Perhaps the stunned condition of his mind made
the suspense just within the bounds of endurance, while trust in
his wife's innocence rendered his inability to come to her aid
well-nigh intolerable; and doubt of her seemed both profanity and
misery unspeakable. He could do nothing. He had shot his only
shaft by sending Landry Osbert, and had found that to endeavour to
induce his grandfather to use further measures was worse than
useless, and was treated as mere infatuation. He knew that all he
had to do was to endeavour for what patience he could win from
Cecily's sweet influence and guidance, and to wait till either
certainty should come--that dreadful, miserable certainty that all
looked for, and his very helplessness might be bringing about--or
till he should regain strength to be again effective.
And miserably slow work was this recovery. No one had surgical
skill to deal with so severe a wound as that which Narcisse had
inflicted; and the daily pain and inconvenience it caused led to
innumerable drawbacks that often--even after he had come as far as
the garden--brought him back to his bed in a dark room, to blood-
letting, and to speechlessness. No one knew much of his mind--
Cecily perhaps the most; and next to her, Philip--who, from the
time he had been admitted to his step-brother's presence, had been
most assiduous in tending him--seemed to understand his least sign,
and to lay aside all his boisterous roughness in his eager desire
to do him service. The lads had loved each other from the moment
they had met as children, but never so apparently as now, when all
the rude horse-play of healthy youths was over--and one was
dependent, the other considerate. And if Berenger had made on one
else believe in Eustacie, he had taught Philip to view her as the
'Queen's men' viewed Mary of Scotland. Philip had told Lucy the
rough but wholesome truth, that 'Mother talks mere folly. Eustacie
is no more to be spoken of with you than a pheasant with old brown
Partlet; and Berry waits but to be well to bring her off from all
her foes. And I'll go with him.'
It was on Philip's arm that Berenger first crept round the
bowling-green, and with Philip at his rein that he first endured to
ride along the avenue on Lord Walwyn's smooth-paced palfrey; and it
was Philip who interrupted Lucy's household cares by rushing in and
shouting, 'Sister, here! I have wiled him to ride over the down,
and he is sitting under the walnut-tree quite spent, and the three
little wenches are standing in a row, weeping like so many little
mermaids. Come, I say!'
Lucy at once followed him through the house, through the deep porch
to the court, which was shaded by a noble walnut-tree, where Sir
Marmaduke loved to sit among his dogs. There not sat Berenger,
resting against the trunk, overcome by the heat and exertion of his
ride. His cloak and hat lay on the ground; the dogs fawned round
him, eager for the wonted caress, and his three little sisters
stood a little aloof, clinging to one another and crying piteously.
It was their first sight of him; and it seemed to them as if he
were behind a frightful mask. Even Lucy was not without a
sensation of the kind, of this effect in the change from the
girlish, rosy complexion to extreme paleness, on which was visible,
in ghastly red and purple, the great scar left by Narcisse, from
the temple on the one side to the ear on the other.
The far more serious would on the cheek was covered with a black
patch, and the hair had almost entirely disappeared from the head,
only a few light brown locks still hanging round the neck and
temples, so that the bald brow gave a strange look of age; and the
disfigurement was terrible, enhanced as it was by the wasting
effect of nearly a year of sickness. Lucy was so much shocked,
that she could hardly steady her voice to chide the children for
not giving a better welcome to their brother. They would have
clung round her, but she shook them off, and sent Annora in haste
for her mother's fan; while Philip arriving with a slice of diet-
bread and a cup of sack, the one fanned him, and the other fed him
with morsels of the cake soaked in the wine, till he revived,
looked up with eyes that were unchanged, and thanked them with a
few faltering words, scarcely intelligible to Lucy. The little
girls came nearer, and curiously regarded him but when he held out
his hand to his favourite Dolly, she shrank back in reluctance.
'Do not chide her,' he said wearily. 'May she never become used to
such marks!'
'What, would you have her live among cowards?' exclaimed Philip;
but Berenger, instead of answering, looked up at the front of the
house, one of those fine Tudor facades that seem all carved timber
and glass lattice, and asked, so abruptly that Lucy doubted whether
she heard him alright,--'How many windows are there in this front?'
'I never counted,' said Philip.
'I have,' said Annora; 'there are seven and thirty, besides the two
little ones in the porch.'
'None shall make them afraid,' he muttered. 'Who would dare build
such a defenceless house over yonder?'--pointing south.
'Our hearts are guarded now,' said Philip, proudly. Berenger half
smiled, as he was wont to do when he meant more than he could
conveniently utter, and presently he asked, in the same languid,
musing tone, 'Lucy, were you ever really affrighted?'
Lucy questioned whether he could be really in his right mind, as if
the bewilderment of his brain was again returning; and while she
paused, Annora exclaimed, 'Yes, when we were gathering cowslips,
and the brindled cow ran at us, and Lucy could not run because she
had Dolly in her arm. Oh! we were frightened then, till you came,
brother.'
'Yes,' added Bessie; 'and last winter too, when the owl shrieked at
the window---'
'And,' added Berenger, 'sister, what was your greatest time of
revelry?'
Annora again put in her word. 'I know, brother; you remember the
fair-day, when my Lady Grandame was angered because you and Lucy
went on dancing when we and all then gentry had ceased. And when
Lucy said she had not seen that you were left alone, Aunt Cecily
said it was because the eyes of discretion were lacking.'
'Oh, the Christmas feast was far grander,' said Bessie. 'Then Lucy
had her first satin farthingale, and three gallants, besides my
brother, wanted to dance with her.'
Blushing deeply, Lucy tried to hush the little ones, much perplexed
by the questions, and confused by the answers. Could he be
contrasting the life where a vicious cow had been the most alarming
object, a greensward dance with a step-brother the greatest gaiety,
dye of the elder juice the deepest stain, with the temptations and
perils that had beset one equally young? Resting his head on his
hand, his elbow on his knee, he seemed to be musing in a reverie
that he could hardly brook, as his young brow was knitted by care
and despondency.
Suddenly, the sounds in the village rose from the quiet sleepy
summer hum into a fierce yell of derisive vituperation, causing
Philip at once to leap up, and run across the court to the
entrance-gate, while Lucy called after him some vain sisterly
warning against mingling in a fray.
It seemed as if his interposition had a good effect, for the uproar
lulled almost as soon as he had hurried to the scene of action; and
presently he reappeared, eager and breathless. 'I told them to
bring him up here,' he said; 'they would have flogged him at the
cart's-tail, the rogues, just because my father is out of the way.
I could not make out his jargon, but you can, brother; and make
that rascal Spinks let him go.'
'What should I have to do with it?' said Berenger, shrinking from
the sudden exposure of his scarred face and maimed speech. 'I am
no magistrate.'
'But you can understand him; he is French, the poor rogue something
abut a letter, and wanting to ask his way. Ah! I thought that
would touch you, and it will cost you little pains, and slouching
it over his face, rose, and, leaning upon Annora's shoulder,
stepped forward, just as the big burly blacksmith-constable and
small shriveled cobbler advanced, dragging along, by a cord round
the wrists, a slight figure with a red woolen sailor's shirt,
ragged black hosen, bare head, and almost bare feet.
Doffing their caps, the men began an awkward salutation to the
young Lord on his recovery, but he only touched his beaver in
return, and demanded, 'How now! what have you bound him for?'
'You see, my Lord,' began the constable, 'there have been a sort of
vagrants of late, and I'll be bound' twas no four-legged fox as
took Gaffer Shepherd's lamb.'
The peroration was broken off, for with a start as if he had been
shot, Berenger cried aloud, 'Mericour! the Abbe!'
'Ah, Monsieur, if you know me,' cried the young man, raising his
head, 'free me from this shame--aid me in my mission!'
'Loose him, fellows,' shouted Berenger; 'Philip, a knife--Lucy,
those scissors.'
'Tis my duty, my Lord,' said Spinks, gruffly. 'All vagabonds to be
apprehended and flogged at the cart's-tail, by her Grace's special
commands. How is it to be answered to his Honour, Sir Marmaduke?'
'Oaf!' cried Philip, 'you durst not have used such violence had my
father been at home! Don't you see my brother knows him?'
With hands trembling with haste, Berenger had seized the scissors
that, house-wife like, hung at Lucy's waist, and was cutting the
rope, exclaiming in French, 'Pardon, pardon, friend, for so
shameful a reception.'
'Sir,' was the reply, without a sign of recognition, 'if, indeed,
you know my name, I entreat you to direct me to the chateau of Le
Sieur Tistefote, whose lady was once Baronne de Ribaumont.'
'My mother! Ah, my friend, my friend! what would you?' he cried in
a tone of tremulous hope and fear, laying one hand on Mericour's
shoulder, and about to embrace him.
Mericour retreated from him; but the high-spirited young man
crossed his arms on his breast, and gazing at the group with
indignant scorn, made answer, 'My message is from her who deems
herself a widow, to the mother of the husband whom she little
imagines to be not only alive, but consoled.'
'Faithful! Faithful!' burst out Berenger, with a wild, exultant,
strangely-ringing shout. 'Woe, woe to those who would have had me
doubt her! Philip--Lucy--hear! Her truth is clear to all the
world!' Then changing back again to French, 'Ten thousand
blessings on you, Mericour! You have seen her! Where--how?'
Mericour still spoke with frigid politeness. 'I had the honour to
part with Madame la Baronne de Ribaumont in the town of La
Sablerie, among humble, Huguenot guardians, to whom she had fled,
to save her infant's life--when no aid came.'
He was obliged to break off, for Berenger, stunned by the sudden
rush of emotion, reeled as he stood, and would have fallen but for
the prompt support of Lucy, who was near enough to guide him back
to rest upon the bench, saying resentfully in French as she did so,
'My brother is still very ill. I pray you, sir, have a care.'
She had not half understood the rapid words of the two young men,
Philip comprehended them far less, and the constable and his crew
of course not at all; and Spinks pushed forward among the group as
he saw Berenger sink back on the bench; and once more collaring his
prisoner, exclaimed almost angrily to Philip, 'There now, sir,
you've had enough of the vagabond. We'll keep him tight ere he
bewitches any more of you.'
This rude interference proved an instant restorative. Berenger
sprang up at once, and seizing Spink's arm, exclaimed, 'Hands off,
fellow! This is my friend--a gentleman. He brings me tidings of
infinite gladness. Who insults him, insults me.'
Spinks scarcely withdrew his hand from Mericour's neck; and
scowling, said, 'Very odd gentleman--very queer tidings, Master
Berenger, to fell you like an ox. I must be answerable for the
fellow till his Honour comes.'
'Ah! Eh quoi, wherefore not show the canaille your sword?'
said Mericour, impatiently.
'It may not be here, in England,' said Berenger (who fortunately
was not wearing his weapon). 'And in good time here comes my step-
father,' as the gate swung back, and Sir Marmaduke and Lady
Thistlewood rode through it, the former sending his voice far
before him to demand the meaning of the hurly-burly that filled his
court.
Philip was the first to spring to his rein, exclaiming, 'Father, it
is a Frenchman whom Spinks would have flogged at the cart's-tail;
but it seems he is a friend of Berenger's, and has brought him
tidings. I know not what--about his wife, I believe--any way he is
beside himself with joy.'
'Sir, your Honour,' shouted Spinks, again seizing Mericour, and
striving to drag him forward, 'I would know whether the law is to
be hindered from taking its course because my young Lord there is a
Frenchman and bewitched.'
'Ah,' shrieked Lady Thistlewood, 'I knew it. They will have sent
secret poison to finish him. Keep the fellow safe. He will cast
it in the air.'
'Ay, ay, my Lady,' said Spinks, 'there are plenty of us to testify
that he made my young Lord fall back as in a swoon, and reel like
one distraught. Pray Heaven it have not gone further.'
'Sir,' exclaimed Berenger, who on the other side held his friend's
hand tight, 'this is a noble gentleman--the brother of the Duke de
Mericour. He has come at great risk to bring me tidings of my dear
and true wife. And not one word will these demented rascals let me
hear with their senseless clamour.'
'Berenger! You here, my boy!' exclaimed Sir Marmaduke, more amazed
by this than all the rest.
'He touches him--he holds him! Ah! will no one tear him away?'
screamed Lady Thistlewood. Nor would Spinks have been slow in
obeying her if Sir Marmaduke had not swung his substantial form to
the ground, and stepping up to the prisoner, rudely clawed on one
side by Spinks, and affectionately grasped on the other side by
Berenger, shouted--
'Let go, both!' does he speak English? Peace, dame! If the lad
be bewitched, it is the right way. He looks like the other man.
Eh, lad, what does your friend say for himself?'
'Sir,' said Berenger, interpreting Mericour's words as they were
spoken, 'he has been robbed and misused at sea by Montgomery's
pirate crews. He fled from court for the religion's sake; he met
her--my wife' (the voice was scarcely intelligible, so tremulously
was it spoken), 'in hiding among the Huguenots--he brings a letter
and a token from her to my mother.'
'Ha! And you know him? You avouch him to be what he represents
himself?'
'I knew him at court. I know him well. Father, make these fellows
cease their insults! I have heard nothing yet. See here!' holding
out what Mericour had put into his hand; 'this you cannot doubt,
mother.'
'Parted the pearls! Ah, the little minx!' cried the lady, as she
recognized the jewels.
'I thought he had been robbed?' added Sir Marmaduke.
'The gentleman doubts?' said Mericour, catching some of the words.
'He should know that what is confided in a French gentleman is only
taken from him with his life. Much did I lose; but the pearl I
kept hidden in my mouth.'
Therewith he produced the letter. Lady Thistlewood pronounced that
no power on earth should induce her to open it, and drew off
herself and her little girls to a safe distance from the secret
poison she fancied it contained; while Sir Marmaduke was rating the
constables for taking advantage of his absence to interpret the
Queen's Vagrant Act in their own violent fashion; ending, however,
by sending them round to the buttery-hatch to drink the young
Lord's health. For the messeger, the good knight heartily grasped
his hand, welcoming him and thanking him for having 'brought
comfort to you poor lad's heart.'
But there Sir Marmaduke paused, doubting whether the letter had
indeed brought comfort; for Berenger, who had seized on it, when it
was refused by his mother, was sitting under the tree--turning away
indeed, but not able to conceal that his tears were gushing down
like rain. The anxious exclamation of his step-father roused him
at length, but he scarce found power or voice to utter, as he
thrust the letter into the knight's hand, 'Ah! see what has she not
suffered for me! me, whom you would have had believed her
faithless!'
He then grasped his friend's arm, and with him disappeared into the
house, leaving Sir Marmaduke holding the letter in a state of the
utmost bewilderment, and calling by turns on his wife and daughter
to read and explain it to him.
And as Lucy read the letter, with her mother could not yet prevail
on herself to touch, she felt at each word more grateful to the
good Aunt Cecily, whose influence had taught her always to view
Berenger as a brother, and not to condemn unheard the poor young
wife. If she had not been thus guarded, what distress might not
this day of joy to Berenger have brought to Lucy! Indeed, Lady
Thistlewood was vexed enough as it was, and ready to carry her
incredulity to the most inconsistent lengths. 'It was all a trick
for getting the poor boy back, that they might make an end of him
altogether. Tell her they thought him dead.--'Tilley-valley! It
was a mere attempt on her own good-nature, to get a little French
impostor on her hands. Let Sir Duke look well to it, and take care
that her poor boy was not decoyed among them. The Frenchman might
be cutting his throat at that moment! Where was he? Had Sir Duke
been so lost as to let them out of sight together? No one had
either pity or prudence now that her poor father was gone;' and she
began to weep.
'No great fear on that score, dame,' laughed the knight. 'Did you
not hear the lad shouting for 'Phil, Phil!' almost in a voice like
old times? It does one good to hear it.'
Just at twilight, Berenger came down the steps, conducting a
graceful gentleman in black, to whom Lady Thistlewood's instinct
impelled her to make a low courtesy, before Berenger had said,
'Madam, allow me to present to you my friend, the Abbe de
Mericour.'
'Is it the same?' whispered Bessie to Annora. 'Surely he is
translated!'
'Only into Philip's old mourning suit. I know it by the stain on
the knee.
'Then it is translated too. Never did it look so well on Philip!
See, our mother is quite gracious to him; she speaks to him as
though he were some noble visitor to my Lord.'
Therewith Sir Marmaduke came forward, shook Mericour with all his
might by the hand, shouted to him his hearty thanks for the good he
had done his poor lad and assured him of a welcome from the very
bottom of his heart. The good knight would fain have kept both
Berenger and his friend at the Manor, but Berenger was far too
impatient to carry home his joy, and only begged the loan of a
horse for Mericour. For himself, he felt as if fatigue or
dejection would never touch him again, and he kissed his mother and
his sisters, including Lucy, all round, with an effusion of
delight.
'Is that indeed your step-father?' said Mericour, as they rode away
together. 'And the young man, is he your half-brother?'
'Brother wholly in dear love,' said Berenger; 'no blood relation.
The little girls are my mother's children.'
'Ah! so large a family all one? All at home? None in convents?'
'We have no convents.'
'Ah, no. but all at home! All at peace! This is a strange place,
your England.'