Chapter III Lady Greensleeves’ Story (Continued)
The Maids of Taunton.
Madame St. Aubert’s young ladies were in the schoolroom one bright June morning, putting away books, inkstands, samplers, etc., with great energy and despatch; for both the clock of the old parish church, and the sun-dial on the terrace walk beneath the schoolroom windows, announced that morning lesson hours were over. That hour of freedom before dinner-time was always eagerly welcomed by us. But it had been longed for even more than usual this morning, for there was something new to be talked over amongst us to-day,—something which, in our opinion, was exciting and mysterious to a very high degree. In the first place, Madame St. Aubert had been called out of the room in the middle of a French lesson by one of the maids, and we were sure that some extremely interesting piece of news must have been imparted to her outside the door; for we could hear her exclamations of surprise and (as we fancied) alarm quite distinctly at first, though afterwards they sank into a much lower key. Then a buzz of voices was heard on the stairs: the quick, decided tones of our old vicar, Dr. Power, and the rather shrill and plaintive ones of little Monsieur Guillemard, from whom Madame St. Aubert’s young ladies learned the gavotte, coranto, and many other stiff, elaborate dances that were fashionable at the court in those days. This was not the time for Monsieur Guillemard’s lesson, nor was Dr. Power in the habit of calling so early. Something out of the common way must, doubtless, have happened; and there were we, obliged to sit demurely at our desks, with closed lips, only able to exchange eager glances of curiosity, and listen with straining ears to the subdued murmur on the staircase. Pauline, Madame St. Aubert’s daughter, and Mrs. Fortescue, a lady next in command to Madame herself, were evidently no less curious than we were; for the former opened her black eyes very wide indeed, and arched her eyebrows significantly; while the latter frowned, bit her lips, and took up the French lesson where Madame had broken off, raising her voice meanwhile, and pretending not to hear the buzz outside the door, though she could not help casting from time to time an anxious glance in that direction. Presently Madame St. Aubert came back, looking much flushed and excited, but she only remarked to her daughter something about Dr. Power having wished to wait upon her for a few moments; and then the morning studies went on in their usual course, without further interruption. You will not wonder after this, that scarcely a third of the usual time was spent in putting the schoolroom in order. When this task was accomplished at last, we poured out into the garden, and settled down like a flock of sparrows on the soft turf under the lime tree; for the sun was very hot that morning, and the pleasantest spot in the garden was beneath the shade of those widely-spreading, pale green branches. A most unusual thing it was to have anything approaching to an event about which to puzzle our curious brains; for time used to go on very monotonously at Madame St. Aubert’s,—monotonously, but at the same time not in the least slowly or heavily. There were too many of us, and we were too busy all day to be dull. Nevertheless, we were quite ready to catch at any fresh little piece of excitement that chanced to break in upon the sameness of the day. So there we sat, under the lime tree, and discussed the mystery, as we called it, of the morning. But though we chattered to our hearts’ content, no conclusion could be reached concerning it. There was something against every suggestion offered. Agnes Blount thought that Madame must have heard of the death of some of her French relations; but if so, why should she only look excited and startled—not in the least melancholy or tearful? And Madames’ tears were well known to be ready, and abundant, too, on the smallest possible occasion. Lucy Fordyce was of opinion that she might have lost some large sum of money,—perhaps all her fortune,—and that Dr. Power had come to break the news to her. There was the same objection, however, to this as to Agnes’s idea about the French relations. Besides, Monsieur Guillemard was not a likely person to bring tidings of such a misfortune. Bessie Davenant was sure that the King must be dead; but this notion was instantly scouted as more improbable than any, for Madame would of course have proclaimed that piece of news on the spot, and ordered us to impress the date of such an important historical fact on our minds, as she had done when King Charles died, four months since—February 6th 1685. I never forgot that date to the last day of my life. How I longed to prompt Robin when Miss Gregory asked him one day on the stairs to tell her when King Charles II. died, and he couldn’t answer! Well! we were still making conjectures, each one more wild and improbable than the last, when Pauline St. Aubert was seen tripping down the steps of the terrace. Now, Pauline was a great favourite among her pupils, especially the elder girls, some of whom were but little younger than herself; and as she was the very essence of good nature, and had never been known to keep a secret for more than half an hour at the utmost, we no sooner caught sight of her trim, graceful little figure approaching the lime tree, than we felt sure that the news, whatever it might be, was already ours.
‘“Pauline! Pauline! The person above all others that we wanted!” cried Bessie Davenant, one of the bosom friends who were allowed to call Mademoiselle St. Aubert by her Christian name. Only three of us enjoyed that privilege, and these were Henrietta Sidney, Bessie Davenant, and Eleanor Page. We younger ones only ventured upon “Mademoiselle!” In a moment we were all upon our feet and gathered round Pauline; but, to our dismay, she had nothing to tell us, after all. Not that she had been seized with a sudden fit of discretion, but she was evidently perfectly ignorant of the matter, and quite as curious and as much perplexed about it as we were ourselves.
‘“Indeed I am not a whit wiser than the rest of you,” she said, laughing. “Mamma has not taken me into her confidence, I assure you. I did just venture to ask her whether it was ill news that had brought Dr. Power so early in the day, but she only chid me for being curious about what was no business of mine, and said that Dr. Power had come to take counsel with her on some matter that needed not my help.”
‘“How very strange!” cried Bessie, much aggrieved and disappointed. “But something is going on, Pauline. There can be no doubt about that, and I shall never rest till we have found out what it is.”
‘“Something! Yes, indeed!” echoed Pauline. “Do you know there is a strange man closeted in the little north parlour with mamma and Dr. Power? The door was ajar when I passed, and I saw him—a little, dark man, with a soldier-like bearing, I thought; but I had not time to see much, for he scowled at me quite savagely, and shut the door in a moment.”
‘There was a chorus of exclamations at this adventure of Pauline’s. A little, dark man!—a stranger!—and soldier-like in bearing!—who shut the door with a ferocious scowl! This was a charming addition to our mystery; and Pauline was questioned and cross-questioned to a degree that no one else could have borne without losing patience. But she only laughed and shook her head, declaring that she had told us all she knew, and (she feared) a great deal more than she ought.
‘“Oh! mamma was right,” she said, throwing herself lazily on to the turf seat that went round the lime tree. “She knows that a secret is as sure to come out, if I have the keeping of it, as sand out of a sieve. But, oh! you are all so terribly curious, and I am such a ’bavarde.’ Ah! well, never mind. We shall hear all about it in time, doubtless. Oh Frances, what a rent in your ruffle! What will Mrs. Fortescue say if she finds it out?”
‘Pauline’s words made me colour, and look down rather disconsolately at the ruffle in question, for I knew well enough what Mrs. Fortescue would say. Her commands, as we were leaving the schoolroom, had been, that Lady Desmond should not appear before her eyes again until that ruffle was mended; and Mrs. Fortescue’s commands were not to be lightly treated. We stood in far more awe of her than of Madame St. Aubert herself; and I had not the least doubt that, if the dinner-bell rang before her orders were obeyed, I should be condemned to solitary banishment in the schoolroom while the other girls were enjoying their walk in the cool of the evening.
‘“Poor child! How woeful she looks!” cried Bessie Davenant compassionately. “Never mind, Frances, I’ll come and help you. There is time before dinner, if we run in at once, trusting to good luck not to meet Mrs. Fortescue by the way;” and Bessie, whose course of action was always prompt and decided, on account of her never waiting to think about anything, caught my hand, and we sped together across the lawn, and along the sunny terrace walk into the house, never pausing till we sank panting upon a bench in the schoolroom. We had sat there for a moment in silence, to recover our breath, when the sound of Mrs. Fortescue’s voice made me give a guilty start, and glance at Bessie in alarm. The door was ajar of a little ante-room which opened into the schoolroom (“Madame’s own closet,” we used to call it), and Madame St. Aubert was there now. We could hear her voice, though we could not catch the words; but Mrs. Fortescue’s was not pitched in so low a key.
‘“The Duke of Monmouth!” we heard her exclaim, “will set foot, do you say, on English ground in two days? Then God save him, poor youth, and help him to his own rightful kingdom. But what a fearful struggle...”
‘Bessie and I had been staring at one another for the last few moments in motionless surprise; but here, by mutual consent, we rose, and were about to slip quietly back to the door by which we had entered, when another voice cut short Mrs. Fortescue’s speech, and brought us for an instant to a sudden standstill. This was a man’s voice, and a very harsh and unrefined one, too, which certainly belonged to none of the few men whom Madame St. Aubert was wont to admit to her house.
‘“Pardon, Madame,” it said rather gruffly, “but I must pray you to be somewhat less loud. Remember whose life and fortune is at stake. This is no child’s play, Madame, let me tell you!”
‘At this juncture I pulled Bessie’s dress, and, while the colour rushed into her face, she turned, and we stole softly from the room. I do not think either of us breathed freely till we found ourselves again in the garden, and safe from view in a shady, winding path, through a tangled confusion of shrubs and trees, which went by the name of “The Wilderness.” As for myself, I had scarcely yet realized what a secret it was that we two had found out,—what those words meant that had come to our ears during the few moments when, astonished and taken aback, we paused and listened to what we had no right to hear. But their significance was clear enough to Bessie, for she had lived five years longer in the world than I had, and was a little more learned in the news of the day.
‘“Oh Frances!” she exclaimed, looking half frightened, half triumphant, “what have we done! What would Madame say if she knew what we have heard? But oh! to think that the mystery should prove to be this. What glorious news! Oh, if I were only a man, to be with him! Alack! alack!” and Bessie leaned against an apple tree, and vented her excitement in a tremendous sigh.
‘“But, Bessie, why? Do tell me. I didn’t quite understand,” I cried, feeling eager and excited too in a high degree, and quite ready to be as enthusiastic as Bessie herself—only, somewhat bewildered as to who was going to set foot on English ground, and why there should be such a commotion about him.
‘“Hush! who is that?” said Bessie with a start, at the sound of approaching footsteps; and, even as she spoke, Henrietta Sidney came in sight, sauntering up the shady path.
‘“Well, Frances, is the ruffle mended already?” she began, but stopped short at the sight of Bessie’s flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes. “Something is the matter,” she remarked at length, in her gentle, composed, perhaps rather languid way.
‘“Oh Henrietta!” exclaimed Bessie, springing forward and seizing both her hands; “if it is only you, I don’t care. Yes, indeed, something is the matter. Such glorious tidings! The secret is out. And what do you think? The Duke of Monmouth is going to land in two days and claim his crown; and we shall have another civil war, to a certainty! There is that strange man that Pauline spoke of; but now, instead of the north parlour, he is in Madame’s closet, talking to her and Mrs. Fortescue. Why he should come to tell them, I cannot imagine——”
‘“But, Bessie, do stop one moment,” interrupted Henrietta imploringly, “is this really true? And how did you find it out? This mysterious man did not surely confide all this to you and Frances!”
‘“Oh no, no; they never meant us to hear it, of course.” And Bessie and I hereupon poured out an explanation of how we had chanced to learn this wonderful piece of intelligence. Henrietta made no comment as she listened, but her face grew thoughtful and troubled. She evidently did not look at the affair quite in the same light that Bessie did.
‘“And now, Henrietta,” I began eagerly, when we had finished our story, “I want to know what they meant about the Duke of Monmouth, and why he is coming to England.”
‘“Hush!” she said in a tone that, for her, was almost sharp. And I was silenced directly; for, in spite of Henrietta’s indolent, gentle manner, there was something about her now and then that made me feel slightly afraid of her. In fact I think that all the girls had a great respect for her judgment, though she was rather cold and shy, and by no means such a favourite among them as Bessie, or Pauline St. Aubert.
‘“Indeed, Frances,” she said earnestly, “you must not speak of this to any one else. You ought not to have told me. I wish, with all my heart, that we all knew as little of it now as we did half an hour ago.”
‘“But why?” asked Bessie, looking both crestfallen and alarmed at this view of the matter; for her excitement was a good deal damped by Henrietta’s anxious tone and serious face.
‘“Oh Bessie, don’t you see? In the first place, you had no right to hear this, much less to tell me about it; and I cannot help feeling as if we were doing something dishonourable and underhand in knowing it at all. Besides, as the man himself said, this is no child’s play. It seems to me that it must be a really weighty secret, which may bring Madame St. Aubert, and perhaps even us, into trouble some day.”
‘“Nonsense!” Bessie broke in impatiently; “you always were so discreet and cautious, Henrietta. ’Tis a marvel to me how you can talk in such a cold, selfish, heartless way. Why, even if it were to bring us into trouble—which is not likely at all—I should be proud to go through a little danger for such a cause.”
‘“Such a cause!” repeated Henrietta, with a slightly sarcastic smile. “Well, I don’t know,” she continued relapsing into her peculiarly low, deliberate tone; “but even if the cause were a right one, I should think another civil war would do more harm than good. My father has often told me stories about the last, and what he and my grandmother used to go through; and I do not want another to come in my time. No, Bessie, I call your tidings anything but glorious.”
‘“My dear Henrietta, I do not believe there will be a civil war at all. Depend upon it, all the country will flock to join the Duke of Monmouth. He is so much more popular than the King; and he is brave and handsome, and his manners are so gracious. Besides, he is going to defend the Protestant religion; and it is a well-known thing that King James wants to turn us all into Papists, and make bonfires of every body, just as cruel Queen Mary did.”
‘Henrietta knitted her forehead, in order, I suppose, the better to ponder the subject; and slowly plucked to pieces, leaf by leaf, a York and Lancaster rose that she wore in her sash.
‘“I suppose,” she said at length, with a little sigh, as she raised her head, “that, in truth, neither of us knows much about the matter. We only think as we have been taught to think at home. All I know is, what my father used to say about the Duke of Monmouth,—that he has no right to the throne whatever, and that, even if he were to get it, he has not wit enough to keep it; and also, that he is a bad, unprincipled man, who cares as little for the Protestant faith as for any other.”
‘“Then your father judges him very harshly and untruly, and can know nothing about him,” cried Bessie, firing up in high indignation. “My uncle is his great friend, and I have often heard him say that the Duke of Monmouth is a stanch Protestant, and a man of honour, and far more noble and princely than the King.”
‘To this Henrietta made no reply, and at first I thought she was offended, and going off wrathfully without another word, for she turned away and moved a few steps up the shrubbery; then, after a moment’s hesitation, she came back and laid her hand upon Bessie’s arm.
‘“Listen to me, Bess. I don’t wish to quarrel about the Duke of Monmouth or anybody else; but in this we shall agree, I warrant: Madame St. Aubert ought to be told that we have found out this secret of hers. I am heartily sorry that you chanced to overhear it; but, since we have discovered it, and in this way too (which is a somewhat crooked one, I must say), I think the only straightforward thing to do is to go at once and tell her simply what we know, and how we knew it.”
‘Bessie opened her eyes very wide, and turned them with a quick, startled look upon Henrietta. “Well, I am ready,” she said, the next moment, making up her mind, as usual, without the smallest hesitation. “You are quite right, Henrietta. It is but fair that Madame should know. It was shameful in me not to have spoken to her at the time. Come, Frances, we will go to her at once, and tell her that the Duke of Monmouth’s secret is safe, at least as far as you and I are concerned;” and Bessie drew up her head proudly, and, throwing her arm round my waist, marched majestically through The Wilderness with a sort of defiant air, as if prepared to undertake the Duke of Monmouth’s defence against his enemies in general, and Henrietta in particular. I, for my part, stepped along by Bessie’s side, trying to look equally fearless and defiant, and feeling ready to stand by her through thick and thin; for we two were great friends, notwithstanding the five years’ difference in our ages. As to the right or wrong of the question, I did not bestow a thought upon that, my ideas upon politics being vague to the last degree. I suppose no child in the kingdom, at that time, knew less about the events taking place in it than I did. I had seldom or never heard political subjects discussed at home, for mamma certainly hardly ever talked of them, and, I fancy, thought very little about them either; and even when my father was at Horsemandown, I saw so little of him or his friends that I had not the remotest notion as to what his opinions were. However, I was fond of Bessie, and Bessie believed in the Duke of Monmouth,—and that was enough for me; so I made up my mind to believe in him too. Nevertheless, I could not quite get rid of the impression which Henrietta’s words had made. She had never been in the habit of taking much notice of me, or indeed of any of the younger girls; and we used to laugh at her languid, sleepy manner, and declare that Henrietta had no feelings—that the shock of an earthquake, or news that the great plague had broken out again in Taunton, would scarcely make her take the trouble of lifting her eyes from her book, or rising from her chair. I daresay she was quite aware of these jokes of ours, and that they did not help to make her less cold and indifferent towards us; but, for all this, one of Henrietta’s quiet, lazily spoken remarks had often more weight with us than the most decided and strongly expressed opinions of the other girls. I looked back at her as she walked behind Bessie and me up the shrubbery. She was grave, and rather white, and though she had urged us to make this confession to Madame St. Aubert, I saw that she was going with intense reluctance, and entirely because she considered it a matter of honour and duty.
‘“Are they still there?” whispered Bessie as we opened the schoolroom door and looked anxiously in the direction of Madame’s closet. Yes! there they were still, without doubt; but the door was no longer ajar, and only an indistinct murmur of voices was audible from within. But as we lingered, hesitating what step next to take, the ante-room door opened, and Madame St. Aubert came forth, followed by Mrs. Fortescue and the stranger, whom Pauline had justly described as “a little, dark man, with a soldier-like bearing.” Soldier-like it certainly was, but not the bearing of a gentleman. Indeed there was something about him which struck me, at the first glance, as low, unrefined, and decidedly disagreeable.
‘Madame stopped short at the sight of us, for it was most unusual to find any of the girls in the school-room at that hour; and she looked considerably taken aback, and by no means pleased. As for the stranger, after staring at us for a moment in a most cool, insolent way, he turned, with a frown, to Madame St. Aubert, saying: “It seems to me, Madame, that one may scarce hope for privacy in your house for more than ten minutes at a time. And, pray, who may those young gentlewomen be?”
‘There was something so peremptory and familiar in his way of speaking, that all three of the said young gentlewomen felt inexpressibly ruffled and indignant; but Henrietta’s cheeks were burning, and I never had imagined before that her large, sleepy, grey eyes could look so absolutely fierce as they did for a moment just then.
‘“Girls, what are you doing here at this hour? Why are you not in the garden with the rest?” asked Madame St. Aubert, without answering the strange man’s question. She glanced at us sharply, and somewhat suspiciously, as if the idea had entered her mind that we might possibly have been listening to the conversation in the ante-room. There was a minute’s silence, while Madame, annoyed and impatient, stood waiting for an answer.
‘What a privilege I felt it then to be the youngest of the party! I drew back as far behind the others as I could, and twitched Bessie’s dress. But though, as I said before, Bessie never stayed to think twice ere she set about an undertaking, she was not always quite so prompt in finishing it. Now and then things would suddenly prove too much for her, and she would break down helplessly before her schemes could be carried out. Now I pulled her dress without producing the slightest effect. It was clear that, if Madame St. Aubert was to be told of our discovery at all, Henrietta must be the person to do it. So, seeing that there was no help for it, she came forward, and speaking, evidently with a great effort, and in a rather husky voice, she gave a very short, but very clear, explanation of how matters stood. Meanwhile Madame St. Aubert looked every moment more and more perplexed and angry, and the mysterious man bit his lip and growled wrathfully to himself. I thought his ejaculations sounded uncommonly like oaths, only they were, fortunately, somewhat indistinct.
‘“I warned you how it would be, Madame,” said he bluntly, nodding with a sarcastic smile towards Mrs Fortescue, when Henrietta had finished her story. “You lack discretion, Madame—discretion—like most women. I crave pardon, but I cannot but say so. What with loud speaking, and doors left ajar, here are three babbling children acquainted with a matter which you solemnly promised should be kept strictly secret.”
‘Poor Madame St. Aubert looked round distractedly. It was plain that she was very angry, and wished to pour forth her anger upon somebody, but could not make up her mind whether it should fall upon the head of this extremely plain-spoken gentleman, Mrs. Fortescue, or “those three babbling girls,” her pupils.
‘Mrs. Fortescue, however, though she might know herself in the wrong, was not a person to be easily browbeaten. “Very well, Colonel Dare,” quoth she with severity; “and, craving your pardon, I must needs say that your courtesy is as scant as you deem our discretion. You would do well, sir, to learn something of chivalry from his Grace of Monmouth. He would not speak to the wife of one of his troopers in such a tone as you have used to us.”
‘This reproof seemed considerably to abash Colonel Dare; for his face grew very red—indeed I may almost say purple—and he muttered, in a stammering, confused kind of way, something about being a rough, honest soldier—not used to ladies’ presence, and never thinking to give offence—only, somewhat hot in his zeal for the great cause; which excuses appeared in some degree to appease Mrs. Fortescue’s wrath, and Madame’s perplexity and distress. They evidently both wished to be on good terms with this odd, churlish, little Colonel Dare—Madame St. Aubert especially.
‘“Come, come, Monsieur,” she said, with a graceful little wave of the hand, “you have said quite enough. You have made ’l’amende honorable.’ I have no doubt that Mrs. Fortescue is satisfied, and that we all understand one another perfectly. But now let me intreat you to set your mind at rest. I can assure you that these young ladies will not betray us. Is it not so, mes petites? You will give me each your word of honour to say nothing of this news that you have heard, until you have my permission. It can be but two or three days more before it will be known to the whole kingdom.”
‘“With all my heart, Madame,” Bessie cried, springing forward in her impetuous way, her pretty bright face glowing with eagerness and enthusiasm. “There is nothing I would wish for more than to serve the Duke; and I would rather die a thousand deaths than say a word which could harm him!”
‘“Ah! bravo! bravo! young mistress,” exclaimed Colonel Dare, who had been surveying Bessie with a curious, critical gaze for some moments. “I see you are one of us. We have no fear of you. But this little lady here, what has she to say for herself?” and he glanced doubtfully from me to Madame St. Aubert.
‘“I think she may be trusted,” Madame said, smiling a little, and holding out her hand to me. “When one is already a wife, one ought to be discreet enough to keep a secret; eh, Frances? Yes, I think we may trust Lady Desmond!”
‘These words made me altogether forget my shyness and my fright, and I ran to Madame St. Aubert’s side, exclaiming as enthusiastically as Bessie herself: “Oh yes; indeed, Madame, you may trust me; and I would do anything to serve the Duke of Monmouth too, if I could—just as much as Bessie would.” They all began to laugh at this speech (except Henrietta)—even the sour-looking Colonel Dare, which rather hurt my feelings, for I was quite in earnest, and really began to feel myself a loyal and devoted follower of the Duke of Monmouth, though, until the last hour, I had scarcely heard more of him than his name.
‘“And Henrietta?” asked Madame St. Aubert gently, though at the same time with a shade of uneasiness in her tone—“But I scarce need call for your promise. You are no babbler, as we all surely know.”
‘Henrietta, however, made no answer. She had stood for the last few minutes with eyes fixed absently on the window, seeming to take no notice whatever of anything that was passing. Her mouth twitched nervously, and she was knitting her brows, as if trying to think out something that both puzzled and worried her a good deal.
‘“Well, Henrietta?” demanded Mrs. Fortescue impatiently.
‘“You will give us your word,” said Madame, with her most persuasive smile; and then Henrietta roused herself with a little sigh, and gave the promise required, repeating Madame St. Aubert’s own words: “Yes, Madame, I give you my word of honour to say nothing of this matter, until I have your permission.”
‘There was so much effort and reluctance in her tone as she said this, that Colonel Dare’s fierce little black eyes were turned upon her with a distrustful glance. “If you follow my counsel, Madame,” said he, “you will request young mistress here to give that pledge again with her hand upon the Bible.”
‘Once more Henrietta’s face lighted up with indignation. “I have given my promise already, sir,” she said proudly. “May I go, Madame?” and scarcely waiting for Madame St. Aubert’s nod of assent, she made her courtesy and left the room.
‘“Ah! never fear. She is safe enough,” said Madame reassuringly. “Henrietta’s promise is as good as an oath.”
‘A doubtful “Humph!” was Colonel Dare’s only reply; after which came the abrupt question: “Pray, who is she?”
‘“One of the Gloucestershire Sidneys. A daughter of Mr. Sidney of Nettlewood.”
‘“James Sidney of Nettlewood!” Colonel Dare scowled more disagreeably than ever as he repeated this name. “That speaks for itself. The Duke and he have but little love lost between them. I suppose that proud, sullen-looking damsel of his is not likely to have any intercourse with her father just now?”
‘Madame St. Aubert again assured him of Henrietta’s trustworthiness, and then went on to explain all about the family and connections of Bessie and myself. I was astonished to find how much he had already heard of me and my history. Indeed he seemed, I thought, to know quite as much, if not more than I did myself, of my father, Sir Harry Mountfort, and my young husband, Lord Desmond. At Sir Harry’s name, both he and Madame St. Aubert shook their heads ominously. “No hope of him—not a jot,” they pronounced. “Hand and glove with the King; and the young Earl Desmond a minor, and of course wholly under his guardian’s influence for the present.” But of my father they spoke far less despondingly. Why, I could not imagine; for, as I remarked before, I had not the smallest idea of what his political opinions might be. Colonel Dare, however, seemed to have some reason for thinking that my father was inclined to favour the Duke of Monmouth’s claims; and he made one or two attempts to find out whether I had ever heard anything let fall by him upon the subject; but discovering in a very little while how utterly ignorant I was, he ceased questioning me, and turned to Bessie, who was ready enough to answer anything that he chose to ask. She had been brought up by her uncle, Sir Geoffrey Davenant, a Somersetshire knight, living not many miles from Taunton; and it was in his house that she had learned her ardent devotion to the Duke of Monmouth. Sir Geoffrey’s political principles were apparently as well known to the shrewd Colonel Dare as those of Henrietta’s father and mine; and he seemed very well satisfied with what he drew from Bessie concerning her uncle and her uncle’s friends.
‘“If I should chance to see Sir Geoffrey before many days are out, I shall tell him that his kinswoman’s heart is with us,” was Colonel Dare’s parting speech to Bessie when Madame St. Aubert at last dismissed us. “Oh, if I were only as rich as Henrietta, or Eleanor Page!” So exclaimed Bessie, as we ran up-stairs into the great bed-chamber where the six elder girls slept. None of them were there at present; and Bessie sat down upon her own bed, with one arm thrown round me, sighing out again, “If I was but as rich as Henrietta!”
‘“Why do you want to be rich, Bessie? Do you want money so much just now?”
‘“How can you ask, child? That I may give it all to him, to be sure.”
‘“To that Colonel Dare?”
‘“No, no. To the Duke, of course. But Colonel Dare would take it to him.”
‘“Bessie! To the Duke! But what does he want it for? Besides, hasn’t he plenty of money of his own?”
“Oh Frances, you are such a child! How is he to raise soldiers without money? He must feed his army, and buy arms and horses and everything; and from what I have heard my uncle say, I suspect he has by no means more money than he wants, especially for such an enterprise as this. I should not wonder if that was what that gentleman wanted of Madame St. Aubert. She has a very good fortune, I know.”
‘These were quite new ideas to me, and rather surprising ones too; for, never having studied the subject deeply, I had always held a kind of vague belief that dukes, as a matter of course, had gold and silver to any amount they chose; while the fact that armies must eat, and that soldiers must be paid for fighting, had somehow never struck me before.
‘“Frances, have you any money?” Bessie asked, rising suddenly, and opening a chest by the bedside. “Look! This is all I have left: not much, but it shall go to him. I know my uncle would give me more if I were really in need of it.”
‘She turned out the contents of a little Spanish leather purse upon the bed. There were three golden guineas, a crown piece, and a few small silver coins. It certainly did not look a very magnificent sum as it lay spread out upon the quilt; nor did my contribution make it much more imposing, for my whole store was but one double guinea piece, which I had meant to spend on presents for the boys, to be given when I went home at Christmas. But now I was fast catching Bessie’s zeal. Who could think of Christmas presents in comparison with a great cause like this? I felt quite sure that Oliver would enter into my view of the case, if he could be consulted; so I laid my gold piece beside Bessie’s, and we looked at them for a few minutes in solemn silence, which I was the first to interrupt.
‘“I suppose Henrietta would not help us?”
‘“Not she, forsooth!” said Bessie, with a contemptuous curl of the lip. “Nothing would induce me to ask her. But if we tarry so long, Colonel Dare will be gone. Many thanks to you, sweetheart, for what you have given;” and gathering up the little heap, Bessie put it into the purse, and tripped down-stairs with all possible speed. I leaned over the balustrade, and watched her as she met Madame St. Aubert and her visitor outside the study door, and I saw her blush and smile as he took the purse and raised her hand to his lips. Colonel Dare took his departure hastily, for all the girls from the garden were beginning to pour in, and the great bell was ringing for dinner.
‘Three days had passed by, and Bessie, Henrietta, and I still kept our secret. I thought them rather pleasant days myself, for I was extremely proud of the important piece of knowledge which Madame St. Aubert had been involuntarily obliged to leave in my keeping. But I do not know that the two others wholly shared this opinion. Certainly Henrietta did not. She looked more and more grave and oppressed, and never spoke of the subject to either of us; while Bessie was in such a fever of expectation that it was all she could do to keep up her self-command before the other girls. Whenever we could manage it, she and I used to get alone together, and talk about the only subject that now had any interest for us. When should we hear the news of Monmouth’s landing? would he be likely to march near Taunton? and would Bessie’s uncle, Sir Geoffrey Davenant, take up arms in his behalf? These were the questions which we asked ourselves at least a dozen times a day; and I drank in Bessie’s doctrines without a thought of disputing them, till I was becoming heart and soul as rebellious a little subject of King James as she was herself. I should probably have found it much harder to keep my lips sealed to the rest of the household, if there had been no Bessie with whom to chatter freely about the secret; and I have no doubt I was equally useful to her in enabling her to give a vent to her feelings.
‘We two had always been friends from that first dismal winter’s night when I first arrived at Madame St. Aubert’s, a tearful, disconsolate little bride, tired out with the long, cold journey, and most unhappy at leaving—not the husband whom I had known for a day, but home, mamma, and my brothers; not to mention all the animals, that I cared for only next to them. Yes, that was a very miserable night to me; and I must confess that what added a sharp sting to my grief was the feeling of intense mortification at having to come down from the dignified position which I had held of late and so thoroughly enjoyed. A few days ago I was the most important person in the house,—treated with all the honour and attention due to a bride, and almost as if I were a woman; and now, here I was, only a little girl again, at school among strangers, and conscious of being younger and smaller than most of my companions, and not equal to any of them in good manners and accomplishments. How kind Bessie was to me that night! It was her bright winning manner and good-natured words that first began to set me at ease; and during my early school-days, whenever a home-sick fit of crying came over me, I always went to Bessie to be petted and comforted. That intense home-sickness had been over now for a long time. To be sure, I looked forward eagerly to the next Christmas, when I was to be at Horsemandown once more; but I had grown used to the routine of Madame St. Aubert’s house by this time, and found myself much happier at school than I could once have imagined possible. Mrs. Fortescue was sharp and severe, sometimes, it is true; but Madame St. Aubert was, in general, remarkably kind to her pupils,—far more gentle and indulgent than most governesses of those days were wont to be. I did not dislike the studies either; though I must say we were somewhat hardly worked, and spent a great deal more time over them than would be considered wholesome in a schoolroom of the present time,—in the Horsemandown schoolroom, at all events. The learning to dance, to speak French, and to play upon the harp and virginals, was what I liked best; and I soon began to get on very well in those accomplishments—especially the music and dancing—and to discover that Agnes Blount’s skill in them might not be so hopelessly beyond my reach, after all. My schoolfellows, too, I liked very much on the whole; and I think that on their part they had rather a respect for me—especially those of my own age—on account of my being, child as I was, already a wife, and wife to the Earl of Desmond. It seemed strange, even then, that among the pupils should be numbered a bride, and that she should be one of the youngest of all; but still not half so strange as if it were nowadays; for, according to a very common custom in those times, several of the girls were betrothed, and one or two of them had been so from babyhood. Well, but to continue my story. For three days, as I said, we had kept our secret. The excitement of the girls about Madame’s “mystery,” as they chose to call it, was beginning to go off. In fact it was fast fading away, in the interest of a scheme, started by Pauline, for getting up a little French masque, to be acted on her mother’s birthday, or, as Pauline called it, her “fête.” One morning, however, it happened that, although when Madame St. Aubert’s fourteen young ladies sat down to breakfast the projected masque was uppermost in the minds of eleven of them, yet before their basins of milk were empty it had gone out of their heads altogether; and this was the reason: “Dr. Power begs permission to wait upon you, Madame,” was a message that made every one look up in surprise. Half-past six was so very early for Dr. Power, who was celebrated for his late rising. Madame St. Aubert rose hurriedly from her chair, but before she could leave the table the Doctor himself peered in at the open door.
‘“Too anxious to announce my news to await your summons, Madame,” said he, with an apologetic bow so profound that his flowing wig almost swept the floor. “Ladies, you must pardon me for this intrusion; but when I tell you that the Duke of Monmouth has landed at Lyme——”
‘“Landed at Lyme!” cried Madame St. Aubert, exultingly echoed by Mrs. Fortescue and Bessie.
‘“The Duke of Monmouth!” repeated Pauline in tones of astonishment, while the young ladies all put down their spoons and opened their eyes; and murmurs of “Oh!” “Who?” “Where?” “What for?” ran round the table.
“Yes, landed yesterday morning at Lyme,” Dr. Power proceeded, after a loud and violent fit of coughing, which seemed much to exasperate Bessie. “I only heard the news this morning. They say he was at the head of more than a thousand men last night, and by this time, I warrant me, all Dorsetshire and Devonshire will have joined him. It was Dare who sent me word. He left this place at two o’clock this morning, with a troop of forty horsemen behind him; thanks to your liberality, Madame.” (Here Bessie glanced at me significantly.) “’Tis only a handful, to be sure,” continued Dr. Power, “but he’ll pick up more on the road. There’s a piece of news for you, young ladies!” he rattled on, rubbing his hands and nodding triumphantly; “and a piece of news for King James too (not that he will be king much longer). Ah, I should like to know what he thinks of the business!”
‘“Well, but, Dr. Power,” cried Madame at last impatiently, for she had already made two vain attempts to strike in, and would not have managed to do so now had not Dr. Power’s breath at last given way altogether,—“tell us some more details. How was he received in the place? Was there no opposition made to his landing?”
‘“Opposition? None whatever. He was received most enthusiastically. The whole town was ringing with shouts of ‘A Monmouth! A Monmouth! God save Monmouth and the Protestant religion!’ Then up went his blue flag in the market-place, and his Declaration was read from the town-cross.”
‘At this point Bessie could not resist clapping her hands, and was even heard to utter a smothered “Hurrah.”
‘“And he proclaimed himself King?” asked Mrs. Fortescue.
‘“No, no; not yet. He is prudent enough to put that off for a bit. He declares that his right to the throne shall be decided by a free Parliament; but he denounces his uncle for a tyrant, usurper, murderer, and I know not what beside. (Somewhat too strong in language this Declaration must be, to my thinking.) Well, and then he claims to be champion and leader of all English Protestants.”
‘“And so he is, without doubt,” cried Madame St. Aubert, clasping her hands vehemently. “He will save us all from being made Papists, whether we will or no, or perchance burned alive at Smithfield. Ah yes! Mark my words, Dr. Power. He is the only man to save England, and all England will soon rise in arms to join him. God bless him, I say, and confound his enemies! Long live the Duke of Monmouth!”
‘Madame’s agitation at this juncture became too much for her. She sank suddenly into the nearest seat, and buried her face in her handkerchief. She was an excitable person always, Madame St. Aubert; but never before had she been seen by her pupils wrought up to such a state of uncontrollable excitement as this; and never before had our silent, formal breakfast been enlivened by such a commotion. There stood all the girls huddled together, surprised, embarrassed, curious, and some half frightened. There was my bowl of milk upset, and streaming quietly over the table-cloth, with Mrs. Fortescue actually taking not the smallest notice of it; there was Dr. Power with his wig more crooked than I could ever have conceived possible if I had not seen it; and, what seemed stranger to us than anything else, there was Madame St. Aubert perched on one of our narrow, long-legged, and most uncomfortable stools, instead of her own chair of state, and almost tumbling off, from the vehemence of her hysterical sobs.
‘“What does it all mean? Is there going to be a civil war?” whispered Agnes Blount to Bessie, who was in far too much of a flutter either to hear or heed.
‘“But does the King really want to burn us? Alack! alack! I will never be made a Papist,” protested little Lucy Fordyce, her brown eyes round with horror.
‘“I wonder if Madame will give us a holiday,” suggested Camilla Fanshawe with great animation; and even as she spoke I heard Dr. Power making that self-same proposal to Madame St. Aubert, who was beginning to recover a little, the high stool not being a favourable place for giving way to “attendrissement.”
‘“Yes,” she said, after drying her eyes and going back to her state chair. Yes, that was just what she had been about to announce. Who could be expected to attend to study after such a piece of news as this? Therefore she proclaimed a whole holiday, in honour of the day which, she hoped, we never would forget to the latest hour of our lives.
‘“And now I wonder whether these young ladies know what it is that they are to keep in mind till the latest day of their lives,” said Dr. Power, looking round upon us with his jovial, good-humoured smile. “This little maid, for instance,” as his eye fell upon Lucy Fordyce’s beaming face. “Come hither, child, and tell us all about it.”
‘But Lucy’s ideas upon the subject were evidently misty in the extreme. She looked terribly puzzled and piteous; and I have no doubt that it was only a strong faith in the promised holiday that kept the tears out of her eyes. “Because—why, because,” she stammered in answer to Dr. Power’s question.
‘“Why does Madame St. Aubert wish you to remember to-day?” repeated the Doctor.
‘We are to have a holiday because the Duke of Monmouth——’ and here Lucy came to a dead stop, being utterly at a loss to know what it was exactly that the Duke of Monmouth had been doing.
‘“He came over from Holland on purpose to ask for a holiday, eh?” said Dr. Power, laughing, and tapping her under the chin. “Very good-natured of his Grace, upon my life! Well, well, never mind, sweetheart; but listen to me, and I’ll tell you the reason of his coming over.” Whereupon the good vicar launched forth into a vigorous little lecture, all about the Duke of Monmouth, and the great things that he was going to do for the country. Such a hero, according to Dr. Power’s description, had never been known in England since the days of the Black Prince. Indeed I began to think again of those marvellous stories that Shad used to tell of King Arthur and his knights of the Round Table, and my admiration for the Duke of Monmouth waxed hotter than ever. The Duke (so Dr. Power told us) was a true and stanch Protestant, and his uncle King James a bigoted Papist, who would force us all soon to be Papists too, unless we chose rather to be put to the torture or burned alive, like those poor souls in wicked Queen Mary’s reign. From this the Duke had come to save us. The King cared only for the privileges of the Crown, and nought for the rights of his subjects. He would make us slaves, and sell the country to France. Monmouth was bent solely upon guarding the liberty of the Parliament and the people. Under him we should be, as the Prayer-book said, “godly and quietly governed;” and every one would be free to worship in peace as his conscience taught him. Moreover, the Duke was the true heir. He had a better title to the throne than the present King. Why, Dr. Power did not wait to explain at that time. We should not understand the merits of the question, he said, even were he to enter into it; but such, he assured us, was the case. The Duke’s enemies, with his uncle at their head, had contrived to banish him six years ago; but now, here he was back on English ground again, with a loyal band of followers. The country was rising in all directions. In a short time the best part of England would be with him, the Popish King would be driven from his throne, and a Protestant prince, loved and honoured by every true Englishman, would reign in his stead.
‘So ended Dr. Power’s oration, to which we listened with much respect and awe. No one, of course, presumed to question what he said; though I thought Henrietta looked as if she could have disputed the truth of some of his remarks had she dared. Mrs. Fortescue did murmur something about our parents’ political opinions not having been consulted; but she was summarily quenched by Dr. Power’s indignant “Pshaw! pshaw! Madame; are we to plant unsound political faith in young minds for any consideration whatever? No, Madame; if the parents of these children choose to disapprove what Madame St. Aubert teaches, why, then, let them take away their daughters from her care.”
‘For my own part, I thought it a matter of course that Dr. Power’s side of the question must be the right one. It was enough for me that Madame St. Aubert and Mrs. Fortescue were on that side, not to mention my favourite, Bessie; but when Dr. Power,—the vicar of our parish, whom we were all in the habit of holding in the greatest veneration and respect as a pious and learned divine,—when he said that the Duke of Monmouth was right and the King wrong, it seemed to me that no one ought to have any more doubt upon the matter. It gave me a slight shock, to be sure, to hear his Majesty spoken of in such terms of disrespect, for mamma had always taught me that we ought to honour the King; but then Dr. Power had said that the Duke of Monmouth had really more right to be king than he, so my mind was set at ease upon that point. I had not learned in those days that even learned and pious men can sometimes make mistakes, nor that two people may be equally honest—equally wise and good—and yet see the same thing in a perfectly different light.
‘The day was a most glorious one. Never was a more perfect summer morning. We were in exuberant spirits when we poured out into the garden, to make the most of our holiday, and talk about the great event which we were to remember to the last hour of our lives. I think we all obeyed that injunction of Madame St. Aubert’s to the letter. I can answer for three of us at any rate.
‘“We are absolved from our secret, Frances,” said Bessie. “Madame St. Aubert called me back to tell me so, and to bid me give you both her best thanks for keeping it so well.”
“She owes me her thanks,” said Henrietta, with a sigh of relief. “It has been a very painful secret to me, and I am heartily glad to have done with it.”
“So that was the reason your face grew so bright when Dr. Power told us the news!” cried Bessie, laughing. “I thought it could not be on the Duke’s account.”
‘“No, indeed. I was only thinking that, now he really has landed, the news must soon be known all over the country. I have been very uneasy ever since that promise, Bessie. I was loth enough to give it, but I could not refuse to keep a secret that we had found out in such a questionable, hardly honourable, kind of way.” Bessie opened her eyes.
‘“Uneasy! But why uneasy? My dear Henrietta, if you had refused to promise, what difference would it have made? What could you have done?”
‘“I don’t quite know, but I felt as if I had no right to hide such a very serious piece of news as that. It seemed to me that I ought, in strict right, to let my father know of it.”
‘“Henrietta!” cried Bessie, aghast. “But you could not have done it; Madame would never have allowed that!”
‘“No, I do not know that I could have managed it; but I might have tried. I fear I did wrong in making any promise, after all. Remember, Bessie, this is a terribly important matter: it is the beginning of a rebellion—of a civil war.”
‘“But, Henrietta,” I asked, “won’t your father join the Duke of Monmouth, then? Bessie says she is sure her uncle will. Oh, how I hope my father will, too! And, ah! poor Oliver, I know how he will long to be off to the Duke’s army, and how he will try to persuade mamma that he is old enough.” Henrietta smiled, and pulled my curls.
‘“No, Francis, I hope your father will do no such thing; and I am quite sure that mine will not. However, happen what may now, my father, and the King, and everybody else too, knows what is going on, and can take whatever course they please; so I am content. I can do neither good nor harm in the matter now.”
‘“No,” sighed Bessie: “if we were only men! But, as it is, we can do nothing to help the Duke, nothing whatever, except to pray that the right side may have the victory.”
‘“The right side,” murmured Henrietta thoughtfully. “Yes, Bessie, we can pray for the right side.”
‘Now that our tongues were free once more, Bessie and I were ready enough to astonish the other girls with the history of our adventure three days ago; and great was the excitement and interest with which they listened to it.
‘“I knew there was something!” “So that was why you all three vanished for such a long time?” “I thought Bessie squeezed up her lips unusually tight, as if she was afraid something was going to escape them.” “I wondered why Frances had been looking so solemn and important lately.” Such were the exclamations with which our story was greeted,—exclamations that rather hurt my feelings, and Bessie’s too, I think, for we had prided ourselves upon behaving exactly the same as usual, and not looking in the least bit conscious or mysterious.
‘“I wonder what your father will do, Frances,” said Agnes Blount, “and Sir Harry, and poor Algernon too. Why, what will become of the pages if the King and Queen are driven away? Alack! alack! I hope he won’t be beheaded, or anything dreadful happen to him!” This startling idea had not struck me before. Poor Algernon! of course I should not have liked him to be beheaded; though, at the same time, it was a great comfort to think that it was he, and not Oliver, whose neck might be in danger.
‘“Nonsense, Agnes,” I said, trying to speak very decidedly. “As if they would behead a boy!”
‘“Oh, but they would,” put in Lucy Fordyce. “Prince Arthur was only a boy, you know, and yet King John murdered him.”
‘“My dear Lucy, that was so very long ago. Besides Lord Desmond is not heir to the Crown.” There was something in that argument, as Agnes allowed, still she did not seem quite satisfied.
‘“No, but you see, Frances, he is one of the Queen’s pages; and if there really is going to be another civil war, perhaps they will murder the King, as they did his father, and maybe the Queen too; and then, of course, any one belonging to the court will be in great danger. Oh Fan, supposing poor Algernon was to be killed, you would be a widow, you know. Oh dear! oh dear! How shocking!” This last recollection, added to her fears for Algernon, was too much for Agnes. She gave one half-stifled sob and burst into tears.
‘This made me feel very uncomfortable, and more really frightened on Algernon’s account than I had been at first; for it was such a new thing to see Agnes cry—Agnes, generally so blyth and sweet-tempered—that I began to fear that things must indeed be getting serious. Poor Algernon! We had not been particularly good friends that first and last time of our meeting, considering for what purpose that meeting had been, nor had our parting been much taken to heart by either of us; yet when I remembered his honest brown eyes, and round, rosy, good-humoured face as he rushed about so happily with my brothers, and then tried to imagine him with his curly head upon the block, or dying, sword in hand, amongst a heap of slaughtered pages, a sudden desire came over me to cry also.
“Fancy you a widow!” repeated Agnes, with another dismal sob, as I put my arm round her neck and tried to say something consoling.
‘“Like Dr. Power’s mother,” suggested Lucy Fordyce, looking at me with a sort of scared expression.
‘I made an effort to fancy myself like Dr. Power’s mother, and the consequence was a violent fit of laughter, which checked my tears completely, and dried up Agnes’s too; for Mistress Tabitha Power was eighty-five, and wore deep mourning robes which swept the ground, a black hood drawn almost over her face, and always leaned upon an ebony crutch with a silver handle. Then, when our laugh was over, Agnes began to wonder again what side my father and Sir Harry Mountfort would take in the coming war, if war there really was to be. Mamma, I felt pretty sure, would be for the Duke of Monmouth, because Dr. Power had said that the King would make Papists of us all; and I knew that mamma was the stanchest of Protestants, and that nothing on earth would be so abhorrent to her as the idea of having her own religion or that of her children interfered with. As to my father, I did not know what to think about him, but I had a vague impression that Colonel Dare thought him likely to favour the Duke’s pretensions; and if Colonel Dare did not know, who did? Agnes was rather doubtful about Sir Harry. She wished very much to believe that he would take the same view of affairs as Madame St. Aubert and Dr. Power, but could not avoid a misgiving that, whatever his own opinions might be, the part which he eventually took would be decided by Lady Mountfort.
‘“And she is a strict Catholic, you know, Frances; and no ones loves the King more than she does. I remember how she used to praise him when he was Duke of York. Ah! she will never let Sir Harry stand up against King James, and he always does everything she wishes.”
‘“Perhaps my father will persuade him,” I suggested: “they are such great friends, you know.”
‘“Ah! you don’t know Lady Mountfort,” returned Agnes despondingly. She was quite a Monmouthite already, the only drawback being her uneasiness for Algernon. In fact Dr. Power’s eloquence had plunged every one of us (Henrietta alone excepted) heart and soul into the Duke’s cause, which was not to be wondered at. What else, indeed, was to be expected, considering how very little we knew about the business, save what he chose to tell us? So we sat under the lime tree all that pleasant sunny morning, making guesses as to what our respective relations intended to do; and trying to persuade ourselves that they, one and all, must, should, and would buckle on their swords for our hero, the Duke of Monmouth.
‘Madame invited us to sup with her that evening in the north parlour; and a few of her particular friends were of the party—Dr. Power amongst them, who was in tremendous spirits, and made another speech, so brilliant that I thought it might almost have brought King James himself to come quietly down from his throne and make a present of his crown to his nephew. Yes, that was a delightful evening. We danced, and sang madrigals, and played games, and, before we broke up, drank Monmouth’s health in a cup of that very choice canary which was generally considered sacred to Dr. Power, and which Madame’s pupils had never aspired to partake of in their wildest dreams.
‘Well, the time passed on, and little was talked of in the house but the Duke of Monmouth and his prospects. Scraps of news came in from time to time to feed our excitement, the bearer thereof being generally Dr. Power. First we heard of a skirmish at Bridport, which seemed to have been a somewhat confused and doubtful affair, in which neither side had got much the best of it. Then we were shocked by hearing that Colonel Dare was dead, shot in a quarrel with a Scotch gentleman, one of Monmouth’s followers. Dr. Power shook his head very gravely when he told us this. It looked ill, he said, for the discipline of the Duke’s army and the unity of his officers, that such an outrage should have taken place. However, the Duke had been highly indignant, and had done the only thing that could be done under the circumstances, and sent off the offending Scot, Colonel Fletcher of Saltoun, to the Continent.
‘“So there go two of his best officers already,” quoth Dr. Power, with a sigh; “and that’s no trifling loss, let me tell you. Ah! well, I always told Dare it would come to this. I have known him from a boy, and he was always the same furious, hot-headed fellow. Ah-h-h,” and Dr. Power went away, whistling to be sure, as usual, but the air he whistled was slow and plaintive, and his face a shade less cheerful than it was wont to be. But the next time he made his appearance he was brisk and light-hearted as ever; and well he might be, considering what tidings he brought. Four thousand men of the train-bands, under the Duke of Albemarle, had been arrayed near Axminster, and were preparing to meet the invaders; but no sooner did Monmouth’s troops appear upon the scene than the train-bands retreated in confusion, without waiting to strike a blow, and the Duke—our Duke—was marching in triumph towards Taunton. It was Dr. Power’s opinion that we might expect to see him that very evening. You may fancy the effect of this announcement upon Madame St. Aubert’s household. The delight and excitement that reigned there were quite indescribable. Even the scullions in the kitchen were heard uttering distant hurrahs.
‘The rest of the day was spent in bustle and preparation. The garden was stripped of all its gayest and choicest flowers, and the usual books, slates, and ink-stands which generally filled the schoolroom gave way to bright heaps of roses, lilies, pansies, and carnations, which were to be turned into wreaths and garlands before the evening. Ah, how well I remember that day!—the laughter and chatter as we worked at the wreaths, and the breathless interest with which we watched them put up afterwards in festoons, over door, balcony, and windows. All the gardens in Taunton must have been plundered, I think, that morning, for, as we looked down the street, every house seemed, like our own, to be absolutely glowing with flowers.
‘It was nearly sunset when the sound of drum and fife, the ring of steel, and the even tramp of many feet announced that Monmouth and his army must be at hand; and never shall I forget the storm of cheers that welcomed him as he came riding into the town. It seemed to rise from every street in Taunton; and I suppose it was that I had never heard so many voices together before, but the sound gave me a curious, uncomfortable, half-frightened feeling, as if I must get out of everybody’s sight, and cry. However, this was quite out of the question; the balcony where we stood being so much crowded, that it was a hard matter to move one’s arms enough to throw down the pinks and roses with which our aprons were filled. The street was thickly lined on each side with people in holiday dress, and all carrying green boughs; and from every window and balcony handkerchiefs and scarves were waving, and flowers were raining down. The Duke looked up and bowed as he passed underneath our windows whereupon Madame St. Aubert gasped out, “O mon roi! mon roi!” and burst into one of her floods of tears; while Bessie, in the violence of her feeling, flung away handkerchief and basket as well as her flowers, and was heard afterwards anxiously questioning every one as to what could possibly have become of them. “Was I not right, Frances? Is he not a noble, gallant prince? Does he not look like a king?” demanded she triumphantly, when the Duke and his white horse could no longer be distinguished. And to this I agreed, with all my heart; as well I might, considering how many older and wiser folks than I had been completely carried away by Monmouth’s handsome face and graceful winning manner.
‘“Oh Henrietta, if you would only have come out to see him, you would have changed your mind!” Such was the assurance that all the girls repeated over and over again, when Henrietta was hearing a detailed account of the procession from beginning to end; for she had steadily refused to help in the making of the wreaths or to join the party on the balcony, and Madame was far too much pre-occupied to care whether she came or stayed away. A shrug of the shoulders, and a contemptuous “stiff-necked little fool!” was her only attempt at remonstrance. So Henrietta quietly managed to keep out of the way all the afternoon; and when the last man in the procession had passed out of the street, we ran off to find her, and pour out a description of the great sight we had seen, to the only person in the house who had not been a witness of it. She was as much interested, and asked as many questions as we could wish; but all our regrets that she had missed the pageant, and all our protestations that she must have changed her mind had she seen the Duke of Monmouth, only made her smile and shake her head.
‘“Indeed, Bessie,” she said, “I quite believe that he is as handsome and brave and gallant a gentleman as you say, but that is no proof against what my father told me; and now I know that, I hope that merely to look upon him would not make me change my mind. I suppose a comely face and gentle bearing are not enough to give him a right to the throne, nor to make him a good king, or a good soldier either.”
‘There was no denying this; nevertheless it made not the slightest impression upon any of us. Madame St. Aubert and Dr. Power believed in the Duke of Monmouth, and we were content to follow their lead. He was our hero, for whom we vowed that we would willingly have laid down our lives, and, at the time, we really fancied that we meant what we said. Next morning, though the flowers had vanished from the schoolroom, books and desks were not yet to be seen in their stead. To-day the first thing that met our eyes as we entered the room was a piece of sky-blue silk spread out upon the middle of the table, and surrounded by innumerable skeins of gold and silver thread, and silks in all the colours of the rainbow. These, Madame told us, were the materials for a banner to be presented to the Duke before his departure from Taunton—“presented by us, our very own selves,” as Lucy Fordyce said, clapping her hands with delight.
‘“Whoever has a hand in the making of it shall walk in the procession,” said Madame, with a smile, as she drew the heap of silks towards her and began to disentangle the skeins.
‘We were all feeling rather dull after the intense excitement of the day before, and the working of the banner seemed to be the very thing we felt most inclined to do,—something that could really be done for the Duke,—something that, by our efforts, we might make not unworthy to be offered. These thoughts were enough to revive all our enthusiasm, and to set us to work with an energy and perseverance which, I am afraid, we had never been known before to display in Madame St. Aubert’s schoolroom. Pauline proceeded to draw out the pattern, Bessie to sort the silks into heaps of the same colour, but varying in shade; and the little ones were soon busy in winding skeins and threading needles for the whole party. To my own great joy, I was not classed among the “little ones” on the present occasion. Mamma had taught me to embroider very well; and, much as I hated it at home, I was glad to find, when I came to school, that there was one thing at least which I could do better than Agnes Blount,—better, indeed, than most of the girls much older than myself. Henrietta was the only one whom I could not hope to rival; and Henrietta would not help us. We dragged her into the room, and made her admire the soft rich blue of the silk, and the glittering gold and silver, with which it was to be ornamented, and from habit she began to show Mary Seymour how to hold her hand so as not to soil her work; but when she glanced over Pauline’s shoulder and saw the pattern that she was copying, she exclaimed, “Oh Pauline!” in a voice of such disapproval and distress that we all looked up surprised.
‘“Don’t you think a lion and a unicorn will be pretty, Henrietta?” I asked anxiously. “I wanted to have some beautiful gold lilies, like those in that French book Madame showed us; but Bessie said that would not do, because the Duke of Monmouth must have the arms of England.”
‘“But he is to have a French motto,” observed Lucy Fordyce. “And such an easy one. I can translate it quite well: ‘God and my Right.’ It is all to be written in gold letters. Don’t you think it will look very well?”
‘“Oh yes, very well indeed,” replied Henrietta, with a little smile that seemed to make Bessie quite angry, for she said indignantly;
‘“Well, Henrietta, and has he not the best right in the world to the royal arms? Is he not our king already?”
‘“Oh, certainly, if wearing our king’s colours makes him so; and I think he ought to be proud of having such a devoted subject. But, Bessie dear, I see you have changed your favourite rose colour for blue, which I have often heard you say does not suit you half so well.”
‘Bessie looked vexed at this speech, and her cheeks flushed for a minute; but then, glancing down at her blue breast-knot with a proud smile, she said enthusiastically, almost defiantly, “I don’t care if you do laugh at me. It is the only thing I can do for him.”
‘“Ah! that is right! That is my own warm-hearted Bessie,” cried Pauline, who always expressed her feelings far more openly and strongly than any of the rest of us. “I think it is very right and noble of her to do it, and I would do just the same—only, unfortunately, blue does suit me; so it is no sacrifice.” And darting an indignant look at Henrietta, she flew to Bessie’s side and bestowed an affectionate kiss on both her cheeks. Pauline’s demonstrative ways used to make us all feel rather embarrassed sometimes; and Henrietta especially would become colder and more reserved than ever when Pauline was “attendrie” or “emue,” as she expressed it. On the present occasion, however, her eyes twinkled with fun when she saw that Pauline’s hasty movement had swept our beautiful banner down to the floor, while all the embroiderers had stopped their work to stare at Bessie, and did not even make an effort to save it.
‘“Well, good-bye, Pauline,” she said, turning to leave the room; “I won’t hinder your work any longer. Your hero’s standard is trailing in the dust, which is rather a bad omen; but it was not I that threw it there.” And Henrietta vanished, while the rest of the party returned to their work with increased soberness and diligence, but rather less talking than before.
We prospered very well after we had begun: we were all anxious to show Henrietta what we could accomplish, even without her skilful fingers to aid us. Moreover, Madame St. Aubert came to superintend; and, after a time, when lion and unicorn were beginning to stand forth in all their bravery from their gay background, carefully balancing a glistening crown between their uplifted fore-paws, she brought in Dr. Power to see and admire. He praised our needlework to our hearts’ content; but when he put on his spectacles to examine the device, he looked almost as grave as Henrietta had done, and gave a sort of subdued whistle of surprise. But Madame St. Aubert whispered something in his ear which caused him to say, “Ah! well, I thought it would come to that; but ’tis a pity—in my opinion ’tis a thousand pities—that the Duke should allow such a decided step to be taken.”
‘Madame St. Aubert drew herself up as stiffly as if she was going to hear Dr. Power the multiplication-table. “I have the best authority for saying that the measure was recommended by his Grace’s most trusted advisers,” replied she with dignity.
‘Dr. Power looked as puzzled as though he had forgotten that twice one made two, and rubbed his wig till it was quite crooked, before he said, with an air of relief, “Well, Madame, the Scripture hath declared that in the multitude of counsellors there is safety; and so, I hope, it will prove on the present occasion. For myself, I shall certainly be able to say with all my heart, ‘God save our King.’”
‘I did not in the least understand what was meant by this conversation; and when I pulled Bessie’s sleeve and asked her, she said she was not quite sure, and I must wait till to-morrow to know.
‘I was not much wiser when the morrow came, and Bessie told me, with a beaming face, that the Duke of Monmouth was going to be proclaimed king in the market-place of Taunton. However, seeing that she looked very glad, I tried to feel glad too, and succeeded completely, when she informed me that, after the proclamation had taken place, our banner was to be presented by the whole school in procession, as the gift of the maids of Taunton.
‘“And when—when is it to be, Bessie?” cried several voices.
‘“Next Thursday, Madame says; so we have not too much time; but I’ll work my fingers to the bone rather than it should not be done.”
‘We were all of the same mind about this; and work we did, with an energy that astonished even Madame St. Aubert, and that wore holes in some of our thimbles, even if our fingers escaped safe and sound. But were we not repaid for all our trouble on the morning, when Bessie, the leader of a long procession, stood by the market-cross, holding in her hand the staff from which floated our completed banner in all its beauty, just fluttering enough in the wind to show gleams of the red and gold, forming the scroll and tracery which adorned its ample folds? What a crowd filled the market-place! and however one pushed and struggled to catch a glimpse of Bessie, whose bright eyes were brighter than usual, and whose colour came and went every moment with excitement! “How pretty Bessie is!” I whispered to Agnes; “I never knew she was pretty till to-day.” “Hush! Hush! the Duke is coming,” was all Agnes had time to say, before such a cheer rang through the market-place as I never heard in my life before. It quite drowned the clatter of hoofs, as the Duke of Monmouth and his train came riding through the throng of people, the Duke smiling and bowing to every one as he passed, and having to take off his hat so often, that at last he kept it in his hand, and rode on, bare-headed, up to the market-cross, where he alighted, and, standing on the steps, bowed once more, while the cheers rose higher and higher. And now I thought the important time had come; but Bessie knew better, and waited while one of the Duke’s followers, very richly dressed, blew a loud blast on a trumpet—to secure silence, I suppose—and then read in a high, monotonous voice, from a strip of parchment which he held in his hand, a proclamation, of which I could not catch one word. It was only by standing on tip-toe that I could see what was going on; and it was by keeping in this position, and holding fast by Agnes Blount’s arm, that I saw how, when the gentleman had finished reading, he waved his hat in the air and shouted “God save the King!” with all his might. It must have been every voice in Taunton, I think, which joined the answering shout of “God save the King! Long live Monmouth, the true heir to the throne! The Protestant succession for ever! Down with the Papists!” I dropped back into my former position, and left my hold on Agnes’s shoulder, not quite certain whether I felt most inclined to clap my hands and cheer as Dr. Power was doing, or to stop my ears and sob hysterically, like little Lucy Fordyce, who was quite scared at the noise.
‘“Hush, hush, Lucy! don’t cry, chérie,” whispered Pauline consolingly. “There, it is all over now, Look at mamma: the Duke is going to speak to her. Oh, mon Dieu, what a handsome man! what fire in the eyes!” and Pauline, after good-naturedly putting Lucy into a place where she could see what was going on, relapsed into silence, only occasionally broken by murmured exclamations in French, when her feelings became too much for her.
‘Madame St. Aubert knelt on one knee before the Duke, kissed his hand, and presented him with a Bible, splendidly bound in crimson and gold.
‘“Ah! qu’il a l’air noble et gracieux! C’est un vrai roi!” cried Pauline below her breath, as the Duke took her mother’s hand to raise her from the ground, bowed profoundly over it, and said as he took the gift she offered: “Madame, I have come to defend the truths contained in this book, and to seal them, if so it must be, with my blood.”
‘I heard these words quite distinctly, in the sudden silence which had followed the cheers; but, after the Duke had finished speaking, the noise grew more deafening than ever. A great many people were sobbing, too, besides Lucy Fordyce, though it could not have been with fright, like her, for they were quite grown-up.
‘Dr. Power rubbed his hands together and said, “Right, right: those are the best words that have been spoken yet,” quite out loud. And Eleanor Page whispered to Pauline, “I wish Henrietta was here: she would be convinced now.”
’And now, at a sign from Madame St. Aubert, the whole school began to move forward, and we all fell into our proper places in the procession. Bessie did not change colour now, nor falter in the least, as she knelt before the Duke and gave the banner into his hand, with the few words which had been arranged beforehand for her to say: “Will your Grace deign to accept all we have to offer you—the best work of our hands, with the best wishes of our hearts?”
BESSIE DID NOT CHANGE COLOUR NOW, NOR FALTER IN THE
LEAST, AS SHE KNELT BEFORE THE DUKE AND GAVE THE
BANNER INTO HIS HANDS.
‘“When you see these colours again, fair mistress,” said the Duke, as he clasped the staff in his hand, “I trust they will have waved over a conquered field. We cannot but be victorious who fight under a flag worked by so many fair hands, and accompanied by the wishes of so many kind hearts. In the name of my followers as well as my own, I thank you, and all people of the good town of Taunton, for their faith in me and in my cause. I ask them to keep their faith only a little longer, and it shall be justified. We are in arms for the liberties of England, and for the Protestant religion, and therefore can say, without the shadow of a doubt or scruple, ‘May God defend the right!’”
‘Bessie’s earnest “Amen” was repeated in a sort of shout by many voices, for the Duke spoke in tones clear enough to be heard by all around him. Dr. Power was just going to rub his hands again, but changed his mind, and rubbed one eye instead—very hard indeed—and then looked about him with such a triumphant smile, that I felt exactly as if he was saying, “I told you so. Did I not use almost these very words, young ladies? Let this be impressed upon your minds till the latest hour of your lives.” Certainly the impression was made upon mine. I can recollect even now all that happened on that day, down to the most trivial particulars, with a minuteness that would satisfy even Dr. Power himself. But, anxious as he was that it should be so, I am quite sure that he never dreamed what terrible reason we should all have for remembering that twentieth of June to the latest hour of our lives.