her eyes. “We lost our dear father all in one moment,” she said; “thus -we know what it is to be unquiet. But at least you are warned. You can -watch over him, and if there is no <i>crise</i> that goes on for a long -time.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, there is nothing the matter—I mean, papa is not ill,” cried Helen, -half alarmed, half amazed. “At least, it is only——”</p> - -<p>“That is what we said,” said Cécile, gently; “it is only—a little want -of breath, a little palpitation. And we might have taken more care -perhaps to avoid emotion—to avoid danger; but who can say? <i>Le bon -Dieu</i> knows best.”</p> - -<p>“I assure you,” said Helen, “I am not alarmed at all about papa. We are<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_97" id="page_97">{97}</a></span> -not so well off as we were, and he wishes to be quiet, that is all. I -think he likes Latour, and I like it. Yes, I think we shall stay all the -winter. Perhaps we shall stay always. Janey will not remember any other -place.”</p> - -<p>“But you—were you not sorry to leave your home?”</p> - -<p>“Sorry?” said Helen, meditating. “I ought to have been. I do not quite -know, it was so strange. Before I knew that we had left home we were -here, or, at all events, at Sainte-Barbe,” she said, with a smile.</p> - -<p>“Sainte-Barbe? that is a long way off, beyond Dijon. But tell me, is it -not very gloomy in England, more gloomy than here? Thérèse was quite -right, I am <i>fiancé</i>, and I shall live in England. Tell me a little -about your home.”</p> - -<p>“I was thinking of it when I saw you,” said Helen. “Little Janey said -the snow<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_98" id="page_98">{98}</a></span> was like a great white cake—like the cake we had on Twelfth -Night, and that made me think. I thought I saw the room all dressed with -holly—we do that in England at Christmas; and all the children from all -the parish—they came from miles round—and the great huge cake. The -children all came and curtseyed to us when they had their slice of cake, -and stared at Janey. She looked like a little fairy princess,” said -Helen, with a smile and a sigh. Her new acquaintance looked at her very -closely, then gave a glance at the child, who was very simply dressed, -not like a princess at all.</p> - -<p>“The people loved you very much?” said Cécile; “they do so in England; -they do not hate you as aristocrats. I shall be very glad of that. Why -should they hate us in France? We try to do what good we can, but there -is always<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_99" id="page_99">{99}</a></span> suspicion. They think we have no right to differ from them. -But how can we help it? It is so, it is not our doing. They have not -that feeling in England. They loved you, the people? Oh, how happy I -shall be!”</p> - -<p>“They were always very nice,” said Helen. “Loved—I don’t know that they -loved us. We do not say that word in England except when—except when it -is very strong indeed;—but they were always very nice. Though Miss -Temple used to say papa was too good—a great deal too liberal, giving -them too much—almost everything they wanted.”</p> - -<p>“Miss Temple was——?”</p> - -<p>“My governess,” said Helen—“my very dear friend; she went away from me -and married. I never had a mother, nor Janey either,” she said, in a low -tone.</p> - -<p>“But it was very good, very kind of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_100" id="page_100">{100}</a></span> monsieur your father to be so good -to the poor.”</p> - -<p>“I thought so too; but Miss Temple said it was wrong to give so much,” -said Helen, simply. She did not understand the wonder that was rising in -the mind of her new acquaintance. What Helen innocently revealed seemed -to Cécile the condition of a grand seigneur in the old days when a grand -seigneur was a prince in rural France. And it was very extraordinary to -think of a great English nobleman or gentleman—words of which she -partially understood the meaning—living in Latour! She looked at Helen -again, examining her very closely; and Cécile knew that her dress, which -was the dress she had brought from Fareham, was costly and fine, though -so simple. They had wondered, gazed at the English family in church, and -wherever they met them.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_101" id="page_101">{101}</a></span> But it was still more extraordinary now. The -only thing was that they were English. That accounts for so much! for -every kind of eccentricity, Cécile thought.</p> - -<p>“Some friends, some people whom we know—indeed,” said Cécile with -pretty dignity, “why should I not say it?—the gentleman who is my -<i>fiancé</i> is coming soon to see us. You will like to meet your -compatriots? But I hope you will come before that time—oh, long before! -as soon as you will—to-morrow! I should like to show you the <i>château</i>. -It is very old and curious. You will forgive us for not going sooner to -see you. We hoped mamma would have been well; but now they tell us that -she must not go out all the winter. She who loves the air so much and to -be active. She will like to see you, Miss——”</p> - -<p>“You promised to call me Helen.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_102" id="page_102">{102}</a></span>” Helen had forgotten her own horror -about the name, and said this with a mischievous sense of amusement, her -pleasure in her new friend and in the prospect thus offered to her -opening up all the closed doors in her heart. She laughed as she spoke. -It had gone out of her mind that for the moment she had no name.</p> - -<p>“It seems too familiar,” said Cécile, gravely, “for the first time; but -if it is so that in England one does not say Miss—but they do say it, -or why should the word exist?—I will willingly call you Helen. Do you -thus pronounce the ‘h’? In France we say (H)élène.”</p> - -<p>“Is it that mademoiselle will come to the <i>château</i> to-morrow?” said -Thérèse, coming up. “The little one will come. She has told me a great -many things. Oh, how it is pleasant to have some one new to talk to! She -is delicious,” cried<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_103" id="page_103">{103}</a></span> the young Frenchwoman. “And mademoiselle, I hope -she too finds it pleasant to have friends.”</p> - -<p>“We are to say Helen,” said Cécile, with her air of dignity. They had -reached M. Goudron’s house as she spoke, where he was standing with an -old shawl wrapped about his shoulders. He was not susceptible about his -personal appearance. But the sight of Helen’s companions made a change -in his looks. He grinned, but he scowled as well. His countenance became -diabolical between hatred and mockery. Thérèse caught her sister by the -arm.</p> - -<p>“He is like the demons in the pictures. I dare not go any nearer. -Cécile, come! he will do thee some harm. Me, I am not <i>fiancé</i>, nothing -is going to happen to me; but he will bewitch thee, he will do thee -harm.”</p> - -<p>“I am not afraid,” said Cécile, though<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_104" id="page_104">{104}</a></span> she trembled a little; “there -are no people in England who hate you because you are aristocrats, that -makes me very happy. And you will come to-morrow to the <i>château</i>? At -one o’clock, after the <i>déjeuner</i>, will that do? and we will come to -meet you. Then good-bye, <i>à demain, au revoir</i>,” both the girls cried, -turning hastily away. M. Goudron had put them to flight. The frown -disappeared from his face as they turned, and the grin became more -diabolical than ever.</p> - -<p>“What a pity,” he said, “mesdemoiselles, that your fine friends, those -magnificent young ladies from the <i>château</i>, the young princesses, the -great personages, should run away from a poor old man.”</p> - -<p>Little Janey had no restraints of politeness upon her. She pulled at the -end of his eccentric old tartan shawl. “C’est parce que vous êtes si -méchant,” she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_105" id="page_105">{105}</a></span> cried. “C’est parce que you are a fright—a horrible, -nasty, old man. I hate you too,” cried Janey—“vous êtes méchant, -méchant! Personne vous aime; vous êtes an old, old, wicked! a horror! a -fright! all wrapped in a shawl like an old vieille fille; nobody loves -you—they all hate you,” she cried.</p> - -<p>M. Goudron was dismayed by this sudden attack: he had a weakness—he -loved children. He cried in a querulous tone, “Petite, vous n’en savez -rien,” loudly, as if defying the world. At the window up-stairs -Blanchette and Ursule were secretly kissing the tips of their fingers, -waving anxious salutations to the departing ladies of the <i>château</i>. As -for Helen, she held her dress close to her, not to touch him as she -brushed past into her own room. She was not so outspoken as Janey, -neither did she think, like her father, that these extraordinary<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_106" id="page_106">{106}</a></span> -antipathies and political extravagances were fictitious like the -politics of a <i>vaudeville</i>. But the horror was evanescent, and how -delightful was the reflection that she had found a pair of friends!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_107" id="page_107">{107}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_X" id="CHAPTER_X"></a>CHAPTER X.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">After</span> this a new life began for Helen. Cécile and Thérèse de Vieux-bois -were much more highly educated than she was; they were far more fluent -in conversation; they knew a great deal more than Helen. She, poor, -solitary child, in her luxurious rural palace, had read nothing but -novels; whereas they had read scarcely any novels at all, but a great -many better things, and still continued their studies with a -conscientiousness and energy at which she gazed with wonder. Nothing -could have been more different from their carefully guarded<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_108" id="page_108">{108}</a></span> and -sedulously instructed life than the secluded existence of the -millionaire’s daughter, broken sometimes by the noisy brilliancy of a -great dinner-party, at which, perhaps, she and her governess were the -only ladies present, or by the arrival of the huge box of light -literature which her father substituted when she was seventeen for the -cakes and toys, and dainties of all kinds, with which he had overwhelmed -her at an earlier age. This was Mr Goulburn’s idea of what was best for -girls—cakes and sweetmeats, then novels, with as many balls and -amusements as could be procured. He had intended that Helen should be -fully supplied with these later pleasures; but he had not succeeded, as -has been said, in introducing her to the county, and all his plans for -town had been mysteriously cut short.</p> - -<p>But the Count de Vieux-bois had gone upon a very different plan; and it<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_109" id="page_109">{109}</a></span> -is quite possible that just as Helen found it much more lifelike and -real to mend Janey’s frocks and teach her her letters, so the -demoiselles Cécile and Thérèse might have found more satisfaction in the -abortive balls and dinner-parties, which might not have come to nothing -in their hands. But the life of which Helen became a spectator at the -<i>château</i> filled her with admiration and awe. She could only look with -respectful alarm at the volumes which the others worked steadily -through, morning after morning, with the most noble devotion. No one so -much as saw the young ladies at the <i>château</i> till twelve o’clock, when -the big bell rang, and they all came out of their rooms to the first -common meal. “When do you work?” Cécile had said almost severely when -Helen told her of the breakfasts in England. “If it is so, I shall not -like that at all. When can one work?—and if one does not read, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_110" id="page_110">{110}</a></span> -read much, how shall one be a companion to one’s husband?” the young -lady asked with great gravity. We have already said that domestic virtue -and duty is, in France, for the time being, the highest fashion, the -finest <i>cachet</i> of supreme aristocracy. Helen made the most simple, but, -to this highly educated young Frenchwoman, the most bewildering reply.</p> - -<p>“Oh! perhaps he will not read very much either. Gentlemen never do; they -read the ‘Times’ and the ‘Field’—and; have I said anything wrong?”</p> - -<p>(“Elle est folle donc,” said Thérèse to Cécile. “C’est que son père est -un homme de <i>sport</i>,” said Cécile in an undertone to Thérèse.)</p> - -<p>“You deceive yourself, <i>chère</i> Hélène,” said the elder sister with a -smile. “The journals are nothing; one must know what is going on. But if -you knew how difficult it is to keep up with the reading<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_111" id="page_111">{111}</a></span> of -gentlemen—our dear father, for example. Mamma did not try. She said, -‘It is useless at my age. I cannot do it; my daughters, I leave it to -you.’ And we tried, but never succeeded. Nevertheless, papa was very -kind. He always recognised that there were difficulties. But I am -resolved to be a companion to my husband. I will not leave it to my -daughters,” said Cécile. “I have read your great writers, and a great -deal of the constitutional history. And now I shall be ready to take up -anything that John is doing.”</p> - -<p>“Is his name John?” said Helen, with rising interest.</p> - -<p>“It is a very pretty name,” said Cécile; “there are a great many in -England. It is something like our Jean in France, but more <i>distingué</i>.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, much, much more distinguished,” said Thérèse.</p> - -<p>“He had not any title at first,” Cécile<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_112" id="page_112">{112}</a></span> continued. “They say that in -England that, too, is more distinguished. I thought I should be called -Mistress. It is droll.”</p> - -<p>“We do not say Mistress in England,” said Helen. “Is he in the law, or -in the Church, or a merchant, or only a gentleman? Papa was a very -great, great merchant,” she continued, her cheeks colouring warmly. -Though she was very quiet and gentle, yet in some things Helen had her -pride too.</p> - -<p>“And what is it to be only a djentleman?” Thérèse said.</p> - -<p>“That is when you <i>quite</i> belong to the county,” said Helen—“when you -have been always there, when the estate goes from father to son. There -was a gentleman near Fareham, where we lived, a gentleman called -Rashleigh——”</p> - -<p>“I have heard those names,” said Cécile with a little cry. “John has -talked to me—I am sure I have heard them.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_113" id="page_113">{113}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>A mischievous light glanced over Thérèse’s face. She made a sign to her -sister. “All the names in England resemble each other. <i>Tu te trompes</i>, -Cécile. And here is mamma.”</p> - -<p>The entrance of Madame la Comtesse put a stop to all the chatter. She -herself talked steadily without intermission. She was a handsome, -middle-aged woman, threatened, as she told everybody, with a -<i>bronchite</i>. “I who never had so much as a cold in my life!” The talk of -the girls was extinguished, as tapers are extinguished in the light of -the day, by the conversation of their mother. She spoke a little English -badly, but a great deal of French very well.</p> - -<p>“So monsieur your father is ill, mademoiselle. I am grieved to hear it. -Where there is but one parent, it is then that life becomes precious; -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_114" id="page_114">{114}</a></span>though even <i>sans cela</i>—— Do not send for the doctor here; it is a -good-for-nothing; in medicine <i>bien entendu</i>, not in life. For his life, -<i>mon Dieu!</i> I know nothing of it,” the Comtesse said, shrugging her -shoulders. “He is not of our <i>monde</i>. But monsieur your father, -mademoiselle, you can do the most for him yourself. You can keep him -from emotion; that is the great thing—from emotion. To do that, one -must take a great deal of trouble, one must be always watchful; but for -so dear a father one does not think of trouble. Were I allowed to go out -I should see him; you should have the benefit of my experience; and -indeed, when he does me the honour to come here I shall spare no -trouble; I shall observe him closely. It is my duty. I should be -barbarous, I should not be Christian, did I not endeavour to be of use -to you, so young, and a stranger.”</p> - -<p>“But indeed, madame!” cried Helen in despair, “my father<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_115" id="page_115">{115}</a></span>——”</p> - -<p>“I know what you would say,” said the too sympathetic lady. “He will not -allow that he is ill; it is what they all do. Ah me! to whom do you tell -it? Have we not made the experience, my children and I? They are made -like that; they will not be advised, they will not take care. Then the -only thing, my child, is for you to take so much the more care. Let -there be no emotion. That is the chief thing—no emotion. It would be -well, perhaps, that you see his letters before they are given to him, -and if any is of a character to cause excitement, keep it back. Ah, how -much do I regret that I neglected some of these precautions! But, <i>mon -enfant</i>, you must profit by our sorrow,” said the Comtesse, with tears -in her eyes.</p> - -<p>These advices were addressed to her continually, altogether unaltered by -the fact that Helen protested, whenever she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_116" id="page_116">{116}</a></span> had a moment given her in -which she could do so, against the supposed illness they had attributed -to her father. She protested that he was not ill; but it made no -difference. The Comtesse paid no attention, but entered with enthusiasm -into the minutiæ of care-taking, recollecting now one thing, now -another, that Helen could do—<i>surtout point a’émotion!</i> They were so -sure they were right that she came at last to listen without any -protestation. The <i>château</i> gave Helen an altogether enlarged and -widened life. She was there almost every day, leading them into the -wintry woods, at which they shivered, but which Cécile boldly braved now -and then, on the strong argument that in England, whether it was winter -or summer, everybody went out; or sitting with them near the ugly stove -which kept their rooms so warm, discoursing now and then in her turn -about the English life<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_117" id="page_117">{117}</a></span> which, to them, was so unknown. Helen, to tell -the truth, did not know very much more about it than the two admiring -girls who, on this point, believed all that she said. But she collected -all her broken reminiscences, and all that she had heard from Miss -Temple, and even, it must be added, some things which she had found in -her novels, to instruct the eager mind of Cécile in her new duties. That -she would have to walk out every day, whether it rained or snowed or -blew a tempest; that she would have to be fully dressed by nine o’clock, -in no <i>robe de chambre</i>, however pretty, or <i>négligé</i> of loosely knotted -hair, <i>point device</i>, and ready to receive visitors; that she would have -to carry puddings to the cottagers, and take a class in the -Sunday-school; and that the people would adore her. All this Cécile -received with unbounded faith; though she was much disturbed by the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_118" id="page_118">{118}</a></span> -Sunday-school, which had not been in her programme.</p> - -<p>“But they will know I am a Catholic,” she said.</p> - -<p>“All the ladies do it,” said Helen, with steady dogmatism; and the two -girls looked at each other with a gasp of dismay, but could not doubt -what was so unhesitatingly given forth. There was great trembling about -these Sunday-schools, so unnecessarily and boldly introduced, and the -Curé was consulted, and even the Vicaire, and Cécile herself wrote to -the superior of the convent in which she had been brought up. The -Comtesse was of opinion that John should be written to at once, and the -thing declared impossible; but Cécile would not consent to this. He -would not wish her to do anything against her conscience, she knew; but, -nevertheless, her dutiful soul was troubled. Thus Helen had her -revenge.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_119" id="page_119">{119}</a></span></p> - -<p>And thus the winter stole on. Mr Goulburn was with difficulty persuaded -to pay a visit at the <i>château</i>, where he was very silent, and bowed and -listened to all that Madame la Comtesse had to say. He did not protest -at all, as Helen did. But he excused himself when it was proposed that -he should go again. Excitement was bad for him, he said, with a gravity -that filled Helen with the utmost amazement; and when the evening of the -weekly dinner-party came, Helen went with M. le Précepteur and his wife, -making apologies for her father, which were received in very good part.</p> - -<p>“He is right,” said Madame la Comtesse; “excitement is the worst thing -in the world for him. I am glad he perceives that it is necessary to -guard against it.”</p> - -<p>All this confounded Helen, who did not know what to think. Was it true<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_120" id="page_120">{120}</a></span> -that her father was ill? Was there really anything to fear?</p> - -<p>But he did not appear ill, or at all different from his usual condition. -He began to get his pines cut at last, confiding the business to the -husband of Margot, not to Antoine, with whom, nevertheless, he did not -quarrel, employing him in various odd jobs with an impulse of liberality -which was very unlike anything to be found in Latour. Mr Goulburn could -not forget the habits of a man through whose hands money had streamed in -large floods, and who had never had time to be economical. He gave -employment with a freedom unknown in the locality, where everybody -looked a great many times even at a <i>sou</i> before spending it. He was a -new species to the thrifty villagers. He went daily and superintended -the wood-cutting, and enjoyed the walk, however cold it<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_121" id="page_121">{121}</a></span> was, a thing -equally incomprehensible to them; but he would not carry even his own -overcoat, calling the first idle lad he could find to do it for him, and -throwing him fifty centimes for work which was not worth one <i>sou</i>. He -saw everything done to the long straight pine-trunks; and at last, early -in the spring, concluded the whole little enterprise, which had given -him much satisfaction. They had been sold to an agent who had been at -Latour during the winter, and who was as much pleased with his bargain -as Mr Goulburn was with his. He came home one day holding in his hand -the letter which had contained this agent’s remittances. It was the -first letter he had received for months—the first sign of communication -with the world which lay outside of Latour. “I have set up in business,” -he said; “there is no saying what it may come to. It is a pity there<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_122" id="page_122">{122}</a></span> -are no shops; I should have bought something for you girls. I have been -making money even out here. By the by, it makes my heart beat. I am not -framed for excitement, as your old Comtesse says.”</p> - -<p>“Do you always make money, papa?” said little Janey. “What do you do it -with? I should like to make some nice new money, like the new <i>sous</i> -Cécile gave me.” She had forgotten all about other coinage, and now knew -nothing but the <i>sous</i>.</p> - -<p>“This time, you know, I made it in the wood,” he said. “Don’t you -recollect the gold among the trees?”</p> - -<p>“That was only sunshine,” said Janey. “I see that often; but you cannot -put it in your pocket. Did you dig till you came to it, papa? Was it in -a big box or in a jar deep down under the trees? Margot says there is -some there, if we<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_123" id="page_123">{123}</a></span> knew where to find it. Will you show me how you got -yours, papa?”</p> - -<p>“No, no, my little girl,” he said; “you shall never soil your pretty -fingers with it. There will be plenty for my Janey when I am dead.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t want to have plenty when you are dead!” cried the child. “I -don’t want to have anything when you are dead. I should like then to be -dead too.”</p> - -<p>“No, no, my little love. No, no, my Janey; you will live long, and you -will be happy, and you will be kind to the poor, and think sometimes of -your old father.” He had taken her on his knee, and now leaned his head -upon hers. “You will never believe any harm of your father, my little -girl. Whatever they say of him, you will always remember that he was -very fond of you.”</p> - -<p>“You do not feel ill, papa?” cried<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_124" id="page_124">{124}</a></span> Helen, alarmed; while Janey, not -understanding, but frightened too, peered up in his face with a pair of -widely opened eyes.</p> - -<p>“I believe it is that old witch at the <i>château</i>,” he said, and laughed. -“I must beware of excitement, you know. To dine in her company being too -much for me, how should I be able to bear the maddening delight of -making a few francs in Latour? It will go off presently,” he added, -setting Janey down from his knee. And so it did, to all appearance; -there was nothing wonderful in it. But the profit he had made amused him -beyond description. It did him good—or harm. It set him thinking of the -outside world, and wondering what was going on there. A thirst for a -newspaper suddenly came upon him. What were they doing in the world? And -he himself, what had been done about him? Had he been allowed to drop -without<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_125" id="page_125">{125}</a></span> any attempt at pursuit? Had things not turned out so badly as -he thought? When a man feels himself pursued, the sense of getting into -a place of safety, a close cover, is sweet; but after the pleasure of -the security has penetrated into every vein, what man is there who can -refrain from poking his head out of the cover to look for his pursuers, -and from feeling a kind of disappointment at their total disappearance? -To hear them strutting about, poking at every bush, calling to each -other, now here, now there, foiled yet pursuing, is more flattering, -more consolatory to the fugitive. But there had been nothing of this in -Mr Goulburn’s case; he had slipped through their fingers; and after he -had been pleased for a long time, now he began to be almost -disappointed—he wanted the excitement. He was tired of the too complete -safety of his life.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_126" id="page_126">{126}</a></span></p> - -<p>That night there was great news at the <i>château</i>. John was coming. The -wedding was to be at Easter; but he could not remain so long without -visiting his bride; and with him was coming a relation, a gentleman. -“Listen, Hélène,” said Cécile—“we have no secrets for you. This -gentleman, Monsieur Charles, is <i>très comme il faut</i>. I cannot say it in -English. What words are there in English that say all that? He is not -very rich; but mamma seeks to marry Thérèse, and in every other respect -he is everything we could desire. John has often spoken of it. He has -been in India, like so many of your young Englishmen. But if Thérèse and -he please to each other, why should he go back? John says that if some -one who is clever, a true man of affairs, an Englishman, were to manage -our woods, we should be twice more rich; and if he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_127" id="page_127">{127}</a></span> pleases to Thérèse! -Hush! it is a little family arrangement; nothing is to be said of it. -But we watch for the eventualities. You will open your English eyes, -<i>chère petite</i>, and you will give me your opinion upon him for Thérèse.”</p> - -<p>Helen felt a little chill at her heart; she could not tell why. A -Monsieur Charles who had been in India! No doubt there were hundreds of -them in England. “But,” she said—and probably in any case she would -have objected, for she had begun to be very British since she lived in -France—“but an Englishman does not understand family arrangements like -this. Does he know that he is coming for Thérèse?”</p> - -<p>“That is what we cannot tell. We know that the English are very -peculiar—very strange in their ideas.”</p> - -<p>“I think it is the French who are strange in their ideas,” said Helen, -with<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_128" id="page_128">{128}</a></span> all the fervour of English prejudice. She was almost pleased to -think that if M. Charles was a party to any such arrangement he was not -at all so <i>comme il faut</i> as Cécile thought. “A <i>right</i> Englishman would -not do it. Come to be looked at, as if he were applying for a situation -as a servant!” Helen said to herself indignantly, that these were not -English ways. She did not enjoy the evening. She was not herself. She -contradicted everybody, even Madame la Comtesse. What was the matter -with her?</p> - -<p>“<i>Tiens</i>” said the Comtesse, “these English are so droll; it does not -please them to meet each other. We others, we love our compatriots. When -you are in England it is a <i>fête</i> to see a Frenchman. But the English -are different; they will not encounter each other if they can help it. -You will see that Djohn will be equally discontented<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_129" id="page_129">{129}</a></span> to hear that there -is an English family at Latour.” This appeared both to Cécile and -Thérèse a very likely solution of the question.</p> - -<p>But Helen went home displeased and uncomfortable—displeased with -herself: for what did it matter to her if some Englishman, whose very -name she had never heard, should adapt himself to the special point in -which French domestic arrangements are repugnant to the English mind? It -was nothing to her. If he pleased Thérèse and Thérèse pleased him, and -everybody else was pleased, what had Helen to do with it? But it is -astonishing how determined we often are to annoy ourselves about things -with which we have nothing to do. “No doubt it would be a most excellent -arrangement,” she said to herself with a smile, which she felt must be -very much like a sneer. In England people would<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_130" id="page_130">{130}</a></span> be very much surprised; -but Latour was not England, and probably Monsieur Charles had learned -different fashions in India, which was not England either. She wondered -what sort of person he could be, impatiently disengaging from her mind -the shadow that would thrust itself forward of the Monsieur Charles who -had been in India, and who had also been in Sainte-Barbe. Whoever it -might be, it could certainly not be he. And yet how he would thrust -himself into her imagination, poke himself forward, with his light hair -and sun-burned countenance! She wondered—if it should happen to be he -after all—would Thérèse like him? and what would he think, to find her, -Helen, established there? and would he look in the same way and speak in -the same way as he had done at the Lion d’Or? “In what way?” she said to -herself sternly, and herself<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_131" id="page_131">{131}</a></span> replied, “Oh, in no way at all!” with an -impatient fling of the head. It was lucky that her companions chattered -all the way, for Helen made no addition to the conversation. And it was -not a very long way. The <i>château</i> had no lengthened avenue, no -seclusion of lawns and trees between it and the village, but stood close -to the road with patriarchal bareness and simplicity. It was a moonlight -night, and the softening of spring was in the air. There was a little -commotion, too, unusual to it, in Latour. The young men of the village -were about in groups, the <i>cabarets</i> were more full than was usual, -except on Sundays. Helen recalled to herself with a little effort a -thing which in her preoccupation she had forgotten. The next day was the -day on which the lots were to be drawn for the conscription. Poor little -Blanchette’s heart was full of trembling, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_132" id="page_132">{132}</a></span> there was many an ache of -anxiety in the village. With all her homely neighbours in such suspense, -to think that she should be able to make herself almost unhappy about -this Monsieur Charles from beyond the sea!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_133" id="page_133">{133}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XI" id="CHAPTER_XI"></a>CHAPTER XI.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Helen</span> had meant to go to Mass on the morning of the day when the young -men of the village were to draw for the conscription, but she was late, -as the interested and distressed young spectator so often is at the -critical moment. Ursule had gone to the early Mass before break of day, -and had stayed in church till the numbers were drawn, and the young -<i>conscrits</i> coming out of the Mairie with their number, bad or good, in -their caps. Madame Dupré would have liked to do the same, but she was -afraid of the ridicule of her neighbours, who certainly would have -taunted her with trying to curry favour<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_134" id="page_134">{134}</a></span> with the <i>bon Dieu</i> at the -moment when she was in need of His help. Not being able to do this, she -began a special “cleaning out,” such as, in all regions, is soothing to -the female mind perturbed. As the moment approached, the poor woman grew -more and more cross, snapping at every one who approached her. M. -Goudron, who liked to watch a dramatic situation, came in about ten -minutes before the <i>tirage</i> began. “My house is all upside-down!” he -said with keen enjoyment. “Nobody can pay any attention. One is praying -and the other weeping, instead of awaiting with placidity whatever may -have happened. I say to myself, Madame Dupré is an <i>esprit fort</i>. She -will consider that a man must have his coffee, were the skies to fall. -That is a thing that girls cannot be taught. I tell that little fool -Blanchette, ‘If thou wilt take an example, look at his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_135" id="page_135">{135}</a></span> mother, our good -neighbour of the Lion d’Or!’<span class="lftspc">”</span></p> - -<p>“If I were thou, Jean Goudron, I would hold my peace. I would not meddle -with what concerns thee not,” said Madame Dupré, pushing against him -with her great broom in her hand.</p> - -<p>“<i>Comment!</i> my coffee? Does not that concern me?” cried old Goudron, -with his grin.</p> - -<p>Madame Dupré made no reply. Her round face was red as the embers on the -hearth. She swept the dust out of all the corners, knocking her brush -against the wall, making a great noise, and sweeping everything towards -him. He got a mouthful of this dust, which, as it had not been stirred -for some time, was of a piquant kind, and coughed.</p> - -<p>“Suffocate me not, <i>ma bonne femme</i>,” he said. “I have done thee no -harm!”</p> - -<p>“How can I tell that?” cried the poor<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_136" id="page_136">{136}</a></span> mother, in a frenzy of suspense -and passion. “How do I know that thou hast not thrown an ill lot on my -boy? That little saint Ursule, thou hast done thy best to keep her from -praying for us; and it is thou, and such as thou, that make us ashamed -to pray for ourselves! Get thee out of my sight, with thy devil’s grin! -Thou shalt have no coffee here.”</p> - -<p>“Bravo!” cried old Goudron. “Because thy son has gone to <i>tirer</i>, the -whole world must stand still. There must be some one, <i>n’est-ce pas</i>, to -cheat the others, to put the good number into his hands? Yes, yes; there -must be a <i>bon Dieu</i> wherever there’s a woman!” said the old man. But he -did not go much further, for suddenly, before he was aware, Madame Dupré -and her vigorous broom were upon him. She did not condescend to strike -or push, but<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_137" id="page_137">{137}</a></span> taking the lean old sceptic at unawares, swept him forth -like a piece of rubbish. “<i>Va, canaille!</i>” she said. Old Goudron -sprawled and stumbled forth, saving himself only from a prostration on -the threshold by grasping at the first prop that presented itself. The -<i>conscrits</i> were beginning to appear in the street with cockades in -their caps, singing and shouting. They stopped to give him a rude -salutation. They were all safe; they had drawn good numbers; they were -wild with joy. “Look at old Jean Goudron! he is <i>ivre-mort</i>! The <i>bonne -mère</i> has swept him out of the house!” “Pauvre Mère Dupré!” said one -among them, with a sob of excitement. Madame Dupré recognised the -meaning of his tone. She came out, her broom in her hand, a paleness -stealing over the red in her cheeks, and leant against the lintel of her -door. She did not see the old<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_138" id="page_138">{138}</a></span> man scowling and grinning at her, though -he stood close by, waiting for the event. All was mist and darkness to -her, save one thing. In the middle of the street was a figure alone, -walking down slowly, looking at no one. His step, the sight of his -folded arms and bent head, the stumble he made now and then, as he came -over the rough stones, were enough, without words. Her eyes, too, were -full of the giddiness of the calamity. She could see nothing but figures -moving confusedly; faces looking out of the houses on the different -sides of the village street all peering at him. It was Baptiste, with -the ribbons of the <i>conscrit</i> hanging sadly over his ear, and a big 3 in -the front of his cap.</p> - -<p>Helen looked out from her window just as this sad sight appeared. She -felt a pang of guilt, as if it had been her fault. Oh! why had she not -gone to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_139" id="page_139">{139}</a></span> the early Mass to pray that he might have a good number? It did -not occur to Helen that some one else must then have got a bad one. She -heard a rush down the stairs, and saw Blanchette rush out across the -street and fling herself upon him. Poor little Blanchette! poor dumb -mother, not able even to cry! Their arms met about him, one on each -side, as if to tear him out of the hold of fate.</p> - -<p>It is terrible when a great calamity happens in the morning; there is -such an endless day to realise it in, to turn it over, to see it in -every possible light. Ursule came back almost immediately, following -Baptiste, with her head bowed upon her breast. “You have heard, -mademoiselle?” she said with a sob. “The <i>bon Dieu</i> has not thought fit -to hear our prayers. There has been a want of faith on our part, or some -other<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_140" id="page_140">{140}</a></span> has prayed more strongly than we. We must not complain, -mademoiselle, for if the <i>bon Dieu</i> heard us always, it would be very -easy to be Christian. But only for my Blanchette it breaks my heart. Oh! -if I were one of the saints in heaven—God forgive me for making so -bold—I could not, I would not refuse any one! I would not take a -denial! But when you are praying and praying, and there is no answer, -heaven seems so far away, mademoiselle.”</p> - -<p>“And there is nothing more that can be done?” Helen said, dropping a few -tears of sympathy.</p> - -<p>“Yes, mademoiselle, there is my coffee to make,” said old Goudron, who -made his appearance just then; “which is their duty, what they are put -into this world for, these girls—not to say incantations nor make a -fuss about young good-for-nothings like the <i>conscrit</i> yonder. My<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_141" id="page_141">{141}</a></span> -coffee, <i>petite hypocrite</i>!” he cried, pushing before him the little -shrinking figure. Helen felt her countenance flame.</p> - -<p>“You are a wicked, horrible old man,” she cried in English, to relieve -her mind, “and I hate you! Come in, M. Goudron,” she added, with an -effort; “the coffee is made; come in and take it here.”</p> - -<p>“Mademoiselle is too good,” said the old man, surprised; but he let -Ursule go. Helen had been too late to help in the praying, but perhaps -there might be something left which she could do. Mr Goulburn was late. -He had not yet come down-stairs; and Margot, though she too had run out -to take part in the melancholy excitement, could be brought back more -easily than poor little Blanchette. Helen heroically poured out a large -basin of coffee for the odious old man, whose sneer made her shiver; and -he was so little prepared for this<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_142" id="page_142">{142}</a></span> attention that for the moment he was -entirely subdued.</p> - -<p>“Mademoiselle is very good to take so much trouble,” he said. “The -coffee is excellent. I have always been told that no one understood how -to be comfortable like Messieurs the English. Comfort! it is even an -English word!”</p> - -<p>“We try to be good to each other—that is what makes us comfortable,” -said Helen, with youthful severity. The coffee was served in little -round basins of thick and heavy white crockery ware, and M. Goudron -broke down his bread into it, and ate it with a spoon, which disgusted -the English girl much, chiefly because it was not her way of taking the -morning meal.</p> - -<p>“I perceive,” said M. Goudron, “you think I am not good to my -grandchildren, mademoiselle—notwithstanding that I feed them and lodge -them, and allow them to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_143" id="page_143">{143}</a></span> give me a great deal of trouble. They cost me -more than any one would think. They are not young ladies like -mademoiselle. Why should not they go out into the world and gain their -living like others? It is because I have a soft heart,” the old man said -with a grin. “They are old enough to gain their living, yet I keep them -at home. Is not that much? What would you have me do more?”</p> - -<p>Helen did not know what to say. “You will not let them do anything they -want to do,” she cried, with hot partisanship; but she was aware that -there was not much reasonableness in the complaint, and this took away -precision from her tone.</p> - -<p>“One of them wants—to marry M. Baptiste, who is not what I approve, who -is not <i>rangé</i> nor serious, but a young good-for-nothing,” said M. -Goudron. “Fortunately, mademoiselle, that is put out of the question by -this morning’s luck.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_144" id="page_144">{144}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Fortunately!” (“Janey,” said Helen in English, “I cannot bear him much -longer. He is horrible; he is disgusting; he is like the ogre in your -fairy tale.”) “Fortunately, M. Goudron! when they love one another! when -they will break their hearts! when——”</p> - -<p>“Ah, bah! Excuse me, mademoiselle; you are young and romantic, like all -the English ladies; but I am prudent. I think of Blanchette’s real -welfare; and mademoiselle, who is Protestant, a religion of good sense, -does not desire me, I hope, to bury Ursule alive in a convent. Pah!” -said M. Goudron, spitting on the floor in sign of his disgust, a -proceeding which elicited a restrained shriek from his young hostess.</p> - -<p>“Janey, call Margot, call Margot! I cannot put up with him any longer. -No one ever does that in England,” she said, turning away with a face of -horror.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_145" id="page_145">{145}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Shut a girl up in a convent?” said M. Goudron. “No, you are prudent -people; you have too much good sense. A girl who can do all that is -necessary in a little <i>ménage</i>—who can make the kitchen very well, and -mend my clothes, and do all that is needed, and is cheaper than a -servant;—to shut her up in a convent, where she will no longer be of -use to any one—and with a <i>dot</i>, if you please! Were they to take her -with nothing, we might think of it. That is what mademoiselle would wish -me to do—to give one, with her <i>dot</i> to the nuns and priests, whom I -abhor, and to give another to Baptiste Dupré; and for myself to hire a -servant, who would gad about from morning to night, and cost me as much -as both put together! Is that what mademoiselle would have me do?”</p> - -<p>Helen made no reply, for just then a hurried step had come in at the -door, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_146" id="page_146">{146}</a></span> a new tumult of anxiety, of emotion, seemed to pervade the -house. There was a little pause and whispering outside, and then the -door was thrown hurriedly open, and Blanchette came in, a fountain of -tears.</p> - -<p>“Oh, pardon, pardon, <i>chère</i> mademoiselle! It is because I am so -unhappy. I think I shall die of grief. Grandpapa! I am come to ask you -upon my knees to have a little pity upon us. Oh, <i>ma bonne, douce, -gentille demoiselle</i>, help me! perhaps he will hear you. He is so rich, -it would be so easy for him to do it. Grandpapa, if you will help us, I -will be your slave, I will never complain any more; I will do anything; -I will never ask to go out, nor for any toilet, nor for pleasure. <i>Mon -Dieu!</i> he turns away his head! he will not even listen. Oh, <i>mes chères -demoiselles</i>, help me! He is so rich—what would it do to him? He would -never feel it. We should all be happy<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_147" id="page_147">{147}</a></span> and pray to God for him—and he, -he would never feel it at all!”</p> - -<p>“How dare you say I am rich! Do not believe her, mademoiselle; she is -talking of things she knows nothing about. <i>Petite sotte!</i> you had -better get up and go home, and think of your duty a little.”</p> - -<p>“Here is my duty, <i>grandpère</i>,” said poor Blanchette, on her knees. “Oh, -help me, <i>mes bonnes demoiselles!</i> He does not care for God, nor for his -children; but he cares for his <i>locataires</i>. If Baptiste goes away, his -mother will be ruined, and he will be lost to me, and I shall die. Oh, -my poor Baptiste! he never was wicked, only foolish a little, like all -the young men; and he knows better, a great deal better now. Grandpapa, -if you will only be kind, if you will do what we ask you, we will pray -God for you on our knees every day, as Ursule does. Oh, mademoiselle, -Ursule is a saint! she prays for him just the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_148" id="page_148">{148}</a></span> same as if he were the -kindest; and so will I. And when you die, which cannot be long, for you -are old, you will find the advantage—God will listen to you because you -have listened to us. He will not remember the wicked things you have -done, nor how hard you have been, nor——”</p> - -<p>“This is something which is admirable,” said the old man, grinning more -horribly than ever. “Mademoiselle, my granddaughter is of opinion that I -am wicked, that I am hard, that I am old and will shortly die. <i>Bien, -très-bien!</i> It is to please me she says all these pretty things. <i>Va, -petite imbécile!</i>” He put out his foot furiously to push the kneeling -girl away.</p> - -<p>But Janey, who had been standing by listening all this time in unwonted -silence, looking on with very curious eyes, investigating the strange -chapter in human affairs thus exhibited to her, stepped in to the -rescue.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_149" id="page_149">{149}</a></span></p> - -<p>“You <i>are</i> old, M. Goudron,” she said, “and you are not good. Papa is -good, though he is old, but not you. He would do whatever I ask him. If -you will not give Blanchette what she wants, I will ask papa, and he -will do it for Janey; and then what Ursule gets from God will be for -papa, and not for you; and all the village will say, ‘Down with that old -Père Goudron and <i>vive l’Anglais</i>!’ Nobody loves you, M. Goudron,” -continued Janey, “not one. You are a very bad old man; you never do -anything that is kind. It would be better to be a wolf in the wood than -you, for the wolf would not understand, and you hear me talking to you. -And when you die, which can’t be long, you will be made into an old -cinder” (Janey said <i>tison</i>). “You are very like one now; I think you -must feel the fire burning you already,” cried Janey, vindictively; “you -are so dried up and withered and wrinkled<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_150" id="page_150">{150}</a></span> and wicked. <i>Tiens</i>, -Blanchette, do not ask him any more; I will get it from papa.”</p> - -<p>Janey put out her hand majestically, interposing her small person -between the old man whom she had denounced and poor Blanchette, who had -risen to her feet and turned her large astonished eyes, full of tears, -upon the child. Janey, in her four feet of stature, towered over them -all, her pretty hair streaming back as on a breeze of indignation, her -eyes blazing. No consideration of circumstances or possibilities -affected Janey. She was sublime, for she was absolute, above all -reasoning. And while Blanchette started to her feet, half in fear of her -grandfather, half in wondering hope at the impulse of this little -heroine, the old man, on his side, cowered and shrank before her. He had -one humanity in him, he was fond of little children; and Janey, the -strange little foreign creature, exer<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_151" id="page_151">{151}</a></span>cised a kind of fascination over -him. He tried to change his grin into a conciliatory smile.</p> - -<p>“<i>Tenez, tenez, ma petite demoiselle</i>,” he said, with a broken sort of -whimper in his voice; “do not speak to an old man so. When you ask me -for something in your pretty little voice, I will do it. I am not -wicked, as you say; it is they who are wicked, robbing me of everything. -But you are a little angel. Naturally your papa will do whatever you ask -him. He is a <i>milord</i>; he is rich, very rich, like all the English; and -I too will do what you ask me, though I am not rich, but poor. But you -must not say ‘<i>À bas le père Goudron!</i>’<span class="lftspc">”</span> cried the old man again with a -whimper. He twisted all his lean person into a grimace of deprecating -amiability, drawing his long legs under him, clasping his bony hands, -putting his grotesque head on one side, while<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_152" id="page_152">{152}</a></span> Janey stood impassive, -disapproving, majestic, stretching out one small arm as a shield over -Blanchette, who for her part, arrested in the very act of weeping, stood -with her pretty lips apart, her eyes very widely opened, and the tears -dropping down her cheeks.</p> - -<p>Just then Mr Goulburn was heard coming down-stairs. He was in good -spirits this morning: first he was heard whistling a favourite tune, -then he began to talk to Margot, who had come in and was sweeping -loudly, knocking her broom into all the corners by way of blowing off -her emotion, as poor Madame Dupré had done. “So poor Baptiste has drawn -a bad number,” they heard him say, and at the words Blanchette’s half -arrested tears burst violently forth again.</p> - -<p>“Oh, monsieur,” cried Margot, outside, “what good one can do when one is -rich! If the Père Goudron would but be char<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_153" id="page_153">{153}</a></span>itable one time in his life, -and give the money for a substitute! Otherwise their hearts will be -broken, and it will be ruin to the Mère Dupré.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, a substitute!” he said, while the little company within listened -with breathless attention. Then there followed a bar or two of Mr -Goulburn’s favourite air, and the renewed knocks against the wainscot of -Margot’s broom, and the step of the Englishman, lighter than usual, his -daughter thought. Had he got good news? He pushed the door open, then -stood surprised at the group he saw. “Ah!” he cried, “it is early to -receive visitors, Helen.” They all turned their eyes upon him, -Blanchette putting her hands together instinctively. Two pairs of -entreating feminine eyes caught Mr Goulburn’s first glance; then his own -fixed upon the little central figure, whose looks were less entreating<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_154" id="page_154">{154}</a></span> -than commanding. “Why, little Janey, what have you got to do with this?” -he said.</p> - -<p>“Papa,” said Janey, speaking in French—on the whole, she now spoke in -French with more dignity than in English, her utterance in her native -tongue being still made sweet to foolish parental ears by a few -cherished baby errors—“papa, I have promised that you will give what -old M. Goudron is too wicked to give—the money that Blanchette wants -for Baptiste. She will tell you how much it is. I have said,” said -Janey, with a falter in her small voice, for she began to feel the need -of crying, being only six after all—“I have said that my papa would -give the money for Janey. I know, I know,” she added, bursting into her -native speech, “that you will dive it for Janey, papa.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_155" id="page_155">{155}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>Mr Goulburn stood, looking much astonished, while this appeal was -addressed to him. He looked at old Goudron, crumpled up in his chair -with his deprecating look, and little Blanchette dissolved in tears, -turning dim, imploring eyes upon him; and at Helen, who was old enough -to know better, who ought to have put a stop to it. But he had not the -habit of economy in money, and it did not occur to him, as it might have -done to, alas! a better man, to consider a demand of this kind for a -considerable sum out of mere kindness, to be at once out of the -question. It was not out of the question to Mr Goulburn. When a man’s -first quality is to be honourable and just above all things, he has to -assume a sternness of self-restraint which sometimes makes him appear -less amiable to superficial eyes; but one who is less decided upon such -points is free of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_156" id="page_156">{156}</a></span> that bondage. He had spent money largely all his -life, and he was not startled when he was asked for it, as most of us -are who have to gain it by the sweat of our brow. He had never done much -more than turn it over in his hands, gaining, yet sometimes losing, by -chance, by luck, by hair-breadth hazards, but never by the strain of -daily toil; and he had been in the habit of giving it away freely, -whether it was his own or others’, all his life. But he was somewhat -annoyed by this demand. Helen should have known better. She knew that he -was not now a millionaire, that his resources were limited. These -hesitations made a cloud over his face when little Janey began to make -her little speech. But suddenly the cloud rolled off in a moment, the -light broke out. He had not a noble face; a physiognomist would not have -trusted it, an<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_157" id="page_157">{157}</a></span> artist would have thought nothing of it; there were -ignoble lines in it, something which told of cunning, a furtive -look—but all at once it was transfigured. He broke out into a half -laugh, half sob—</p> - -<p>“I oughtn’t to do it; I’ve no right to do it! But I can’t refuse to dive -it to Janey!” he cried, with that clamour of mingled feeling in his -voice, and drew the child triumphant into his arms.</p> - -<p>How hoarse and broken the sound was! Helen took fright. “Papa, you are -ill!” she cried.</p> - -<p>He went on laughing, not able to stop himself. “Not a bit,” he said, -sitting down and panting for breath. “<i>Bonjour</i>, M. Goudron; you are a -wise man, you are not led by the nose like me. Janey, my pet, tell your -Blanchette to dry her eyes. We can’t have any crying such a bright -morning; and let her send this <i>conscrit</i> to me.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_158" id="page_158">{158}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“It would be better, a great deal better, for him to accept the lot he -has drawn, and serve as be ought, and give up all follies,” said old -Goudron, gathering himself up out of his chair. He stood for a moment -balancing himself on his long legs, somewhat crest-fallen, yet -recovering his grin. “I have to thank mademoiselle for her excellent -coffee,” he said, “and her hospitality, truly English. <i>Tenez, -mademoiselle la petite</i>; you will say <i>au revoir</i> before I go?”</p> - -<p>Janey put her two hands behind her, and fixed him with two glittering -eyes. “I am afraid I shall see you again, but I wish I never might,” she -cried. “You are a bad, bad, <i>horrible</i> old man!”</p> - -<p>“And you, you are a <i>charmante petite demoiselle</i>,” said M. Goudron, -grinning at her till his old face seemed cut in two.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_159" id="page_159">{159}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XII" id="CHAPTER_XII"></a>CHAPTER XII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> day of the <i>tirage au sort</i> was not one which could be spent like -other days, after the supreme excitement of the morning. There was a -great deal of wine consumed in Latour, and a perfect babel of talk. It -soon became known in the village, after a great many excited -communications between the Lion d’Or and M. Goudron’s house, that -<i>l’Anglais</i> had offered to procure a substitute for Baptiste. At first -the little eager world was incredulous of such an extraordinary -announcement. <i>L’Anglais!</i> a stranger, one who had nothing to do with -the Duprés or the Goudrons, or even with the district, or<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_160" id="page_160">{160}</a></span> any interest -in the Lion d’Or! but it was very evident that something was going on in -which the stranger and Baptiste and Blanchette and all their respective -families were involved. Madame Dupré, who had been assisted to her room -by a whole assembly of weeping and sympathetic neighbours, had been -disinterred from the midst of them and conducted across the street by -Baptiste, very solemn and pale, yet with an expression quite different -from the despair on his face when he had come home from the Mairie with -his fatal number. It was Blanchette who, laughing, crying, with the -tears on her cheeks and a voice broken with sobs, yet an extraordinary -gleam of happiness about her, had flown across the street, light as a -bird, to call them. They had all disappeared into the rooms on the -ground-floor, where there had been a tumult of talking and crying, two -or three voices audible together, a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_161" id="page_161">{161}</a></span> thing never heard before since the -English family, who spoke, the Latourois thought, almost in whispers, -had taken possession. And then the Curé had been sent for; and M. le -Maire himself, coming home after presiding officially over the business -of the day, still with his scarf on, and in all the pride of office, had -stepped in. This diverted the attention of many from the noisy youths -who had escaped, and who were celebrating their freedom—and from those -who had been drawn, and who were trying to forget it and drown their -despair. And when Madame Dupré came back, a changed woman, her head -high, her countenance radiant, the whole community was stirred. It was -true then? Many were the wistful women who crossed the road after, and -hung about the door, and cast anxious looks at the window. Why should -Baptiste Dupré be the only one to be delivered? <i>L’Anglais</i> probably<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_162" id="page_162">{162}</a></span> -did it out of mere eccentricity, they thought, not out of regard to -Baptiste, and no doubt he was enormously rich, and did not know what to -do with his money; and if he bought back Baptiste, why not Jean and -Pierre? The mothers of Jean and Pierre, who had drawn the numbers 2 and -4, could not see the difference. They hung about the door all the day, -thinking if he would but appear they might find courage to speak to him. -The lucky Baptiste to have caught his attention! M. Goudron himself was -not visible. He did not stand at the door and grin as he was in the -habit of doing. The commotion had subdued him at least, and if there had -been nothing else for which to thank <i>l’Anglais</i>, this was something, -for these poor women, with their hearts full, felt that they could not -have borne Père Goudron’s grin. And soon it became whispered in the -crowd that it was An<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_163" id="page_163">{163}</a></span>toine who was going to accept Baptiste’s place. He -had served already, being so much older, and most people were very glad -to hear that he was going out of Latour. It would be so much the better -for the other young men. Antoine had announced himself as ready to be -any one’s <i>remplaçant</i>; things had been going badly with him all the -winter, and the money tempted him. There had been great bargainings in -the room where so much unusual talking had been going on and so many -people crowded together; and at last, by the help of the Maire and Curé -and old Père Goudron himself—who, now that nobody expected him to -supply the funds, could not keep himself out of the -negotiations—Antoine consented to take fifteen hundred francs as the -price of his service. He was giving himself, as he declared, -“dirt-cheap”; but as Mr Goulburn, though he was so<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_164" id="page_164">{164}</a></span> liberal, had his -wits about him, and old Goudron was the keenest at a bargain in all -Burgundy, the whole preliminaries were arranged the same morning, and -the money was to be paid as soon as possible.</p> - -<p>“For we are birds of passage,” the Englishman said, “there is no knowing -how long we may stay.” That same night, no later, all guarantees having -been given, Antoine was to get his price; and thus, after thanks and -blessings innumerable, the scene ended. It was a relief to them all when -the outpourings of gratitude were over and all those effusive people -gone. “In England they would have felt it just as much, but they would -not have made such a fuss,” Mr Goulburn said with a sigh of relief.</p> - -<p>“You could not have done it in England,” said Helen. “I think it is very -good of you to do it, papa.”</p> - -<p>He looked at her with a smile on his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_165" id="page_165">{165}</a></span> face. “Do you know, I think so -too—it was very good of me. But it was all for Janey,” he said; “it -will come off her fortune. I have got her fortune laid by all safe. I -don’t speak of yours, Helen, for you know you have something from your -mother. You have a hundred a-year, and as it has always been left -untouched to accumulate, there should be a good deal more than a hundred -a-year now. It is as well you should know, in case of——”</p> - -<p>“In case of what, papa? You said we were birds of passage. Did you mean -anything? Did you—think we might have to go away?”</p> - -<p>“Not I! I don’t know why I said it. The fact is we <i>are</i> birds of -passage. What have we to do here? I am very comfortable; I don’t want to -change; but as a matter of fact, things might happen<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_166" id="page_166">{166}</a></span>——”</p> - -<p>“Papa, perhaps I ought to have told you; they are expecting -visitors—English visitors—at the <i>château</i>.”</p> - -<p>She looked at him after a moment, and gave a sudden cry of alarm. He had -become not pale, which is one thing, but white to the very lips. “Do you -know who they are?” he said.</p> - -<p>“Only their Christian names: one is John and the other Monsieur Charles, -who has been in India.”</p> - -<p>She said this with an uneasy feeling once more that M. Charles who had -been in India could be but one person, and looked up with some anxiety -to see if her father would take the same view.</p> - -<p>“That does not tell very much,” he said with a laugh; “most men who are -not called John are called Charles. Are they brothers? It is annoying. I -daresay you wonder why I should care; but the fact is, Helen,” he said, -with an<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_167" id="page_167">{167}</a></span> uneasy attempt at a careless manner, “I don’t want to come in -contact with Englishmen. Take care not to mention my name at all; ignore -me, that is the best thing to do. I won’t meet any Englishman. I’d -rather, a great deal rather, notwithstanding that things suit me very -well here, go away at once than have English visitors prying upon me.”</p> - -<p>“I am afraid you are not well, papa.”</p> - -<p>“It is that old Comtesse that has put it into my head. There never was -anything so absurd. I have been quite breathless and queer ever since -she told me I ought to be so. It is the most droll sympathetic -sensation—nothing more. I know I am not ill, not a bit ill—but I feel -it; in the face of my own reason and all the facts of the case. Never -mind, that will all blow over. And Helen, recollect what I say: be on -your guard if you see any Englishmen. Stop; if it<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_168" id="page_168">{168}</a></span> should by any chance -be some one we know——”</p> - -<p>“That is so unlikely, papa,” said Helen, forcing herself to smile. But -she did not think it was improbable, in her heart.</p> - -<p>“It is very improbable; still we must be prepared for all that can -happen. Should it be any one we know, say that we have come here—for a -day or two. Say that we are—just leaving—or better, say that you are -alone, and that where I am you do not know.”</p> - -<p>It was Helen’s turn now to be pale. “Papa, how can I say all these -things?” she cried. “If I could, if the truth did not matter, the -Vieux-bois would know I was lying. And, papa! oh, if you would but tell -me! If it was only that you were ruined, why should you be afraid of -English visitors? I think I could bear it better if you would tell me -the truth. Is it only—what you call ruin, papa?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_169" id="page_169">{169}</a></span> meaning that you have -lost your money?” she said.</p> - -<p>“It is only—ruin. That is a tolerably big word. I don’t know what you -could wish more.”</p> - -<p>“But meaning that you have lost your money? You have not lost all your -money,” she said with some vehemence. “You have given—a great deal, to -poor Baptiste. We are in no want of anything. You cannot have lost it -all—that is not true.”</p> - -<p>A dull sort of smile came upon his face. “Such things happen every day,” -he said. “A man may lose all his money and may yet have what will do to -go on with. Besides, it is Janey’s, not mine.”</p> - -<p>Helen looked at him with such wistful wonder, with such a pained -entreaty in her face, that he went on with an embarrassed laugh, “The -short and the long of it, if you will know, is this—Ruin means<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_170" id="page_170">{170}</a></span> not -starvation, as you may suppose, but owing money which you cannot pay.”</p> - -<p>A hopeful gleam flew across her face. “But then, so long as there is any -we can always go on paying. Ah, poor Baptiste! it would be hard to take -it from him now; but we could save a great deal, papa; and you shall -have mine if you like, and welcome. And perhaps they would take it in -instalments, as the poor people used to do at the Fareham Club.”</p> - -<p>“Hush!” he said; “you don’t understand anything about it. I want no more -conversation on this subject.”</p> - -<p>“But, papa, I do understand: what can be more simple? Take the money we -have, and pay as far as it will go, and then we could go home.”</p> - -<p>“You are a little fool,” Mr Goulburn said.</p> - -<p>Helen was pained. Did she not understand? and yet it seemed so entirely -simple. She did not insist any more,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_171" id="page_171">{171}</a></span> feeling that her father looked -ill; that it was unkind to press him for the moment. “If any of the -people to whom he owes money should come here,” she said to herself, “I -should know what to do.” It was with this feeling that she set out to -see his friends. Janey was in the garden with Margot’s children, -perfectly happy; her sister was not sorry on this day of emotion to be -alone. She walked away quickly to the <i>château</i>, and her story about the -<i>tirage</i> and those upon whom the bad numbers had fallen, was full of -interest for the ladies; they wanted to hear every name, and how the -unfortunates had borne it.</p> - -<p>“Pierre Courvoye! Oh, it will not do any harm to Pierre; and I think a -few years’ steady service and discipline will be of use to Jean too.”</p> - -<p>“But poor old Elisabeth!” cried Cécile.</p> - -<p>“She will be better without him; at<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_172" id="page_172">{172}</a></span> least she will not see him going -wrong; and perhaps he will do better in the regiment.”</p> - -<p>“But Baptiste? it will ruin Baptiste and poor Mère Dupré, and break -little Blanchette’s heart,” the girls cried.</p> - -<p>When they heard that Mr Goulburn had bought him a substitute there were -no bounds to their enthusiasm. “Your papa, then, is a saint, he is a -benefactor, he has a heart of gold!” they cried.</p> - -<p>“But, <i>mon enfant</i>,” said the Comtesse, “I fear you must have allowed -him to be exposed to emotion. Never forget that there must be no -emotion; you must avoid it as you would avoid poison.”</p> - -<p>This flutter of interest and kind, pleasant talk and praise sent all -that was melancholy out of Helen’s head. She was to return home early, -but this was the evening of Madame la Comtesse’s dinner, and they were -then to meet again. “Shall I tell her?” whispered Cécile.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_173" id="page_173">{173}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Oh no, no; let it be a surprise!” cried the more mischievous Thérèse. -They went out with her to show her how all the young larches were -pushing out their tassels, and the crocuses coming up by hundreds in the -grass. Helen returned to the village by the longer way. There was a -grand entrance to the <i>château</i> which was scarcely ever used; a short -avenue with two curious tall bits of building on either side of the -gate, half towers, half houses, three storeys high, giving a -half-ludicrous air of defence in the midst of a line of low and innocent -hedges. When important visitors came this was how they went in; and, as -it happened, she had scarcely emerged from between the two obelisks of -houses which blocked the gateway, when she saw the Comtesse’s great -lumbering old family coach, the <i>berline</i>, as they called it, swaying -along the road, drawn by the two long-tailed<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_174" id="page_174">{174}</a></span> horses from the farm, with -old Léon on the box, who was called Monsieur l’Intendant in the village -when the people wanted to please him. Helen’s heart began to beat. She -felt sure that the occupants of the <i>berline</i> must be the English -strangers whom she looked for with so much expectation, yet fear. She -gave a hurried glance at them as they lumbered past. She saw two heads, -but her eyes were hazy with over-anxiety, and her excitement confused -her. She could not tell who they were, or if she had seen them before. -The carriage passed her. She breathed more freely. How foolish! she said -to herself. Was she disappointed that after all it was not Charley -Ashton? or was she relieved? or what was it? She could not tell. Her -life had been full of a vague expectation, which had gone to her head, -which had kept her amused, excited, disturbed, alive to everything. And -now it<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_175" id="page_175">{175}</a></span> had failed. Was not she glad? She ought to have been; it would -keep safe her father’s secret, and save him from all disturbance. But -Helen’s first sensation was as if she had fallen out of the clouds. The -earth is a very steady, very satisfactory thing to come down upon, and -by far the safest footing; but still, when you drop from a height there -is apt to be a momentary jar.</p> - -<p>She was so full of this really involuntary, unwilling sensation, and so -anxious to feel glad that all cause for apprehension on her father’s -part was over, that she did not hear the much louder jarring and -grinding of the wheels with which the big <i>berline</i>, as soon as it had -passed her, was stopped. Helen felt slightly unsteady so far as she -herself was concerned. Her steps wavered; there was a ringing in her -ears. It had been, she said to herself, something to look forward to, -and it was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_176" id="page_176">{176}</a></span> over; and she was very glad it was over, and papa happily -escaped from all annoyance. Things were getting steadier before her eyes -every moment, her step was getting more assured. Then all at once she -heard voices in the air. “I certainly will not wait for you,” in a -somewhat severe tone, and in familiar English accents.</p> - -<p>“Never mind, you will just have time for your own salutations, and I -will follow directly,” some one said.</p> - -<p>Helen’s feet, in spite of her, swerved, stumbled, took her half-way -across the road, like feet that were drunken and beyond guidance. She -had not been mistaken after all. Whatever was to come of it, had she not -known it all from the very first? She was not surprised now, though the -discovery set her heart beating once more as if it would break out of -her breast. Of course it was he. Could any<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_177" id="page_177">{177}</a></span>thing be more precise than -the description, M. Charles who had been in India? She had been quite -sure of it all along.</p> - -<p>“Once more I have to ask, is it you, Miss Goulburn? I am sure it can be -no one but you.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, it is me,” said Helen, simply (but nobody pretends that grammar -and nature are the same in respect to this pronoun. She was much -disturbed, and she could no more have said I than she could have flown); -“and I thought it must be you they meant,” she added, with more -simplicity still, “though I heard nothing but your Christian name.”</p> - -<p>“Who was it that spoke of me? It is only by accident I have come here. I -was going to Sainte-Barbe to find out if anything had been heard of -you—if I could find any trace of you.”</p> - -<p>“Sainte-Barbe! we left that, Mr Ashton, immediately<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_178" id="page_178">{178}</a></span>——”</p> - -<p>“I know: after you had seen me.”</p> - -<p>Helen sighed. It seemed impossible to her to lie as her father had told -her—to say anything to him that was not true. It was very hard even to -say what she did falteringly, “We did not mean to stay there, anyhow.”</p> - -<p>“Miss Goulburn,” he said, “I have heard a great deal since I have been -home. When I saw you last I knew nothing. Miss Temple—I mean my -stepmother—is very, very anxious about you. She wants you to go and -live with her, and my father wishes it too.”</p> - -<p>“Mr Charles, that is very, very kind,” said Helen, shaking her head.</p> - -<p>“Miss Goulburn, nobody in the world can take more interest in you, can -have thought more of you than I, since you were a little girl at the -school feasts. And in India I always wondered how you had grown up—if I -should still find you when<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_179" id="page_179">{179}</a></span> I got back. I don’t know if you are aware of -all that has happened?”</p> - -<p>“Papa is ruined,” said Helen in a very low voice.</p> - -<p>“Ruined! Ah, yes; and something more.”</p> - -<p>Helen trembled, tottering along by his side. “I asked him to tell me, -but he wouldn’t. Don’t tell me, I had rather not know. Most likely,” she -said, with a thrill of much pain in her voice, “when he knows you are -here he will go away.”</p> - -<p>“I am almost sure he will. And you have friends here?”</p> - -<p>“Oh yes; all the people are our friends, every one. But what does that -matter?” cried Helen, with a smile of desperation. “It need not make any -difference. We shall go all the same. We shall not mind. But why you or -any one should want to harm us, Mr Charles, I cannot tell. We never did -harm to any one. Why should<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_180" id="page_180">{180}</a></span> we have to fly from one place to another? -We have done nobody any harm.”</p> - -<p>Young Ashton looked at her with the tenderest pity in his face. “I -came,” he said, “to take you home, if you would come, if I could find -you, to Mrs Ashton. Every effort has been made to find you. We did not -know what to wish—that he might not be found, or that you might. Pardon -me, it was for this I came.”</p> - -<p>“Oh no; for a very, very different purpose, Mr Ashton! I know that quite -well—I know exactly,” said Helen, with a little heat. Then she stopped -confused. What had she to do with it? Whatever he came for, what was it -to Helen? Angry! was she angry? But for what, in the name of heaven? -Then she was angry with herself for her irritation. The tears gathered -thick in her eyes. “It will be better, much better, to let us alone,” -she said; “what does it matter to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_181" id="page_181">{181}</a></span> any one where we go or where we stay? -Never mind us, please. Go the <i>château</i>, where they expect you. You can -say I will not come this evening; you need not say why. And let us -alone, Mr Ashton. What can it matter to you if we are here or anywhere -else? We have done no harm to you.”</p> - -<p>“Miss Goulburn, you don’t know John; but he has been a sufferer; he is -very bitter, he will not let things alone. If I could have formed the -least idea that you were here—but even if I had known, what could I do -to keep him from the place where his bride is living? And if he has any -suspicion he will not be silenced. When I saw you—you with your open, -candid face—walking so quietly along the road, and he by my side with -the spirit of a bloodhound in him—— And yet how glad I am that you are -here! But your father; good heavens!” cried<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_182" id="page_182">{182}</a></span> the young man; “what a -position for you to be in! you, so young, so innocent, knowing nothing!”</p> - -<p>Just then they were met by a party of country people going home. “<i>Bon -soir</i>, mademoiselle,” they cried with a little acclamation of kindness, -the men taking off their hats; and one old woman paused to say, “You -should be happy to-night if any one should, <i>ma bonne demoiselle</i>.”</p> - -<p>“You have been doing something kind,” said young Ashton, looking at her, -his face full of tender admiration and sympathy.</p> - -<p>“Not I, not I!” Helen cried. The tears came down her cheeks in a -torrent. “It is papa, poor papa, that has been kind. You don’t know how -good he is. He has made some of the poor people very happy; and his -reward,” she cried, “will be to be driven away. Oh, why should that be? -Papa, who used to be so rich, who had everything; and now that he is<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_183" id="page_183">{183}</a></span> -quiet here, in a little wretched village, you come and drive him away!”</p> - -<p>Young Ashton’s countenance changed. It grew grave, almost severe. “I do -not drive him away,” he said. “If there was anything I could do to make -him safe, I would do it; but he will know better than you do that I -cannot. Tell him that Sir John Harvey is here. He will understand that -better than anything. Not in search of him—not knowingly, but still he -is here. Do they know at the <i>château</i>? Can they give any information? -Will they put John on the scent? Pardon me for using such words—he is -my cousin, but he is a hard man. Do they know who you are?”</p> - -<p>Helen drooped her head with a bitter sense of shame. Even now she did -not know what the real stigma was; but the shame of a false name bowed -her to the ground. “They do not know us,” she said almost inaudibly, “by -our true name.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_184" id="page_184">{184}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>And as she stood before him with her head bent down and that flush of -humiliation on her face, Ashton’s heart was too full to keep silence. A -cry of painful sympathy came from his lips. He took her hand and kissed -it with passionate sympathy and anguish. “My poor child, my poor child!” -he cried. “You, you! to have this burden to bear. Leave him, for God’s -sake, and let me take you home.”</p> - -<p>“Leave him! now, when he is badly off and in trouble?” This idea brought -a kind of smile to Helen’s lips. “But, Mr Ashton, I think you mean very -kindly. I will tell him, and you can say to them at the <i>château</i> that -he was not very well, that the excitement had told upon him, and that I -could not leave him to-night. They will understand that. And don’t make -them think any harm of us, not more harm than you can help. They<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_185" id="page_185">{185}</a></span> have -been very sweet to me,” Helen said after a pause, her tears dropping -again; “such friends! and Thérèse, Mr Ashton, Thérèse, remember! She is -not Cécile, but she is nearly as good as Cécile.”</p> - -<p>“I know nothing about Thérèse or Cécile!” he cried. “Helen, oh, forgive -me, I am almost mad! Are you to be swept away from me once more? Am I to -lose you again?”</p> - -<p>She shook her head sadly. “What does it matter? We never did know each -much,” she said.</p> - -<p>“I will come to the village after it is dark. I will wait about on the -chance of seeing you; perhaps even I might be of use. Don’t refuse me -this,” he cried; “don’t refuse me so much as this! If it is I that must -drive my own happiness away, at least let me see you once again.”</p> - -<p>“Yes; it is true, if you are a friend, you might be of use. You might -help me,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_186" id="page_186">{186}</a></span> perhaps,” Helen said simply, “if you will be so kind. That is -the house, that tall one with the green shutters. It will be very kind -if you will come.”</p> - -<p>She turned away, making a gesture to him to go back. They were opposite -the Lion d’Or, where still the <i>conscrits</i> were hanging about with their -coloured ribbons, and Baptiste receiving once again perpetual -congratulation. Antoine, with his hands in his pockets, strolled along -in the middle of the street, biting a straw which he held in his mouth. -He was looking at M. Goudron’s windows with bended brows. Amid all the -peaceful surroundings, he alone caught Charley Ashton’s eyes as a -sinister figure meaning mischief; but he was far too much occupied with -other thoughts to waste any upon the village bully at a moment so full -of heavier trouble and pain.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_187" id="page_187">{187}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIII" id="CHAPTER_XIII"></a>CHAPTER XIII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Helen</span> went home with slow steps and a heavy heart.</p> - -<p>A heavy heart, indeed; it had beaten wildly enough within the last -hour—now it lay in her breast like a lump of lead. This morning, though -there was nothing happy in her position—though she knew that some great -cloud of misery and doubt hung between them and everything they had -hitherto known, and that even the tranquillity of the moment, such as it -was, might be interrupted in a second, in the twinkling of an eye,—yet -the triumphant light-heartedness of youth had been able to triumph over -all these<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_188" id="page_188">{188}</a></span> things. And there had been so warm an atmosphere of life -about them, so much interchange of feeling, keen sympathy, and the -profound happiness of making others happy, that very little sense of -being there as a stranger had remained in Helen’s mind. They were not -strangers—they were more at home in Latour than they had ever been in -Fareham. Here everybody knew them, everybody had a friendly word for -them; more than that, the English family, with its careless, liberal -ways, had now secured the affection of the village. She herself had -never known before what it was to have friends like Cécile and Thérèse, -or to be interested with such familiar kindness in any poor girl as she -had been in the fortunes of little Blanchette. At Fareham the love of -the village publican’s son with the retired tradesman’s daughter would -have been nothing to the great<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_189" id="page_189">{189}</a></span> young lady, secluded among her woods and -parks. But here they were more interesting, and concerned her more than -any romance. She had a share in the lives of so many people, and her own -life was full of tranquil occupations, of sympathies, of friendships; -every cottage round about contained something or somebody that -interested her. But what of that? They must all be left behind, as all -her other habits of living, all her previous existence had been. She -would have to give up those first personal friends, not knowing if she -should ever see them more, not hoping to do so—and go away from the -homely little life which had given her her first lively sense of -individual existence—for what? to go where? Helen could not tell. The -world was all dark beyond this one clear spot in which the afternoon sun -had just sunk behind the cottage roofs, and the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_190" id="page_190">{190}</a></span> whole sky overhead was -red with gorgeous reflection. To-morrow, the fine spring morning which -these ruddy lights prophesied, would rise serenely over the same roofs, -and Margot would light her fire, and little Blanchette, out of her -dreams, would awake joyfully to recollect that her troubles were all -over. But where would Helen be? She did not know, but surely away from -Latour, away from everything she knew, out into the world, which always -figured itself before her as darkness—the gloom of night, the clanging -of a great train, pursuing its noisy precipitate way through an unseen -country, to the unknown out of the known. She stood for a moment at the -door, looking wistfully round her at the familiar scene. The houses with -their thatched roofs rose dark against the great glow of redness in the -west. In the distance the homely spire of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_191" id="page_191">{191}</a></span> church rose up protecting -over them; voices were in the air, all cheerful, confused, half heard, -with now and then one distincter note striking in, as by turns one -figure would start up and separate itself from the little company still -lingering in front of the Lion d’Or.</p> - -<p>Somewhere near a woman was singing a baby to sleep, in a sweet drowsy -voice, broken by the rock of her chair upon the wooden floor. On the -other hand a group of little truants, pattering in their <i>sabots</i>, were -being pursued homewards to bed by the half-laughing, half-angry mother. -Helen looked round her with wistful eyes, casting a last glance along -the road which led to the <i>château</i>, the most dear of all. Along this -road Antoine was sauntering slowly, his hands in his pockets, looking -back as he went, with his eyes always fixed on M. Goudron’s house. His -was the only <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_192" id="page_192">{192}</a></span>non-sympathetic figure in all the scene. It broke the -spell. Helen turned from him and breathed her farewell to the village in -one long sigh.</p> - -<p>The prattle of Janey was the first thing she heard when she went in. The -child was seated on her father’s knee. She had been telling him a story -about Margot’s children, with whom she had been playing.</p> - -<p>“Petit-Jean does not know what a big city is, papa; he thinks Paris is -like Laroche” (Laroche was the next village, and had a street twice as -long as that of Latour, and was looked upon as almost a <i>chef-lieu</i>). -“He said, was England like the little island in the pond at the -<i>château</i>? Margot’s little children they are very ignorant, they don’t -know anything, papa.”</p> - -<p>“And my little Janey knows a great deal?” he said laughing, yet with a -thrill of another sentiment in his voice; “but<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_193" id="page_193">{193}</a></span> everybody, my pet, has -not travelled like you.”</p> - -<p>“No,” said Janey, complacently. “Only think, I came from India when I -was a little tiny baby—if I could only recollect I should know India -too, and then London, and then that place on the sea where we bought our -things, and then Sainte-Barbe, and then—— Papa, after all this, when -are we doing home?”</p> - -<p>“Should you like to do home, Janey?” This time the laugh was so broken -that it was more like a sob.</p> - -<p>“Oh yes, papa. I should like to have my big doll Marianna, that I put in -my bed when we came away. Will she always be in my little bed all this -time, staring with her big eyes? I forgot to shut her eyes when I put -her in. Fancy a little girl lying for years and years with open eyes!”</p> - -<p>“It is not years and years, Janey.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_194" id="page_194">{194}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Yes, papa, it is longer, longer than any one can remember—far longer -than <i>that</i>,” cried the child, stretching her arms to the widest. “I -want to do home.”</p> - -<p>“Here is Helen coming to put you to bed,” he said. She was in his arms -as she sat there, but he strained her closer, kissing her little -upturned face again and again. “My little Janey, my little darling,” he -said, “wherever you are you will not forget your poor father, who was so -fond of you?”</p> - -<p>She did not take much notice of this address, being used, more or less, -to speeches of the sort, but slid down from his knee. Helen had to -postpone her explanation till the ceremony of putting the child to bed -was over. Should she be obliged to wake her up again in the dark as had -been done before? And how would it be possible here, thirty miles from -the railway, to fly as they had done from<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_195" id="page_195">{195}</a></span> Fareham? Janey chattered -while Helen went over all those miserable calculations. It was almost -dark when she went back to the room in which her father sat alone.</p> - -<p>“Have you not gone, Helen? I thought I heard the Précepteur asking for -you at the door.”</p> - -<p>“I am not going, papa.” She came and sat down by him in the dark, which -hid her countenance from him. She laid her hand softly upon his. “Papa, -they have come.”</p> - -<p>“How you startle me, Helen!” he cried querulously. “Oh, I remember: the -English visitors. Well! I hope you were discreet and did as I said?”</p> - -<p>“You were right,” she said, “and I was wrong. I thought it so unlikely; -but don’t they say here that it is the unlikely things that happen? -Papa, one of them is Charley Ashton, whom we met at Sainte-Barbe.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_196" id="page_196">{196}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Good Lord!” he cried, starting from his chair; then after a pause -reseated himself. “I will keep out of the way,” he said. “I regretted -afterwards that I left Sainte-Barbe when I did. Charley Ashton is not -the sort of fellow to betray any one: and I think,” he said with a half -laugh, “that he was very, very much struck with you. I should not wonder -if that was why he has come back to this neighbourhood—although -Sainte-Barbe is a good way from here.”</p> - -<p>These words scarcely conveyed any meaning to Helen’s ear. All she made -out was that her father was not so much alarmed, not so thoroughly -roused to think of his own welfare as he ought to be.</p> - -<p>“Papa, he got out of the carriage to talk to me. He spoke of you; he -said I was to warn you, and that this would be enough: I was to tell you -his cousin is with him, Sir John Harvey<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_197" id="page_197">{197}</a></span>——”</p> - -<p>“My God!” cried Mr Goulburn. This time he got up, pale as ashes, but -soon fell back, not out of carelessness but weakness. His hands resting -upon the table shook it with their trembling. He dropped back again into -his chair, his under lip falling, his face like that of a dead man.</p> - -<p>“He has been a sufferer, and he is very bitter. If he gets any suspicion -he will not be silenced. This is what Mr Ashton said. I don’t know what -it means, papa,” said Helen, with a quiver of her lip, “nor why any man -who comes here, any man! should make you run away as if you were a -criminal——”</p> - -<p>“It is because I am a criminal, Helen.”</p> - -<p>“Papa!”</p> - -<p>“No, no,” he said, trying to smile, “not that. God knows I never meant -any harm; but I was led on from one thing to another, and nobody can -understand another man’s temptations. I went farther<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_198" id="page_198">{198}</a></span> than I should have -done. Some people—that could not afford it—were brought into trouble -through me; that is all, Helen. I owe a great deal of money, as I told -you. This Sir John is one of the people. It is nothing but money, money. -If I had killed their fathers and mothers, they would not have felt it -half so much. It is money, as I tell you—nothing but money. And now I -must get up and go away from here. Ill, and getting old, and tired, -tired to death——”</p> - -<p>He put down his head into his hands, which trembled; his whole stooping -figure shook. He was certainly thinner, weaker, and far older in -appearance than when they came to Latour. Helen sat beside him, looking -at him with a wretched half-sympathy. Perhaps, up to this moment, it had -been herself she had been thinking of most, herself who had done no -harm, who did not even know why it was that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_199" id="page_199">{199}</a></span> she was to be driven from -the new roof where she had found refuge. Now her mind turned, but with a -languid misery, to realise what her father was feeling. He was himself -the cause of his own sufferings. But did that make them easier to bear?</p> - -<p>“Poor papa!” she said, involuntarily touching with her hand his -trembling arm. Yes, he was ill, and getting old, and how natural if he -were tired, tired to death! All Helen’s present trouble fell into a sort -of dull and aching pity for him, who was the cause of it. She sat for a -little while in dead silence; and then she said, “What are we to do?”</p> - -<p>It was some time before he made her any reply; he was panting for -breath; there was a hectic colour on his cheeks like fever. “If you had -but stayed in the house!” he said. “What did you want with these people -at the <i>château</i>? They were strangers—and you should<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_200" id="page_200">{200}</a></span> avoid strangers. -It will always be like this wherever we go. You will make friends, and -then you will wonder that it is so much harder to go away. What right -have we to make friends? we cannot get any good out of them. We who must -be like this, without any place to rest the sole of our feet, till -we”—he paused a moment—“till I die.”</p> - -<p>A faint dolorous wonder had crossed the mind of Helen. She would not -leave him, nothing would make her leave him, lonely as he was. But that -momentary pause, and the substitution of I for we, touched his -daughter’s heart. She put her hand again softly on his arm.</p> - -<p>“Papa, we could not go away by night, all this long, dreadful way—and -Janey. If we were to go early, early in the morning, would that not do? -It is not so cold now, and the diligence<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_201" id="page_201">{201}</a></span> goes so early. That would be -best, not to attract any attention; or if we could leave her with Margot -till we got settled——”</p> - -<p>“Leave—my child!—do you want me to leave my child?” he cried, as if -she had suggested something cruel—“till we get settled?” and he -laughed. “The only use of that would be to give them a clue to trace us -by. We could not live without news of her, and letters are destruction. -Do you think we could have been quiet here so long, so quiet, if there -had been letters coming after us? No; we must go altogether when we go. -But suppose that I were to keep out of the way,” he said in a half -entreating tone; “suppose that I kept my room; suppose—I don’t know -what is the matter with me—I have lost my courage. This man cannot stay -very long with the Vieux-bois, Helen. Don’t you think if<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_202" id="page_202">{202}</a></span> I were to shut -myself up, to see no one? You could say I was ill——”</p> - -<p>“He is going to marry Cécile; they will talk of us, they will describe -you, and there will be Mr Ashton, who knows us. It might be right—I -mean not very wrong, for me; but he, why should he tell lies for us?” -said Helen, mournfully.</p> - -<p>Her father recovered himself as by a miracle. He sat up in his chair, -and his nervous trembling ceased. He even laughed. “I will manage -Charley Ashton,” he said.</p> - -<p>Shortly after he was summoned to see Antoine, who had come with the -notary to receive the money which had been agreed upon as the price of -his services as Baptiste’s <i>remplaçant</i>. Mr Goulburn got up quite -revived and restored, and went to his own room, where the two men -awaited him. It was his bedroom,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_203" id="page_203">{203}</a></span> but also his sitting-room; the small -business he had occupied himself with, since his arrival in Latour, -having been all performed there. In a large old bureau, which stood -between the window and the fireplace, were all his papers, his writing -materials, the few books he had picked up. In a drawer of this bureau he -kept his money. Probably there were none of the secondary vexations of -his ruined life which affected him so much as the necessity of keeping -his money in a drawer, and counting it out to every claimant; but the -sums that were necessary for their living were so small that as yet he -had not been much disturbed by it. This was the first occasion on which -he had taken any serious sum from the stores with which he had provided -himself. The notary sat at the table. Antoine, striding across a chair, -placed himself in front of the window, between<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_204" id="page_204">{204}</a></span> his companion and Mr -Goulburn. He watched every movement of the Englishman, who took no heed -of his dark looks. “This is one of the worst of your French customs,” he -said pettishly. “In England I should have given him a cheque on my -bankers without any trouble.” It was not in English flesh and blood not -to say this, though, even as he said it, Mr Goulburn remembered, with a -bitter pang, what so often he managed to forget, that no English banker -would honour a cheque of his, or pay any regard save that of hostile -curiosity to his dishonoured name.</p> - -<p>“Monsieur, it will be long before a peasant will trust to your cheques; -it is not always even that they care for bank-notes. Gold, hard gold, -that is what they like best; but Antoine has education, and is very well -content with the bank-notes.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_205" id="page_205">{205}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Perfectly content,” said Antoine. He had his eyes fixed upon the -movements of <i>l’Anglais</i>. Mr Goulburn took out one thing after another -from the drawer. First, the morocco letter-case which he had sent Helen -to fetch on the night of the flight from Fareham, then a pocketbook -bursting with papers; then, finally, the thing he was looking for, his -chequebook, which he took out with a sigh.</p> - -<p>“In England I should fill up one of these forms, and all would be done,” -he said, showing it.</p> - -<p>Antoine bent curiously forward to look. “Is it money?” he said, with -some eagerness, yet suspicion; a book of bank-notes! It seemed not at -all unnatural to Antoine that an Englishman should travel with such an -article at hand.</p> - -<p>“Not till monsieur puts his signature,” said the smiling notary. “Look! -it is a <i>livre à souches</i>. Here is the counterfoil<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_206" id="page_206">{206}</a></span> on which monsieur -marks the cipher. It is very ingenious; but in the country in France -there is nothing we trust in like <i>des bons gros sous</i>. We like to hear -the money tinkle, <i>n’est-ce pas</i>, Antoine? Not that I say anything -against a bank-note, and an English bank-note, monsieur; that is well -known to be unimpeachable all over the world.”</p> - -<p>“Do not be afraid,” said Mr Goulburn, putting back the cheque-book and -the morocco case, and opening the pocket-book—“these are notes of the -Bank of France.” Antoine looked at it, devouring it from under his heavy -eyebrows. What countless sums might there not be in that drawer! First, -the leather case, no doubt full of <i>valeurs</i> of one kind or another; -then the book of English money, half as thick as a <i>paroissien</i>; then -the bursting pocket-book full of French notes. There is no end to the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_207" id="page_207">{207}</a></span> -wealth of those other English; and to think that all should lie almost -within reach of a man’s hand, in a drawer against Père Goudron’s outer -wall!</p> - -<p>Mr Goulburn took out the notes one by one, three notes for five hundred -francs each—a fortune! but nothing to the riches that remained. He took -them out from a sheaf of others carelessly, closing the pocket-book -again and laying it down quite at his ease, not at all excited by the -possession of so much money, almost within reach of the dangerous eyes -that were watching him.</p> - -<p>“Here is your money, my <i>brave homme</i>,” he said. “M. le Notaire tells me -all the formalities have been gone through. Do not put it away in a -drawer, as I have to do, but invest it, Antoine, invest it; put it -somewhere where it will bring you in good interest. That is what we call -a very pretty little nest-egg in Eng<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_208" id="page_208">{208}</a></span>land. If you manage it well, if you -take care of it, there is no telling to what it may grow.”</p> - -<p>“Monsieur gives you very excellent advice,” said the notary. “I hope you -will take it, Antoine. There are a few little things against you, as -indeed there are against most young men, but I hope you will clear them -all off, and come back to the village when your service is done with -your <i>livret</i> in the best possible order. You have helped to give peace -and comfort to one house, and that should be a pleasant thing to think -of.”</p> - -<p>Antoine received all these good wishes and good counsels with an air of -preoccupation. Fifteen hundred francs! it was a fortune. Still, what it -was was nothing to what was in the pocket-book which lay so carelessly -on the bureau. A thirst, a hunger got into his mind. Was it his fault? -was it not rather that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_209" id="page_209">{209}</a></span> of the Englishman with his careless ways? Never, -never, in all his life, had he seen what he believed to be so much money -before. Instinctively his eyes glanced round under cover of his dark -brows. There was the window on one side, a window which gave upon the -street, within reach of a man of Antoine’s height; and on the other the -door. The bed was at the other side of the room. A clever person might -get through a great deal of work without even awaking the sleeper, -without doing any more harm.</p> - -<p>Helen went out to the door an hour or two later, when her father—who -complained of fatigue and agitation, and was querulous and peevish with -her, as if the visit of the English strangers was her fault—had gone to -bed. It was still not very late. Everything was in full activity at the -Lion d’Or, and the sound of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_210" id="page_210">{210}</a></span> voices, and now and then a scrap of -song, still sounded into the quiet air of the night, softened by the -distance and by the milder atmosphere, humid and soft, which had -succeeded the long frosts. It made the girl’s heart beat to see some one -standing waiting for her in the shadow of the house. The moon was -shining behind, and all in front of Père Goudron’s was in the blackest -shadow. Helen had never had a lover. It was not of that she thought now, -as she opened the door cautiously; but yet there was something in this -meeting which made her heart beat strangely. Young Ashton came close to -the door.</p> - -<p>“I have told them I always walk at night; they think everything possible -to the eccentricity of an Englishman,” he said with a half smile, “so -that I am at your disposal whatever you may be going to do.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_211" id="page_211">{211}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“We are to do nothing,” she said. “He will keep his room; he will say he -is ill. Indeed he is not well, Mr Ashton; something is the matter with -him, I cannot tell what. He is nervous, he is not himself; he says he -has no courage to go away. Perhaps you will not stay long at the -<i>château</i>?”</p> - -<p>“You wish us to be gone?” he said, with a tone of vexation.</p> - -<p>“Can I help it?” said Helen. “Do you think I shall have a moment’s rest -till you are gone?—or after?” she added mournfully; “for how can I tell -who may come next?—some one not so kind as you.”</p> - -<p>“That is what I think,” he said anxiously; “you will never feel safe. If -it were I that was the danger, whatever it might cost me, I would go; -but it is not I. It is John, and he has come to see his future wife. One -cannot expect him<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_212" id="page_212">{212}</a></span> to go, do you think? I am not in his case.”</p> - -<p>He said this with much marked meaning, and looked at Helen so closely, -that she could not but remark it, and wonder, with a nervous tremour, -what did he mean?</p> - -<p>“Miss Goulburn,” he said, “this is not the time to talk of such things, -is it? I am going back to India soon; and I want to marry. I know it -sounds brutal what I am saying. If you will marry me, it would be one -way of settling all this. We could see him placed comfortably somewhere -out of the way, in Spain perhaps, and you would not need to go home to -be troubled by what is said. It is wicked that you should be dragged -about, you so innocent as you are, flying from one place to another. I -cannot bear to think of it. Even your name—— Will you take mine, -Helen? If you would do it, I cannot tell you how happy it would<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_213" id="page_213">{213}</a></span> make -me. I never had any hope; but this has always been in my mind since that -school-feast when you were only a little girl.”</p> - -<p>Helen did not remember anything about the school-feast. She was -perplexed by this reference to it which clouded over the sharp -distinctness of the proposal which preceded it. And when he paused she -could not speak, she was struck dumb, half by the sudden business-like -character of the proposal, and half by the wonder of it. She had never -thought (had she? she was not so sure after the first moment) of -anything of the sort. She stood bewildered, and gazed blankly at him in -the blackness of the night.</p> - -<p>“I have been too hasty, and frightened you. I knew I should; but how can -I help it? There is no time to lose. Tell me only one thing: you are not -going to marry any one else?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_214" id="page_214">{214}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Oh no, no,” said Helen; then she added simply, “No one has ever asked -me before.”</p> - -<p>He came a little closer and took her hand. “I thought you must have seen -at Sainte-Barbe,” he said. “I was half out of my mind with joy to see -you, and next day miserable when I found you had gone. Helen, if you -think you could like me, there will be plenty, plenty of love on my -side. And think what a motive I should have to take care of your father. -We could settle him somewhere—you and I together—where he would be -safe, quite safe. And after a while they will give up thinking about -him. It would be for his advantage,” said the young man earnestly. “Give -me a little hope, and I will keep John off—he shall never suspect. No,” -cried Charley, vehemently, “I will not make any condition. I will keep -John off, anyhow; you may calcu<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_215" id="page_215">{215}</a></span>late upon me. I will be your watchman to -keep danger away, whether you give me hope or not.”</p> - -<p>“Mr Ashton,” said Helen, “you are very, very kind. How can I give you -what I have not got? Hope! I have not any. Before you came I felt as if -I must give up, and let things happen as they would.”</p> - -<p>“But you don’t feel that now?” he said eagerly; “you think it is worth -while to try again, to fight your best, however hard it may be, not to -give in? That is what you feel now?”</p> - -<p>“Yes; it is you that have given me hope; not that I can give it you.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t you see it is the same thing?” he cried. “It is because we are -two of us—not one poor individual standing alone, but two to do -everything together: that makes all the difference in the world.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_216" id="page_216">{216}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>Helen did not speak, but she felt it, she could not tell why. Yes, there -was a difference. The burden was lighter; there was a change in the air; -the road did not seem to lead away entirely into the darkness as it had -done an hour before. Two of them!—was that the reason of the change?</p> - -<p>“Helen! that would be all, almost all, I wanted—if you feel so too.”</p> - -<p>She did not make any direct reply; but she said, “I could not go to -India, and leave him. It would not be possible to leave him. If he were -well, if he were safe—but how could I leave him now?”</p> - -<p>“He would wish it,” said young Ashton very decidedly, “if he knew. He is -not a bad man, Helen.” (He paused here, and made a little mental -reservation with natural severity.) “He does not want to make you -wretched, dragging you after him. He would wish it if he knew.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_217" id="page_217">{217}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>There was another pause, and then Helen abandoned this subject -altogether, and said, with a little quiver in her voice which—was it -possible?—sounded half like laughter, “You were—perhaps: they thought -it possible—to have been the <i>futur</i> of Thérèse?”</p> - -<p>“Folly!” he cried. “John thought it would answer; as if any Englishman -would make such a bargain: the woods to look after, and a very pretty -young lady! What would he have said, I wonder, if he had been brought in -cold blood to Cécile? But he did not know my heart was full of some one -else; that is his only excuse.”</p> - -<p>At this moment a bell tinkled inside, and Helen started; he was standing -very near to her now, close up in the shadow of the doorway, two that -looked like one. And she did not make any objection. But now she -disengaged herself softly.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_218" id="page_218">{218}</a></span></p> - -<p>“It is papa who wants me,” she said.</p> - -<p>“Then it is a bargain, dear. I will be on the watch; I will keep off -John. I will come and see what you think to-morrow night.”</p> - -<p>“Good night,” she whispered. It sounded like an echo of the last word he -had said.</p> - -<p>Mr Goulburn had raised himself half out of his bed, his eyes were -feverish and shining. “Who was that?” he said. “You were talking to some -one at the door.”</p> - -<p>Helen stood with a candle in her hand, which threw a vivid light upon -her face, bringing out its soft brilliancy of tint, the blush that hung -over it like a faint rose-shadow, the dewy dazzlement of agitation in -the eyes amid the surrounding darkness. She said very softly, with a -little catch of her breath, “It was Mr Ashton, papa.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_219" id="page_219">{219}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>Mr Goulburn lay back upon his pillows with a relieved face; he laughed. -“That is all right,” he said—“now I shall sleep in peace. I have two -guardians instead of one.”</p> - -<p>“Papa thinks so <i>too</i>,” Helen said to herself, as she went into the room -where Janey was sleeping. It had all been very sudden, and she did not -understand it; but there was a wonderful difference. “It is because -there are two of us—not one standing alone.” Were there ever words that -meant so much? And papa thought so <i>too</i>.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_220" id="page_220">{220}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIV" id="CHAPTER_XIV"></a>CHAPTER XIV.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">“Harford</span>? No, I don’t know anybody of the name,” Sir John had said; but -while Charley was out after dinner, exercising that inalienable -privilege of an Englishman to do absurd things, which everybody -recognises in France, he heard a great deal about the English family in -the village, which made him think. Helen was said to have spoken of -Fareham, which Sir John knew very well; and Ashton had recognised this -mysterious English girl, whose presence here was so unaccountable. And -there was a father in bad health—and a child. What could such people -want at Latour? “You shall<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_221" id="page_221">{221}</a></span> see her at dinner,” Cécile said; but she did -not come to dinner, and Sir John, who had frowned at the prospect of a -dinner-party, as he chose to call it, on the first night of his arrival, -frowned still more when Helen’s apologies were made, with great -earnestness and regrets far more eloquent than anything Helen would have -thought of expressing, by the wife of the Précepteur. If she was to -come, why didn’t she come? What was the meaning of it? Could it be some -entanglement of Charley’s? his cousin thought.</p> - -<p>“Had they anything to do with Fareham?” he asked late that night, when -Charley had come in, glowing and radiant, from his night walk. “I don’t -understand about these English people in the village. Where did you meet -them? who are they? I don’t want any equivocal people here, in Cécile’s -very village. What<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_222" id="page_222">{222}</a></span> could they have to do with Fareham? I never heard -the name there.”</p> - -<p>“I met them somewhere in the parish,” said Charley, evasively. “I forget -exactly in which house. You don’t know all the people in Fareham parish. -I believe it was at a school-feast——”</p> - -<p>Of how much service that school-feast had been! Sir John was more -satisfied, but uncertain still.</p> - -<p>“The father is ill,” he said.</p> - -<p>“So the Comtesse said,” said Charley, with caution. He was too much on -his guard to commit himself.</p> - -<p>“A strange place for a sick man—not a doctor, except the parish doctor, -within thirty miles. What, in the name of wonder, could have brought -them to Latour?”</p> - -<p>“I suppose,” said Charley, “it is a very cheap place.”</p> - -<p>“Cheap? There is something in that,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_223" id="page_223">{223}</a></span>” said Sir John. Then he paused, and -fixing his eyes upon his cousin, “I’ll tell you what,” he said, “I -shouldn’t wonder a bit if it was another victim of that scoundrel -Goulburn,—some poor wretch who has lost every penny, who has dragged -himself here, to die perhaps. Don’t you think it would be civil to go -and see him, as he is ill? They take no end of interest in him here.”</p> - -<p>“There is no hurry about it,” said Charley in dismay; but Sir John was -very persistent. He spoke of it again next morning, and the proposal was -received with enthusiasm by the ladies.</p> - -<p>“We will go together,” Cécile said, who indeed could not contain her -impatience till her friend had seen and given an opinion upon her lover. -Sir John was a fine, big, imposing Englishman, a pattern of all that a -Sir John ought to be—somewhat easily put out<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_224" id="page_224">{224}</a></span> in temper, and therefore -affording all the excitement of dramatic uncertainty to the vivacious -Frenchwoman, who had never as yet found the uncertainty more than -piquant. She liked him the better that he was not always on the watch to -pay her little attentions like the men she was accustomed to, and prized -his approbation all the more that it was so doubtful, and that it took -so much trouble to secure it. Cécile was very anxious to exhibit her -large, important lover to Helen; and she was also eager to secure -Helen’s admiration and approval, of which she felt no doubt. That he was -not as the other frivolous young <i>fiancés</i>, or even as this cousin, -Cécile felt proudly confident. Sir John, it may be added, was a man of -thirty-five, <i>rangé</i>, serious, a public man, a personage. In all these -points of view Cécile’s young bosom swelled with pride in him. As has -been already insisted<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_225" id="page_225">{225}</a></span> upon, virtue, seriousness, and duty are, amongst -at least one important portion of the upper classes, of the very highest -fashion in France.</p> - -<p>Charley did all he could to change their purpose. He said, with a little -hesitation, that he had seen Miss Harford, that he had stopped to ask -for her father during his walk, and that the invalid meant to keep his -bed for a day or two. This, however, had no effect upon the party, which -set out very cheerfully in the noonday sunshine, after the second -breakfast, to show the village, and to see the English friends who had -become so important in the life of Cécile and Thérèse. It would be vain -to attempt to tell, since the arrangement, as the reader is aware, never -came to anything, with what swift and silent observation the Comtesse -and her daughters had scrutinised and decided upon Charley. At the first -glance<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_226" id="page_226">{226}</a></span> he had succeeded in “pleasing” Thérèse, who knew very well that -it was her mother’s purpose to marry her, according to the simple -formula of her nation, and who at first believed M. Charles to have come -to the <i>château</i> with the same ideas. In this point of view all the -ladies found him quite <i>convenable</i>, but—The Comtesse herself -questioned Sir John very closely when his cousin went out after dinner -for that walk which quite chimed in with her ideas of the English -character.</p> - -<p>“M. Charles is aware of the situation, of course?” Madame la Comtesse -said. “It is well that there should not be any mistake on this point. He -knows my intention in respect to Thérèse, and the dispositions of the -will, &c.? So far as appearances go, I find him very suitable, and that -he will be pleasing to Thérèse is probable. There is nothing against<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_227" id="page_227">{227}</a></span> -the arrangement. But we must know how it appears to him on his side. -There must be no step taken by us which does not meet a response. M. -Charles on his part, has he expressed his sentiments? Does he find my -daughter pleasing to him on his side? It is necessary to be more -explicit on the part of the gentleman: has he given you to -understand——”</p> - -<p>“Oh dear no!” cried Sir John, alarmed. He had sounded Charley, but had -not got a promising response, and now thought it wisest to ignore the -plan altogether. “Oh, certainly not. I have not said a word to him, my -dear Comtesse. Fancy bringing an Englishman here with the idea that he -was on sight! Oh dear no! I brought him on the chance that they might -fancy each other, the most likely thing in the world—a pretty girl like -Thérèse, and a nice young fellow. It<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_228" id="page_228">{228}</a></span> was the most natural thing that -they should fall in love with each other.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, fall in lofe! that was not my idea,” said Madame de Vieux-bois—Sir -John spoke his native language, in which she was not an expert. And -after this conversation the Comtesse put her daughters on their guard. -“Mes enfans,” she said privately, “we will postpone the question. Ce -Monsieur Charles ne me plaît pas. There is something about him—— And I -find, besides, that it is too soon to think of marrying Thérèse: she is -but seventeen. It will be enough to lose thee, <i>ma</i> Cécile—enough for -one year.”</p> - -<p>Madame la Comtesse was far too careful a mother to permit her child’s -thoughts to dwell upon any one who might be found unresponsive. The -girls understood more or less, and they declared their mamma to have -reason, as indeed she had in the fullest sense of the word. This,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_229" id="page_229">{229}</a></span> -however, subdued Thérèse a little; not that she felt disappointed in -respect to Charley Ashton, but that she no longer felt herself in the -important position of being about to make the great decision of her -life. She could not take Helen aside, as she had intended to do, with -pretty airs of gravity, and ask her advice with solemn meaning. “Est-ce -qu’il te plaît?” she had intended to say, curving her young brows with -all the seriousness that became so momentous a question. She felt that -she was coming down from an anticipated elevation, when she had no such -important decision to make. And Cécile, too, was disappointed. The -crisis was <i>manqué</i>. It failed in the double seriousness, the weighty -character she had intended it to have. If they were but a little more -reasonable, these Englishmen—a little more amenable to rule! All the -time, however, Cécile piqued herself very<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_230" id="page_230">{230}</a></span> much upon the delightful fact -that her John and she had come together by no arrangement, but had for -their part proceeded on strictly English principles, and fallen in love.</p> - -<p>It would be difficult to describe the embarrassment of Helen, receiving -this party of visitors, meeting the friendly enthusiasm of her -companions with the knowledge of her own secret, which she could not -disclose to them, in her heart, and with the very much more dreadful -secret of which she was the guardian, pressing itself upon her, -confusing her mind and weighing heavily upon all her thoughts. She dared -not look at Charley at all. To have met him even alone after the -revelations of last night, after the strange incomprehensible change in -their position towards each other which it had brought about, would have -been confusing beyond measure. But when,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_231" id="page_231">{231}</a></span> added to all this, there was -the terrible figure of Sir John inspecting her with British suspicion, -asking her in every look, Who are you? what business have you here? and -the consciousness of her father lurking in his room, whom the mistaking -of a door, a wrong turning, might betray,—it may be supposed that no -inexperienced girl, standing upon the threshold of her life among things -unrealised, could have had a more terrible half-hour than had Helen, -alone with this group, having to parry all their questions and meet all -their looks without breaking down utterly or running away. She had -thought it best to send Janey out to the garden, lest the child, who -would have been of so much assistance to her, might make some unwitting -disclosure. And there she stood alone, clasping her little delicate -hands together, to meet them all, to conceal what was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_232" id="page_232">{232}</a></span> in her—alas! to -deceive them. The tears were trembling very near poor Helen’s eyes, her -voice wavered now and then as if it would break altogether, her little -figure swayed; but yet she stood firm, though she could not tell how she -did it. The girls put down her trouble naturally to her father’s -illness. They kissed her and whispered sympathy into her ears. “Du -courage!” they said, with tears of tender pity and fellow-feeling. “If -mamma could but come herself!” But they had no doubt that mamma could -send something that would be of use. “It is the emotion of yesterday,” -they concluded, with all the ease of spectators. And then Sir John had -to be told the incident of yesterday and the goodness of monsieur. This -was a blessed relief to Helen, whom he had begun to interrogate about -Fareham and all she knew about it.</p> - -<p>“I suppose you did not know the last<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_233" id="page_233">{233}</a></span> people that lived there? One of -those great <i>nouveaux riches</i>, those men that live like princes on other -people’s money. He turned out to be a swindl——”</p> - -<p>“Helen,” whispered Cécile, drawing her apart before the sentence was -completed, “Est-ce qu’il te plaît? I want you to give me your most -honest opinion. Je veux qu’il te plaît! Tell me exactly, exactly what -you think—for you must like him,” said Sir John’s bride, with a pretty -flush of impetuous eagerness. Thérèse, who had believed that she too -would have had the same question to put, had surprised certain turns of -the head—certain looks which Charley addressed to her friend—and she -was curious beyond measure, and bursting with a thousand questions. When -the visit was over poor Helen watched them go away, waving her hand to -them from the door, keeping up her smile to the last moment.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_234" id="page_234">{234}</a></span> She did -not lose the last suspicious glance of Sir John, who looked -(accidentally) at her father’s window with all the force of an inquiry, -but she scarcely got the comfort of Ashton’s anxious, tender look of -sympathy which told all his story to Thérèse. She was at the end of her -strength, but nevertheless, she had to rouse herself to go to her -father, who wanted to know every particular of the interview.</p> - -<p>“I heard Harvey’s voice,” Mr Goulburn said. “There was always something -objectionable in his voice. Big Philistine! Cécile de Vieux-bois is a -great deal too good for him. He has dined with me dozens of times, but I -think it was always in town, and at my club. He could not have any -suspicion. Did he seem to you to have any suspicion, Helen?”</p> - -<p>“He had a great deal of suspicion,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_235" id="page_235">{235}</a></span> papa, but I don’t think he knew what -he suspected. He can’t understand what we are doing here. Provided,” -said Helen, with a little French idiom of which she was unconscious, -“provided he does not come another time and take us unawares.”</p> - -<p>“He shall not take me unawares, you may trust to me, Helen; I shall not -budge till the big brute is gone.”</p> - -<p>Her father spoke in a reassuring tone, as if promising for her sake to -abjure all imprudence. Their positions seemed to have changed, she could -not tell how. She was no longer the wistful follower in a flight, the -motive of which she was ignorant of. One would have thought rather that -it was some indiscretion of hers that had brought this danger upon him, -some rashness which he was too generous to reproach her with. “I will do -my best for you, you may trust to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_236" id="page_236">{236}</a></span> me,” was what he seemed to be saying; -and this brought the confusion in her mind to a climax. She went about -all the long day after like one in a dream.</p> - -<p>“It cannot be for cheapness these people have come here,” said Sir John -to Charley. “You heard that story about the substitute? That does not -look like poverty. Besides, I don’t believe the man is ill. The girl -didn’t look as if it were true. He is keeping out of our way. Depend -upon it there is something shady about him. I think I’ve seen the girl -before.”</p> - -<p>“Very likely; she is very young, but she has been out a little,” said -Charley hurriedly, anxious to avoid any following out of the subject. -“One meets everybody one time or another. Even I, who have spent my time -in anything but balls——”</p> - -<p>“Yes; by the way, how is it you seem to know the girl so well?” said Sir -John.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_237" id="page_237">{237}</a></span></p> - -<p>“I wish, if it’s all the same to you,” cried Charley, out of patience, -“that you’d speak a little more civilly. I don’t see why you should call -a young lady whom you know nothing of, ‘the girl,’ in that contemptuous -way. Yes; it does matter to me. I don’t know that I ever met any one in -my life that I admired so much.”</p> - -<p>“Whew!” Sir John gave a prolonged whistle of amazement; “why, she’s not -fit to hold the candle to Thérèse,” he said; then added drily, “the more -reason why I should find out all about them. I am a great deal older -than you are, and I don’t mean you to make a fool of yourself if I can -help it, Charley.”</p> - -<p>“I think you had better mind your own business,” the other said, in high -revolt.</p> - -<p>And thus Sir John acquired a double motive. He questioned Cécile at -great length, and even took her to task for giving her confidence so -easily. “If it should<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_238" id="page_238">{238}</a></span> turn out, as is most likely to be the case, a -person entirely unworthy of your friendship!” he said.</p> - -<p>The <i>château</i> was all in agitation over this subject, the girls -indignantly protesting, the mother disposed to take alarm. Decidedly the -possession of a serious, <i>rangé</i>, important English lover of thirty-five -brings its penalties with it; but perhaps, indeed, a lover of any age, -however free and easy in his own relationships, would have been equally -anxious to guard the lady endowed with his valuable affections from any -connection with inappropriate acquaintances. For the moment, however, -his zeal did not increase the comfort of the house.</p> - -<p>The day was feverish and long—how long and feverish and full of alarm -and apprehension perhaps only Helen knew. She sat at watch at her window -all the day, trembling whenever she saw any one<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_239" id="page_239">{239}</a></span> approach from the -direction of the <i>château</i>. In the afternoon Charley came in and -consoled her, but rather with a repetition of that sentiment about two -being better than one, than with any more immediately satisfactory -information. Helen thought the day would never come to an end; and there -seemed no comfort in the fact that sooner or later it must come to an -end, for what was there to hope but that to-morrow would be like it? -After dinner, when the village was all still, her father looked -cautiously into the sitting-room. “I must get a breath of air,” he said, -half apologetically, half reproachfully. It was as if this imprisonment -to his room was Helen’s fault.</p> - -<p>“Papa, I don’t think I can bear it another day. Let us go away, let us -go away!” she cried.</p> - -<p>“I thought it was you who objected to going away,” he said peevishly.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_240" id="page_240">{240}</a></span></p> - -<p>Helen sat down again before her little lamp at the table. This time she -had some darning to do. She sat and listened for every step, for every -breath. Oh, to go away, to go away! she said to herself. To go where? -She could not tell. Was there safety anywhere? Was there any spot on -earth where this sickening, shameful danger, this concealment would not -come again? Was it not out of the world, away from life and its torments -altogether, where alone they could be safe? After a while Mr Goulburn -came back. He was nervous too, and shaken by the alarm that seemed in -the air.</p> - -<p>“I don’t seem happy in the village to-night,” he said, “though it is all -as quiet as usual. I think that big bully must use up all the air for -his own breathing, I can’t get any.” He opened the <i>persiennes</i> as he -spoke, then drew them<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_241" id="page_241">{241}</a></span> close again. “I think I shall go into the garden, -Helen. I must get breath somewhere. I have shut the front door. Go to -bed. I shall go and sit in the summer-house to get my breath.”</p> - -<p>“Will you take some of the Comtesse’s drops, papa? She said they were so -good.”</p> - -<p>“Ether,” he said—“simple ether; it smells too strong. What do I want -with your old wife’s medicines? No; I’ll go and sit out in the garden -and get my breath. Poor child, you are tired, and it is no wonder. But -all is safe now for the night, Helen; go to bed.”</p> - -<p>All was safe for the night. The dreadful day was over with all its -terrors—everything was still. The village had gone to sleep all the -earlier that it had been so late on the night before. Helen felt too -much alarmed to open the door again to look out for Charley Ashton.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_242" id="page_242">{242}</a></span> She -took her father’s advice passively, and went to her room, where Janey -was sleeping peacefully. Something, she could not tell what, kept her -from undressing. She lay down upon her bed to wait till her father -should come in from the garden. He might want something before he went -finally to rest. But Helen was worn out with the long trial of the day, -and lying across her bed fully dressed, she dropped to sleep.</p> - -<p>All was safe for the night—so some one else thought who was standing -under the shadow of Père Goudron’s wall. The moon was veiled and dim, -but yet was shining and casting a shadow more dark than the ordinary -darkness of the night. It was not possible to see what it was at the -corner under the window, but something moved; it was as if a part of the -darkness detached itself slowly from the rest; where all was black, a -something<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_243" id="page_243">{243}</a></span> blacker than the air, yet separate from the wall, rising -upward. It moved noiselessly across the front of the house. All was -quiet, so still that a breath might have been heard, but nothing was -audible. A faint glimmer showed where Mr Goulburn in his impatience had -opened the <i>persiennes</i>. He had drawn them close again, but he had not -fastened them. He had a contempt for bolts and bars in this quiet place. -They were open, and the window was open, showing a little glimmer of -light. But in the darkness even that far-away glimmer showed. The moving -thing below put up a hand and cautiously, softly opened the unfastened -<i>persiennes</i>, then climbed up noiselessly, a long, dark, -undistinguishable figure, into the room, drawing the shutters close -behind. Was all safe? There was a pause, and the empty room became full -of a living presence, a breath, a danger.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_244" id="page_244">{244}</a></span> Beyond the folding-doors, -which were closed, Helen slept profoundly the sleep of utter weariness. -Across the passage the faint little ray of the <i>veilleuse</i> shone -steadily through the half-opened door. The question was—Did any one lie -there, sleeping or waking? The intruder took what was, in the -circumstances, a long time to consider. Then he advanced silently. To -himself it seemed that the whole house creaked and shivered under his -feet, but Helen, fast asleep, heard nothing; and if out in the garden a -vague sound reached her father’s ears, he imagined it was only Helen -moving about her bedroom, where her light was still burning. That -watching light seemed to make all safe, and the little <i>veilleuse</i>, on -the other hand, guarded the empty chamber. The thief trembled before it. -He paused and wiped his forehead, not daring to confront it. But he had -gone<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_245" id="page_245">{245}</a></span> too far now not to go on. The man’s heart, which was beating -wildly with excitement, gave a great jump when, peeping in, he saw the -room vacant, the bed unoccupied. He went in and closed the door.</p> - -<p>All were sleeping quietly in the house, except Père Goudron, who lay -quiet enough, but not asleep, thinking of the folly of <i>l’Anglais</i>, who -had given away so much money for the sake of a young man who was nothing -to him, and wondering in what way he could manage to secure some of -those same superabundant riches for himself. He could not himself -violently have robbed <i>l’Anglais</i>, or any one else. But he, too, had -seen the book with the French notes, and he longed for a share of them. -He was turning over in his mind what fable he could invent, what tale of -poverty he could tell, to beguile some more of those<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_246" id="page_246">{246}</a></span> notes out of the -rich man’s pocket. He heard the creak, the startling sound of movement, -but thought nothing of it. His lodgers did not keep the regular hours he -did; they were like all the English, early one night, late another, -never to be relied upon. But he lay still and pondered, intent upon -inventing some story by which he, too, might get a share of the spoil.</p> - -<p>Mr Goulburn, for his part, sat on the bench in the garden, and tried, as -he had said, to get his breath. It had never been so bad before. His -heart laboured, thumping like a steam-engine, creaking and struggling as -if the machinery was all rusty and out of gear. What was the meaning of -it? There had never been anything the matter with his heart till that -old witch at the <i>château</i> decided that he had heart disease. She was -not an old witch; but that is how men of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_247" id="page_247">{247}</a></span> middle age describe their -female contemporaries who have displeased them. The moon was high in the -sky, but veiled and watery, giving a sort of milky whiteness to the -atmosphere rather than light. Under this faint pale glimmer he sat with -a small acacia waving its long leaflets over him. It must be a sultry -night—certainly there was no air to breathe; he could not get any. -Harvey with his big English lungs must have exhausted it, he thought, -with a faint joke in his mind in the midst of his bodily distress. No -air to breathe. He bethought himself by-and-by of the Comtesse’s drops, -which, after all, might do some good. At first he thought he would call -Helen to get them for him. Then a pitying recollection of her wan face -crossed his mind. He would not disturb her, poor child; he would go -himself. He rose and came in slowly, his labouring heart sounding in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_248" id="page_248">{248}</a></span> -the stillness, his very limbs feeble with its excited action.</p> - -<p>A moment more and the quiet of the sleeping house was broken by a -hideous commotion. There was a sound of a door pushed open, a loud -exclamation, a momentary conflict of voices, the door dashed back -against the wall. Then a wild, long cry, a dull thud upon the floor. By -that time Père Goudron had got out of his bed, and was calling upon -Blanchette and Ursule, and scrambling for a light, and Helen waking in -wild terror out of her sleep, had sprung up and seized her candle. She -was so transported with anxiety and terror that the voices that followed -conveyed no information to her ear; but M. Goudron heard the -<i>persiennes</i> dashed open, and a muffled leap into the street. Next -moment Helen’s cries resounded through the house and rang out into the -night.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_249" id="page_249">{249}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Papa, papa, speak to me!” she cried; “speak to me, papa!”</p> - -<p>Madame Dupré, who had just fastened up her last shutter, heard it, and -rushed to the door—then ran back again and dragged Baptiste out of bed -in his first sleep.</p> - -<p>“<i>L’Anglais!</i>—something has happened to <i>l’Anglais</i>,” she said.</p> - -<p>And then by degrees one house after another woke, and eager heads peered -forth at the doors and windows. Baptiste, rushing across the road half -dressed, with Auguste at his heels, was called to from one side and -another in a dozen startled voices.</p> - -<p>“What is it? What has happened?” they all asked breathless. He answered -only by repeating what his mother had told him.</p> - -<p>“<i>L’Anglais</i>—something has happened to <i>l’Anglais</i>,” Baptiste said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_250" id="page_250">{250}</a></span></p> - -<p>Two men were coming down the road from the <i>château</i>. It was not much -more than ten o’clock, and Sir John had come out with Charley, much -against the will of the latter, to smoke his cigar.</p> - -<p>“I’ll take a turn with you,” the baronet had said. “It’s muggy to-night, -with all those trees about. If you had hit it off with Thérèse, Charley, -I’d have advised you to thin these woods. But it’s no use thinking about -that. What an odd piece of luck, however, that you should have found -this Miss—Miss——”</p> - -<p>“Helen,” said Ashton, with a bitterness he could scarcely restrain. -Rather this familiarity than to speak of her by a false name.</p> - -<p>“Miss—Helen—that’s it. Cécile never says the other name. You don’t say -you know the father, Charley? I’d advise you to find out what sort of -person he is, and all about him, before you go any<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_251" id="page_251">{251}</a></span> farther, old man. It -is queer that, just at the other one’s door, so to speak, you should -have found this Miss—Helen.”</p> - -<p>“I wish you would not speak of the other one, John. It is very -disrespectful to a very charming young lady. There has never been any -other one. You offend me when you talk so, by offending her. I have the -greatest reverence for the ladies here—both——”</p> - -<p>“You need not be so particular. She would not be offended. She knows -very well that this marriage is <i>manqué</i>, and she is not inconsolable. -But, look here: you must not go a step further till you know all -particulars. I say, what is that? What an infernal row!” said Sir John.</p> - -<p>The sound of the sudden cry affronting the silence, and even the fall -that followed, ringing out into the great quiet with all the intensity -of a sudden calamity, reached them both, though they were scarcely<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_252" id="page_252">{252}</a></span> -within sight of Père Goudron’s house. They rushed on without another -word, Charley quickening his steps to a run, as they perceived where the -tumult was. By this time dark figures were coming out into the street -from the cottages near, and everything was in commotion. M. Goudron’s -door stood wide open; the <i>persiennes</i> had been thrown open also, and -what seemed a flood of light poured out into the street. Charley rushed -in, and Sir John followed. In the midst of a group of eager spectators a -pale figure was lying on the bed. He had struck his forehead against -something as he fell, and a drop or two of blood slowly congealing upon -it showed the blow. His lips were open, hanging apart, dry and parched, -his eyes half closed, and showing a dull, inexpressive light. The two -Englishmen went forward, joining themselves to the group. The village -doctor, half dressed, stood<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_253" id="page_253">{253}</a></span> holding a mirror to the dry lips. Old -Goudron, like a living skeleton, with a nervous quiver in his old bones, -held a candle, like Time or Death himself assisting at the deathbed. In -one corner Ursule was praying on her knees. Helen stood, pallid as the -dead face itself, supporting the pillows on which he was propped, at the -head of the bed.</p> - -<p>Sir John was slow to take in the chief feature of the scene; he mastered -everything else before he perceived that: the doctor, with the little -mirror in his hand, upon which no stain of living breath was to be seen; -the old bony figure by the bed; the young daughter, silent and -distraught; then his eyes fixed themselves on the face of the man round -whom they had all collected. His sudden shout shook the room. He cried -out in astonishment, in consternation and horror. “My God! it is -Goulburn himself!” Sir John said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_254" id="page_254">{254}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XV" id="CHAPTER_XV"></a>CHAPTER XV.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Mr Goulburn</span> was dead.</p> - -<p>It was hard to tell how it had happened. There was the mark on his -forehead of a blow, but to all appearance it was a blow accidentally -inflicted as he fell, and not done by any hand, and it was not -sufficient to have been the cause of his death. That the state of his -heart sufficiently explained. But whether it was the sight of the thief -which had brought on the final paroxysm, or whether they had come into -actual conflict, or if the disease was so far advanced that any trifling -shock would have done it, it was more difficult to decide. All the -drawers of the bureau<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_255" id="page_255">{255}</a></span> were found pulled out, and the one in which the -money had been kept was rifled. Even on this point, however, the <i>juge -de paix</i> found it difficult to refrain from blaming the deceased for his -own loss. The keys had been left in the drawer—could anything be more -foolish? it was a premium upon robbery; the shutters unfastened, so that -any one could push them apart; the window open within that, the room -left vacant, protected only by the <i>veilleuse</i>, and the keys in the -drawers. It was the Englishman himself who had laid a trap for the -robber, who had invited him, actually invited him to come and help -himself; but he had fallen into the trap which he had laid. It was -difficult for the prudent Frenchman not to breathe a fervent “served him -right,” with such variety of expression as the exigencies of a more -elaborate language required; but no trace could be found<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_256" id="page_256">{256}</a></span> of the thief -and possible murderer. He had evidently jumped from the window, leaving -the shutters open and the room fully displayed, but it was not till -after his escape that the village had been roused. Père Goudron had -heard the leap, but nothing more. In the investigation that followed, -suspicion was directed against Antoine, who had been seen by several -persons watching M. Goudron’s house; but it was conclusively proved that -Antoine had left that afternoon for the <i>chef-lieu</i>, where he had gone -to complete all the necessary arrangements for his acceptance as -Baptiste’s substitute. He had been escorted a league on his way by -several of his friends, so on that point there could be no mistake.</p> - -<p>The affair of <i>l’Anglais</i> made, as may be supposed, an enormous -sensation at Latour. Nothing like it, so far as was known, had ever -happened in the village. The <i>juge<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_257" id="page_257">{257}</a></span> de paix sat, en permanence</i>, for a -number of days examining everybody. They even examined the other -Englishmen who were living at the <i>château</i>, and who declared themselves -acquainted with the victim. They were very sharply questioned indeed, so -that it occurred to Sir John that they were themselves suspected of the -deed, an idea which was the cause of endless discourses on his part, and -disquisitions upon the differences between English and French law, very -much, it need not be said, to the disadvantage of the latter. The -Comtesse for her part scoffed at the <i>instruction</i> altogether. She would -hear nothing of a possible murder. The man, she said, had death in his -face; had she not said so, the first moment she saw him? She had seen -him but once, but she had been fully aware what was to be expected; so -fully that she had not even urged him to return home, which<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_258" id="page_258">{258}</a></span> she would -have done had the case seemed to her less serious; for it was better -that he should die in Latour than that he should die in the railway, or -in an inn, where his daughters would have no one near them but absolute -strangers. Madame de Vieux-bois justified her own previsions on this -point by sending at once for Helen and little Janey, who, after their -father had been laid in the little burying-ground among all the little -crosses, with their blue and yellow decorations, came to the <i>château</i> -grateful, but half stupefied with all that had happened to them. Helen, -at least, was in this condition, for poor little Janey’s despair had -been brief, as was natural at her age. But the elder sister had gone -through a great many terrible experiences during those two or three -days. She had been examined at great length by the magistrate, not only -on the circumstances of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_259" id="page_259">{259}</a></span> the fatal night, but on all the antecedents of -her family, the reason of her father’s residence at Latour, why he had -left England, everything about him; and then she had undergone an -examination by Sir John, less solemn perhaps, but not less harassing. -Sir John was strongly opposed to the engagement, which Charley Ashton -instantly proclaimed. He declared it to be entirely out of the question, -and risked a quarrel not only with his cousin, but with his betrothed -and her family. Madame de Vieux-bois, indeed, did not hesitate to agree -with him that if the match was so extremely unsuitable as he said, it -would be well that it should be put a stop to; but she had herself no -responsibility in the matter, and her interest, she confessed, was much -more strong in Helen than in M. Charles, who, she was glad to think, <i>ne -la plaisait pas</i> from his first appearance. But<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_260" id="page_260">{260}</a></span> Cécile and also Thérèse -were very eager for Helen’s happiness, and very indignant that any -attempt should be made against it.</p> - -<p>“What!” cried Cécile, beautiful in her generous wrath and wonder, “<i>les -Anglais!</i> who believe in nothing but lofe, who blame so much all our -arrangements between parents, our ideas upon marriage! You who say there -is nothing but a <i>great passion</i> which should bring two people together! -Look at the book of M. Taine of the Academy, he who is such an admirable -writer, who has so much observed England. That is what he says, and I -believe it, I! Lofe, that is the true bond, not a similarity of -circumstances, the <i>dot</i> and the position, and how it will advance one’s -career. But you—you—an Englishman, so English! you,” she cried, with a -ring of disappointment in her voice,—“you, <i>mon D’John, mon fiancé<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_261" id="page_261">{261}</a></span> à -moi!</i> that you should try to separate them because my Helen, my poor -friend, is——</p> - -<p>“Come, Cécile,” cried Sir John, “is—— that’s just it. It’s not that -she is poor. To be poor is bad enough, I don’t say that I approve of it; -but it is the bad connection, that is what I dislike. A bankrupt, -a—a—swin—— Well, I won’t call the dead man names. That is what I -object to. I don’t say a word against the girl; but, after all, Charley -is my cousin, and a young fellow with all his life before him, and, hang -it all! it is my duty to take care of him.”</p> - -<p>“And Helen is my friend!” said Cécile. She was shaken in her idea of her -lover’s perfection, and she was shaken in her confidence in the English -nation, and the pre-eminence of “lofe” in all their affairs—which she -had hitherto devoutly believed in, and of which Charley Ashto<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_262" id="page_262">{262}</a></span>n’s -conduct had given her delightful assurance. As for Thérèse, she was -fully of Cécile’s opinion, but yet could not help feeling that if M. -Charles had behaved like a reasonable creature, and fulfilled the -expectations formed of him before his arrival, it would have been better -for himself. For herself, Thérèse was glad things had happened -otherwise; she was relieved that her mamma had given up all intention of -marrying her for that year. But so far as M. Charles was concerned, for -him it would have been a great deal better. With this reservation, which -on the whole quickened her zeal by mingling it with a grain of pity, -Thérèse threw herself generously and warmly into Helen’s cause.</p> - -<p>When the <i>instruction</i> was terminated, and all had been investigated -that could be investigated, there was a complete failure in every -attempt to trace the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_263" id="page_263">{263}</a></span> criminal. The French law, so suspicious and -peremptory, failed just as English criminal proceedings, so much more -halting and imperfect, so often fail. Antoine’s <i>alibi</i> seemed complete. -There was no evidence to be found which connected him with the incidents -of the fatal night. Mr Goulburn’s English cheque-book was found indeed, -torn up and defaced, on the road by which he must have travelled to the -<i>chef-lieu</i> of the department; but the culprit, whoever he had been, -would most likely have travelled by the same road. The only other thing -which that culprit had dropped was the morocco letter-case which Helen -had brought from her father’s room at Fareham on the night of their -flight. After all the examinations were over, this was restored to her. -She came in, carrying it in her hand, to the library where Sir John was -spending<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_264" id="page_264">{264}</a></span> his morning. It was nearly three weeks after her father’s -death, and hostile though Sir John was, both to the dead father and the -living daughter, it was partly on their account that his visit had been -prolonged. He did not choose to leave them in possession of the field, -and he was anxious to save Charley, as he said to himself, from the -clutches of the girl, who, being Goulburn’s daughter, was no doubt an -adventuress too. A violent controversy on this subject had, indeed, been -going on between the two men, when Helen softly opened the door and went -in upon them. Sir John was seated at a writing-table with a flushed and -angry countenance, while Charley, not less excited, paced about the -library. It was a large, long room on the upper floor, with a row of -long windows looking out upon the woods and the park. The two men, whose -angry voices she had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_265" id="page_265">{265}</a></span> heard without paying much attention to them as she -approached, suddenly stopped with embarrassed faces as she made her -appearance at the door. Sir John, with an air half of anger, half of -surprise, pushed back his chair from the table and looked at her, while -Charley hurried to her side and took her hand to lead her forward.</p> - -<p>“Did you want me, Helen?” he said, in a tone doubly tender, drawing her -hand within his arm. At this little exhibition Sir John uttered an angry -“humph!”</p> - -<p>“I came to bring you this,” said Helen. “I do not know what it is best -to do with it. We brought it out of Fareham with us. Papa always said it -was Janey’s fortune. But if it is true, as you say, that he owes people -money—yes, I know it is true; he told me so himself—this ought, -perhaps, to be taken<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_266" id="page_266">{266}</a></span> to pay some of them. As for Janey, she is very -little, she does not want much now, and I have a hundred a-year—that -will be enough for her and me.’</p> - -<p>“Let me see it,” said Sir John, with some eagerness.</p> - -<p>Nobody had been allowed to see the papers so long as they remained in -the magistrate’s hands. He opened them out with a great deal of -interest, shaking one after another out of the case. As he looked at -them, opening each in succession, gleams of excitement passed over his -face. He made hurried calculations under his breath; there were coupons, -vouchers of money invested, many things quite unintelligible to Helen. -Sir John’s fingers trembled with eagerness as he turned them over; there -were various kinds of excitement and pleasure combined in his -survey—pleasure in so much money recovered, for himself as<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_267" id="page_267">{267}</a></span> well as his -fellow-sufferers, fierce satisfaction in finding the culprit as bad as -he hoped, the delight of being able to think and say “I told you so,” -all intensifying the pleasure of a new incident after long suspense. The -two others looked on with very different feelings. Helen was not alive -to the meaning of it all. She stood by even with a kind of consolation -and gentle content in the thought that whatever wrong her father might -have done would now be partially made up. She did not look at the face -with which her lover regarded these discoveries, the disgust and pain -and shame on his countenance conveyed no idea to her inexperience. She -did not like Sir John, but she thought his exclamations, his looks of -cruel elation, were only his disagreeable way of showing pleasure in the -recovery of the money. She stood looking on for some time quite<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_268" id="page_268">{268}</a></span> calmly. -And then she said, “Will you divide it among the poorest people, please? -He would have liked that best.”</p> - -<p>Sir John broke out with a fierce laugh. “No,” he said rudely, “I cannot -do sentimental injustice, Miss Helen. Your father had made a pretty -provision for you, I must say; you ought to be obliged to his -providence. But for this lucky chance, whoever suffered, he had very -well feathered his nest.”</p> - -<p>“Harvey!” cried Ashton, vehemently, “how can you speak before <i>her</i> of a -lucky chance?”</p> - -<p>Sir John pushed back his chair farther from the table and looked at -them. “I call it so,” he said, “in every point of view. It is the best -thing that could have happened for the man himself, and it is the -highest luck for the children, and for you, if you insist like a fool in -connecting yourself with such a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_269" id="page_269">{269}</a></span>——”</p> - -<p>“Silence!” thundered Charley, making a step forward—“not another word!”</p> - -<p>“I know nothing to prevent me saying as many words as I please,” said -Sir John, eyeing him with exasperating coolness.</p> - -<p>Helen stood between the two excited men in the quiet of her innocence, -not understanding for the first moment what their angry voices meant. -Then her pale and almost passive face became transformed; slowly, -gradually, the light rose in it, kindling her eyes, quickening the -colour on her cheeks. She turned from one to the other, listening, -entering into the meaning. At last she detached herself entirely from -her lover, drawing her hand from his arm, and stood alone, with a kind -of proud humility. She stopped till Sir John had made that last remark. -His tone, the very sound of his voice filled her with wonder and dismay. -She knew no reason for this hostility.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_270" id="page_270">{270}</a></span></p> - -<p>“My father is dead,” she said with simple dignity; “if he has done wrong -he is in God’s hands; and we are two girls, fatherless and motherless. -Is it with us you are angry, Sir John? It must be with me, for Janey is -a child. What is it that I have done? If it is anything that I can put -right, and you will tell me, I will do it. Why is it you look and speak -to me so?”</p> - -<p>Sir John was taken entirely aback. He looked at her and faltered. She -put Charley away with her hand, with a smile and quivering lip. She -would stand alone while he spoke to her.</p> - -<p>“No,” she said, “not you; do not come near me. Let him tell me what I -have done wrong.”</p> - -<p>Sir John Harvey was a man of experience. He knew how to conduct himself -in most emergencies. He was not apt to be put out. But when he found -him<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_271" id="page_271">{271}</a></span>self confronted by this young, solitary, friendless creature, who -had but one person to stand by her in all the world, and he the one whom -her powerful, prosperous enemy was endeavouring to detach from her, the -courage and the strength were taken out of him. Sir John, so big and -strong and well-to-do, faltered before the small, weak, desolate girl. -He could not meet her eyes; his voice and countenance failed him.</p> - -<p>“I—I have nothing to say to you, Miss Goulburn,” he said. “I did not -approve of your father; he has made a great deal of mischief, and ruined -many people; but he is dead, as you say. I don’t pretend to judge him. -The only thing is,” he added, getting courage as he went on, “the only -thing is—what you must see yourself—that a connection with you cannot -do any man any good; that it must, in short, more or less, do harm. -Your<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_272" id="page_272">{272}</a></span> giving up this,” he continued quickly, careless of Charley’s loud -interruption, “is very creditable to you. It will make everybody think -better of you. Still, notwithstanding——”</p> - -<p>“Helen, if you listen to that man, if you stand any longer and hear me -insulted, I will think—I will believe you care for me no longer,” -Charley Ashton cried.</p> - -<p>She looked from one to the other with tears in her eyes. “I have nobody -in the world to tell me which is right,” said Helen. She was far beyond -shedding of tears, the moisture in her eyes was a powerful concentrated -dew of suffering through which her troubled eyes looked out. At this -moment there came another knock at the door, a quiet little knock low -down, as of a creature of small stature, sounding against the lower -panels; and then a small voice called from the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_273" id="page_273">{273}</a></span> same altitude, “Helen, -Helen, open, Helen! I tan’t open the door.”</p> - -<p>Sir John turned his face and his chair round towards the little voice, -and sat there attentively expecting what was to come. Charley made one -step to it and opened it, leaving the passage free. Janey appeared in -the threshold in her black frock, her fair little face rising out of it -like a flower, her little figure, so lightly poised, standing against -the background of the panelled wall. She looked round upon them with the -perfect calm of childhood. Then her eyes were caught by the pocketbook -on the table. Janey was not afraid of Sir John nor of any one in the -wide world. She went up to the table and took the precious case into her -little hands.</p> - -<p>“This is Janey’s fortune,” she said, looking up with a smile into the -face of the man beside her. “Are you doing to keep it safe for me?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_274" id="page_274">{274}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>He sat and looked at her, helpless; he would have knocked down any man -who had seized upon it—wrested it from the most powerful claimant; but -before the little child he was helpless. He gazed at her blankly, -stupidly, in the height of his dismay.</p> - -<p>“I will not dive it to Sir John,” said Janey, “because he does not look -kind. He does not like Helen or me; he did not like papa: but I will -dive it to Charley, for he is the one that is good. Catch, Charley!” -cried the little girl, throwing the precious case like a ball across the -table. She clapped her hands when Ashton caught it, with a laugh of -childish pleasure. A ball or a fortune, what did it matter to Janey? -“And look, Helen, who is coming!” the child said. “I was sent to tell -you, but I forgot. Here she is coming! she is coming! and we are all -doing home to our own house, and never to cry any more.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_275" id="page_275">{275}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>In another moment Helen’s forlorn solitude, her helpless loneliness were -over. She flew past Sir John, who rose stumbling to his feet, and -Charley, who stood bewildered with Janey’s fortune in his hand, and fell -into the outstretched arms of a smiling and weeping woman who had come -in after Janey, at the open door.</p> - -<p>Doubt, and danger, and suspicion of herself and of everything around -her, had been closing about Helen. She had looked around her vainly into -the blackness and found no guidance, no one even to tell her what she -ought to do. She had no mother, nor any friend that absolutely belonged -to her; nevertheless, when she flew into Mrs Ashton’s arms, the world -had settled down again out of those giddy whirlings and confused -eccentricities. She did not know what she might be called upon to do or -to give up; but life had taken its natural<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_276" id="page_276">{276}</a></span> shape again to the -bewildered girl. She was not out of the labyrinth, but she had found the -clue.</p> - -<p>After the arrival of these strangers, Charley Ashton’s father and -step-mother, the village of Latour advanced daily in its knowledge of -the ways of the English,—a most curious and interesting study, which -gave great amusement to the cottagers. Mr and Mrs Ashton took the -apartments in M. Goudron’s house which had been so sadly vacated by -<i>l’Anglais</i>, he who had escaped from all his pursuers by a night journey -more sudden than any of his previous flights. The Latourois had been -very sorry for the man who had died among them; but they were very glad, -as was natural, to forget that tragical conclusion, and to amuse -themselves with all the difficulties about monsieur’s bath, and madame’s -tea. The Curé looked with<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_277" id="page_277">{277}</a></span> amused tolerance, yet contempt, at the -costume of the clergyman, and at the droll pretences of that Protestant -personage to be a priest like himself; and Madame Dupré, with an effort, -for the sake of the benefactor who had liberated Baptiste, put up with -the fastidiousness of the new visitors who turned up their noses at her -<i>pot-au-feu</i>, and expected to find the refinements of the Trois Frères -in the little <i>auberge</i>. “Talk of French cookery!” the new-comers cried; -and they endeavoured to teach Margot how to “cook a joint” over her -handful of charcoal, and to make English mustard out of the -dark-complexioned powder which was all that was to be had in Latour. To -see them walking about for ever, taking perpetual constitutionals, -filled the villagers with wonder. But it would be impossible to describe -the interest of Blanchette and Baptiste when<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_278" id="page_278">{278}</a></span> there dawned upon them a -pleasing certainty of the fate which was reserved for mademoiselle. -Little Blanchette was the one who had divined it from the first. The day -M. Charles had come to the <i>château</i>, that very day she had read it in -his face. The loves of Cécile and Sir John afforded them no such -sympathetic satisfaction. And indeed, Sir John took his departure -immediately, carrying with him the valuable case which held Janey’s -fortune. He washed his hands, he said, of the other matter. The Ashtons -were on the spot to look after it for themselves, and if the father did -not object to such a connection, of course it was no concern of his, who -was merely a cousin. A cloud, a faint veil of separation, fell between -Helen and the girls at the <i>château</i>, in consequence of Sir John’s -opposition. Perhaps it gave Cécile her first experience of the -difficulties that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_279" id="page_279">{279}</a></span> attend marriage with an Englishman. She did her best -to be loyal both to her friend and her future husband, but the conflict -was not without pain.</p> - -<p>But what did any such paltry pain matter in the opening of the new day -which came to Helen out of the clouds of the morning, sweet and dazzling -in all the glories of life and spring? Her oldest friends put her hand -into her lover’s hand, and his father said the blessing over them. Let -all the Sir Johns in the world object, what harm could it do? They went -to Paris and bought the bride her Indian outfit,—she who had nothing. -Helen’s hundred a-year had accumulated as her father had said. It came -from her mother, and was honestly hers, and there was no reason why she -should not use it. And it was at Paris that the young pair were married; -and from thence that they set out to their distant<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_280" id="page_280">{280}</a></span> home. But before -they left Latour there was a pretty ceremony, at which their presence -was indispensable. Helen and little Janey put aside their black dresses -and put on white ones to honour Blanchette’s marriage. And when the -religious ceremony took place, after the first day’s performance at the -Mairie, the bride herself, holding her husband by the hand, turned aside -and led the way among all the iron crosses on the graves to the place -where <i>l’Anglais</i> lay under a green mound, without any name. He had -forfeited his name, his good fame, and honour. Nevertheless little -Blanchette wept over the mound, and, kneeling down in her veil and -myrtle crown, laid a white wreath upon the grass, and said a prayer for -his soul. Did it do him any good in those dark countries whither the -fugitive had taken flight “unhousel’d, disappointed, unanel’d<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_281" id="page_281">{281}</a></span>”?</p> - -<p>“Ma bonne, douce demoiselle,” said Blanchette amid her tears, “how he -was good to us, monsieur votre père! Never shall a week pass when you -are far, far away from Latour, but Baptiste and me, we will say a prayer -for the repose of his soul.”</p> - -<p>The others said nothing, but stood silent about the nameless grave. What -harm he had done, what suffering he had caused! and yet he was but as -other men, and gratitude gave him a prayer and a tear.</p> - -<p class="fint">THE END.<br /><br /><br /> -PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS.</p> - -<div class="c"> -<img src="images/back.jpg" width="340" height="550" alt="" title="" /> -</div> - -<hr class="full" /> -<pre style='margin-top:6em'> -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DUKE'S DAUGHTER (AKA LADY JANE) -AND THE FUGITIVES; VOL. 3/3 *** - -This file should be named 63903-h.htm or 63903-h.zip - -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: -http://www.gutenberg.org/6/3/9/0/63903/ - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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