When June came there were no new cases in the village, though the summer-heat kept our patients languid. The last person who died of the fever was Mademoiselle Pineau, in the mill-cottage. The old man and his son had died before her, the former of old age, the latter of fever. Who was the heir to the ruined factory and the empty cottage no one as yet knew, but, until he appeared, every thing had to be left as it was. The cure kept the key of the dwelling, though there was no danger of any one trespassing upon the premises, as all the villagers regarded it as an accursed place. Of the four hundred and twenty-two souls which had formed the total of Monsieur le Cure's flock, he had lost thirty-one.

In July the doctor left us, saying there was no fear of the fever breaking out again at present. His departure seemed the signal for mine. Monsieur Laurentie was not rich enough to feed two idle mouths, like mine and Minima's, and there was little for me to do but sit still in the uncarpeted, barely-furnished salon of the presbytery, listening to the whirr of mademoiselle's spinning-wheel, and the drowsy, sing-song hum of the village children at school, in a shed against the walls of the house. Every thing seemed falling back into the pleasant monotony of a peaceful country life, pleasant after the terror and grief of the past months. The hay-harvest was over, and the cherry-gathering; the corn and the apples were ripening fast in the heat of the sun. In this lull, this pause, my heart grew busy again with itself.

"My child," said the cure to me, one evening, when his long day's work was over, "your face is triste. What are you thinking of?"

I was seated under a thick-leaved sycamore, a few paces from the church-porch. Vespers were just ended; the low chant had reached my ears, and I missed the soothing undertone. The women, in their high white caps, and the men, in their blue blouses, were sauntering slowly homeward. The children were playing all down the village street, and not far away a few girls and young men were beginning to dance to the piping of a flute. Over the whole was creeping the golden twilight of a summer evening.

"I am very triste" I replied; "I am thinking that it is time for me to go away from you all. I cannot stay in this tranquil place."

"But wherefore must you leave us?" he asked, sitting down on the bench beside me; "I found two little stray lambs, wandering without fold or shepherd, and I brought them to my own house. What compels them to go into the wide world again?"

"Monsieur, we are poor," I answered, "and you are not rich. We should be a burden to you, and we have no claim upon you."

"You have a great claim," he said; "there is not a heart in the parish that does not love you already. Have not our children died in your arms? Have you not watched over them? spent sleepless nights and watchful days for them? How could we endure to see you go away? Remain with us, madame; live with us, you and my mignonne, whose face is white yet."

Could I stay then? It was a very calm, very secure refuge. There was no danger of discovery. Yet there was a restlessness in my spirit at war with the half-mournful, half-joyous serenity of the place, where I had seen so many people die, and where there were so many new graves in the little cemetery up the hill. If I could go away for a while, I might return, and learn to be content amid this tranquillity.

"Madame," said the pleasant tones of Monsieur Laurentie, "do you know our language well enough to tell me your history now? You need not prove to me that you are not wicked; tell me how you are unfortunate. Where were you wandering to that night when I found you at the foot of the Calvary?"

There, in the cool, deepening twilight, I told him my story, little by little; sometimes at a loss for words, and always compelled to speak in the simplest and most direct phrases. He listened, with no other interruption than to supply me occasionally with an expression when I hesitated. He appeared to understand me almost by intuition. It was quite dark before I had finished, and the deep blue of the sky above us was bright with stars. A glow-worm was moving among the tufts of grass growing between the roots of the tree; and I watched it almost as intently as if I had nothing else to think of.

"Speak to me as if I were your daughter," I said. "Have I done right or wrong? Would you give me up to him, if he came to claim me?"

"I am thinking of thee as my daughter," he answered, leaning his hands and his white head above them, upon the top of the stick he was holding, and sitting so for some moments in silent thought. "Thy voice is not the voice of passion," he continued; "it is the voice of conviction, profound and confirmed. Thou mayst have fled from him in a paroxysm of wrath, but thy judgment and conscience acquit thee of wrong. In my eyes it is a sacrament which thou hast broken; yet he had profaned it first. My daughter, if thy husband returned to thee, penitent, converted, confessing his offences against thee, couldst thou forgive him?"

"Yes," I answered, "yes! I could forgive him."

"Thou wouldst return to him?" he said, in calm, penetrating accents, but so low as to seem almost the voice of my own heart; "thou wouldst be subject to him as the Church is subject to Christ? He would be thy head; wouldst thou submit thyself unto him as unto the Lord?"

"I shivered with dread as the quiet, solemn tones fell upon my ear, poignantly, as if they must penetrate to my heart. I could not keep myself from sobbing. His face was turned toward me in the dusk, and I covered mine with my hands.

"Not now," I cried; "I cannot, I cannot. I was so young, monsieur; I did not know what I was promising. I could never return to him, never."

"My daughter," pursued the inexorable voice beside me, "is it because there is any one whom thou lovest more?"

"Oh!" I cried, almost involuntarily, and speaking now in my own language, "I do not know. I could have loved Martin dearly—dearly."

"I do not understand thy words," said Monsieur Laurentie, "but I understand thy tears and sighs. Thou must stay here, my daughter, with me, and these poor, simple people who love thee. I will not let thee go into temptation. Courage; thou wilt be happy among us, when thou hast conquered this evil. As for the rest, I must think about it. Let us go in now. The lamp has been lit and supper served this half-hour. There is my sister looking out at us. Come, madame. You are in my charge, and I will take care of you."

A few days after this, the whole community was thrown into a tumult by the news that their cure was about to undertake the perils of a voyage to England, and would be absent a whole fortnight. He said it was to obtain some information as to the English system of drainage in agricultural districts, which might make their own valley more healthy and less liable to fever. But it struck me that he was about to make some inquiries concerning my husband, and perhaps about Minima, whose desolate position had touched him deeply. I ventured to tell him what danger might arise to me if any clew to my hiding-place fell into Richard Foster's hands.

"My poor child," he said, "why art thou so fearful? There is not a man here who would not protect thee. He would be obliged to prove his identity, and thine, before he could establish his first right to claim thee. Then we would enter a proces. Be content. I am going to consult some lawyers of my own country and thine."

He bade us farewell, with as many directions and injunctions as a father might leave to a large family of sons and daughters. Half the village followed his char-a-banc as far as the cross where he had found Minima and me, six miles on his road to Noireau. His sister and I, who had ridden with him so far, left him there, and walked home up the steep, long road, in the midst of that enthusiastic crowd of his parishioners.



CHAPTER THE SEVENTEENTH.

A MOMENT OF TRIUMPH.

The afternoon of that day was unusually sultry and oppressive. The blue of the sky was almost livid. I was weary with the long walk in the morning, and after our mid-day meal I stole away from mademoiselle and Minima in the salon, and betook myself to the cool shelter of the church, where the stone walls three feet thick, and the narrow casements covered with vine-leaves, kept out the heat more effectually than the half-timber walls of the presbytery. A vicaire from a neighboring parish was to arrive in time for vespers, and Jean and Pierre were polishing up the interior of the church, with an eye to their own credit. It was a very plain, simple building, with but few images in it, and only two or three votive pictures, very ugly, hanging between the low Norman arches of the windows. A shrine occupied one transept, and before it the offerings of flowers were daily renewed by the unmarried girls of the village.

I sat down upon a bench just within the door, and the transept was not in sight, but I could hear Pierre busy at his task of polishing the oaken floor, by skating over it with brushes fastened to his feet. Jean was bustling in and out of the sacristy, and about the high altar in the chancel. There was a faint scent yet of the incense which had been burned at the mass celebrated before the cure's departure, enough to make the air heavy and to deepen the drowsiness and languor which were stealing over me. I leaned my head against the wall and closed my eyes, with a pleasant sense of sleep coming softly toward me, when suddenly a hand was laid upon my arm, with a firm, close, silent gripe.

I do not know why terror always strikes me dumb and motionless. I did not stir or speak, but looked steadily, with a fascinated gaze, into my husband's face—a worn, white, emaciated face, with eyes peering cruelly into mine. It was an awful look; one of dark triumph, of sneering, cunning exultation. Neither of us spoke. Pierre I could hear still busy in the transept, and Jean, though he had disappeared into the sacristy, was within call. Yet I felt hopelessly and helplessly alone under the cruel stare of those eyes. It seemed as if he and I were the only beings in the whole world, and there was none to help, none to rescue. In the voiceless depths of my spirit I cried, "O God!"

He sank down on the seat beside me, with an air of exhaustion, yet with a low, fiendish laugh which sounded hideously loud in my ears. His fingers were still about my arm, but he had to wait to recover from the first shock of his success—for it had been a shock. His face was bathed with perspiration, and his breath came and went fitfully. I thought I could even hear the heavy throbbing of his heart. He spoke after a time, while my eyes were still fastened upon him, and my ears listening to catch the first words he uttered.

"I've found you," he said, his hand tightening its hold, and at the first sound of his voice the spell which bound me snapped; "I've tracked you out at last to this cursed hole. The game is up, my little lady. By Heaven! you'll repent of this. You are mine, and no man on earth shall come between us."

"I don't understand you," I muttered. He had spoken in an undertone, and I could not raise my voice above a whisper, so parched and dry my throat was.

"Understand?" he said, with a shrug of his shoulders. "I know all about Dr. Martin Dobree. You understand that well enough. I am here to take charge of you, to carry you home with me as my wife, and neither man nor woman can interfere with me in that. It will be best for you to come with me quietly."

"I will not go with you," I answered, in the same hoarse whisper; "I am living here in the presbytery, and you cannot force me away. I will not go."

He laughed a little once more, and looked down upon me contemptuously in silence, as if there were no notice to be taken of words so foolish.

"Listen to me," I continued. "When I refused to sign away the money my father left me, it was because I said to myself it was wrong to throw away his life's toil and skill upon pursuits like yours. He had worked, and saved, and denied himself for me, not for a man like you. His money should not be flung away at gambling-tables. But now I know he would rather a thousand times you had the money and left me free. Take it then. You shall have it all. We are both poor as it is, but if you will let me be free of you, you may have it all—all that I can part with."

"I prefer having the money and you," he replied, with his frightful smile. "Why should I not prize what other people covet? You are my wife; nothing can set that aside. Your money is mine, and you are mine; why should I forfeit either?"

"No," I said, growing calmer; "I do not belong to you. No laws on earth can give you the ownership you claim over me. Richard, you might have won me, if you had been a good man. But you are evil and selfish, and you have lost me forever."

"The silly raving of an ignorant girl!" he sneered; "the law will compel you to return to me. I will take the law into my own hands, and compel you to go with me at once. If there is no conveyance to be hired in this confounded hole, we will walk down the road together, like two lovers, and wait for the omnibus. Come, Olivia."

Our voices had not risen much above their undertones yet, but these last words he spoke more loudly. Jean opened the door of the sacristy and looked out, and Pierre skated down to the corner of the transept to see who was speaking. I lifted the hand Richard was not holding, and beckoned Jean to me.

"Jean," I said, in a low tone still, "this man is my enemy. Monsieur le Cure knows all about him; but he is not here. You must protect me."

"Certainly, madame," he replied, his eyes more roundly open than ordinarily.—"Monsieur, have the goodness to release madame."

"She is my wife," retorted Richard Foster.

"I have told all to Monsieur le Cure," I said.

"Bon!" ejaculated Jean. Monsieur le Cure is gone to England; it is necessary to wait till his return, Monsieur Englishman."

"Fool!" said Richard in a passion, "she is my wife, I tell you."

"Bon!" he replied phlegmatically, "but it is my affair to protect madame. There is no resource but to wait till Monsieur le Cure returns from his voyage. If madame does not say, 'This is my husband,' how can I believe you? She says, 'He is my enemy.' I cannot confide madame to a stranger."

"I will not leave her," he exclaimed with an oath, spoken in English, which Jean could not understand.

"Good! very good! Pardon, monsieur," responded Jean, laying his iron fingers upon the hand that held me, and loosening its grip as easily as if it had been the hand of a child.—"Voila! madame, you are free. Leave Monsieur the Englishman to me, and go away into the house, if you please."

I did not wait to hear any further altercation, but fled as quickly as I could into the presbytery. Up into my own chamber I ran, drew a heavy chest against the door, and fell down trembling and nerveless upon the floor beside it.

But there was no time to lose in womanish terrors; my difficulty and danger were too great. The cure was gone, and would be away at least a fortnight. How did I know what French law might do with me, in that time? I dragged myself to the window, and, with my face just above the sill, looked down the street, to see if my husband were in sight. He was nowhere to be seen, but loitering at one of the doors was the letter-carrier, whose daily work it was to meet the afternoon omnibus returning from Noireau to Granville. Why should I not write to Tardif? He had promised to come to my help whenever and wherever I might summon him. I ran down to Mademoiselle Therese for the materials for a letter, and in a few minutes it was written, and on the way to Sark.

I was still watching intently from my own casement, when I saw Richard Foster come round the corner of the church, and turn down the street. Many of the women were at their doors, and he stopped to speak to first one and then another. I guessed what he wanted. There was no inn in the valley, and he was trying to hire a lodging for the night. But Jean was following him closely, and from every house he was turned away, baffled and disappointed. He looked weary and bent, and he leaned heavily upon the strong stick he carried. At last he passed slowly out of sight, and once more I could breathe freely.

But I could not bring myself to venture downstairs, where the uncurtained windows were level with the court, and the unfastened door opened to my hand. The night fell while I was still alone, unnerved by the terror I had undergone. Here and there a light glimmered in a lattice-window, but a deep silence reigned, with no other sound than the brilliant song of a nightingale amid the trees which girdled the village. Suddenly there was the noisy rattle of wheels over the rough pavement—the baying of dogs—an indistinct shout from the few men who were still smoking their pipes under the broad eaves of their houses. A horrible dread took hold of me. Was it possible that he returned, with some force—I knew not what—which should drag me away from my refuge, and give me up to him? What would Jean and the villagers do? What could they do against a body of gendarmes?

I gazed shrinkingly into the darkness. The conveyance looked, as far as I could make out of its shape, very like the char-a-banc, which was not to return from Noireau till the next day. But there was only the gleam of the lantern it carried on a pole rising above its roof, and throwing crossbeams of light upon the walls and windows on each side of the street. It came on rapidly, and passed quickly out of my sight round the angle of the presbytery. My heart scarcely beat, and my ear was strained to catch every sound in the house below.

I heard hurried footsteps and joyous voices. A minute or two afterward, Minima beat against my barricaded door, and shouted gleefully through the key-hole:

"Come down in a minute, Aunt Nelly," she cried; "Monsieur Laurentie is come home again!"



CHAPTER THE EIGHTEENTH.

PIERRE'S SECRET.

I felt as if some strong hand had lifted me out of a whirl of troubled waters, and set me safely upon a rock. I ran down into the salon, where Monsieur Laurentie was seated, as tranquilly as if he had never been away, in his high-backed arm-chair, smiling quietly at Minima's gambols of delight, which ended in her sitting down on a tabouret at his feet. Jean stood just within the door, his hands behind his back, holding his white cotton cap in them: he had been making his report of the day's events. Monsieur held out his hand to me, and I ran to him, caught it in both of mine, bent down my face upon it, and burst into a passion of weeping, in spite of myself.

"Come, come, madame!" he said, his own voice faltering a little, "I am here, my child; behold me! There is no place for fear now. I am king in Ville-en-bois.—Is it not so, my good Jean?"

"Monsieur le Cure, you are emperor," replied Jean.

"If that is the case," he continued, "madame is perfectly secure in my castle. You do not ask me what brings me back again so soon. But I will tell you, madame. At Noireau, the proprietor of the omnibus to Granville told me that an Englishman had gone that morning to visit my little parish. Good! We do not have that honor every day. I ask him to have the goodness to tell me the Englishman's name. It is written in the book at the bureau. Monsieur Fostere. I remember that name well, very well. That is the name of the husband of my little English daughter. Fostere! I see in a moment it will not do to proceed, on my voyage. But I find that my good Jacques has taken on the char-a-banc a league or two beyond Noireau, and I am compelled to await his return. There is the reason that I return so late."

"O monsieur!" I exclaimed, "how good you are—"

"Pardon, madame," he interrupted, "let me hear the end of Jean's history."

Jean continued his report in his usual phlegmatic tone, and concluded with the assurance that he had seen the Englishman safe out of the village, and returning by the road he came.

"I could have wished," said the cure, regretfully, "that we might have shown him some hospitality in Ville-en-bois; but you did what was very good, Jean. Yet we did not encounter any stranger along the route."

"Not possible, monsieur," replied Jean; "it was four o'clock when he returned on his steps, and it is now after nine. He would pass the Calvary before six. After that, Monsieur le Cure, he might take any route which pleased him."

"That is true, Jean," he said, mildly; "you have done well. You may go now. Where is Monsieur the Vicaire?"

"He sleeps, monsieur, in the guest's chamber, as usual."

"Bien! Good-evening, Jean, and a good-night."

"Good-night, Monsieur le Cure, and all the company," said Jean.

"And you also, my child," continued Monsieur Laurentie, when Jean was gone, "you have great need of rest. So has this baby, who is very sleepy."

"I am not sleepy," protested Minima, "and I am not a baby."

"You are a baby," said the cure, laughing, "to make such rejoicing over an old papa like me. But go now, my children. There is no danger for you. Sleep well and have pleasant dreams."

I slept well, but I had no pleasant dreams, for I did not dream at all. The cure's return, and his presence under the same roof, gave me such a sense of security as was favorable to profound, unbroken slumber. When the chirping of the birds awoke me in the morning, I could not at first believe that the events of the day before were not themselves a dream. The bell rang for matins at five o'clock now, to give the laborers the cool of the morning for their work in the fields, after they were over. I could not sleep again, for the coming hours must be full of suspense and agitation to me. So at the first toll of the deep-toned bell, I dressed myself, and went out into the dewy freshness of the new day.

Matins were ended, and the villagers were scattered about their farms and households, when I noticed Pierre loitering stealthily about the presbytery, as if anxious not to be seen. He made me a sign as soon as he caught my eye, to follow him out of sight, round the corner of the church. It was a mysterious sign, and I obeyed it quickly.

"I know a secret, madame," he said, in a troubled tone, and with an apprehensive air—"that monsieur who came yesterday has not left the valley. My father bade me stay in the church, at my work; but I could not, madame, I could not. Not possible, you know. I wished to see your enemy again. I shall have to confess it to Monsieur le Cure, and he will give me a penance, perhaps a very great penance. But it was not possible to rest tranquil, not at all. I followed monsieur, your enemy, a la derobee. He did not go far away."

"But where is he, then?" I asked, looking down the street, with a thrill of fear.

"Madame," whispered Pierre, "he is a stranger to this place, and the people would not receive him into their houses—not one of them. My father only said, 'He is an enemy to our dear English madame,' and all the women turned the back upon him. I stole after him, you know, behind the trees and the hedges. He marched very slowly, like a man very weary, down the road, till he came in sight of the factory of the late Pineaux. He turned aside into the court there. I saw him knock at the door of the house, try to lift the latch, and peep through the windows. Bien! After that, he goes into the factory; there is a door from it into the house. He passed through. I dared not follow him, but in one short half-hour I saw smoke coming out of the chimney. Bon! The smoke is there again this morning. The Englishman has sojourned there all the night."

"But, Pierre," I said, shivering, though the sun was already shining hotly—"Pierre, the house is like a lazaretto. No one has been in it since Mademoiselle Pineau died. Monsieur le Cure locked it up, and brought away the key."

"That is true, madame," answered the boy; "no one in the village would go near the accursed place; but I never thought of that. Perhaps monsieur your enemy will take the fever, and perish."

"Run, Pierre, run," I cried; "Monsieur Laurentie is in the sacristy, with the strange vicaire. Tell him I must speak to him this very moment. There is no time to be lost."

I dragged myself to the seat under the sycamore-tree, and hid my face in my hands, while shudder after shudder quivered through me. I seemed to be watching him again, as he strode weariedly down the street, leaning, with bent shoulders, on his stick, and turned away from every door at which he asked for rest and shelter for the night. Oh! that the time could but come back again, that I might send Jean to find some safe place for him where he could sleep! Back to my memory rushed the old days, when he screened me from the unkindness of my step-mother, and when he seemed to love me. For the sake of those times, would to God the evening that was gone, and the sultry, breathless night, could only come back again!



CHAPTER THE NINETEENTH.

SUSPENSE.

I felt as if I had passed through an immeasurable spell, both of memory and anguish, before Monsieur Laurentie came to me, though he had responded to my summons immediately. I told him, in hurried, broken sentences, what Pierre had confessed to me. His face grew overcast and troubled; yet he did not utter a word of his apprehensions to me.

"Madame," he said, "permit me to take my breakfast first; then I will seek Monsieur Foster without delay. I will carry with me some food for him. We will arrange this affair before I return; Jean shall bring the char a bancs to the factory, and take him back to Noireau."

"But the fever, monsieur? Can he pass a night there without taking it?"

"He is in the hands of his Creator," he answered; "we can know nothing till I have seen him. We cannot call back the past."

"Ought I not to go with you?" I asked.

"Wherefore, my child?"

"He is my husband," I said, falteringly; "if he is ill, I will nurse him."

"Good! my poor child," he replied, "leave all this affair to me; leave even thy duty to me. I will take care there shall be no failure in it, on thy part."

We were not many minutes over our frugal breakfast of bread-and-milk, and then we set out together, for he gave me permission to go with him, until we came within sight of the factory and the cottage. We walked quickly and in foreboding silence. He told me, as soon as he saw the place, that I might stay on the spot where he left me, till the church-clock struck eight; and then, if he had not returned to me, I must go back to the village, and send Jean with the char a bancs. I sat down on the felled trunk of a tree, and watched him, in his old threadbare cassock, and sunburnt hat, crossing the baked, cracked soil of the court, till he reached the door, and turned round to lift his hat to me with a kindly gesture of farewell. He fitted the key into the lock, passed out of my sight; but I could not withdraw my eyes from the deep, thatched eaves, and glossy fleur-de-lis growing along the roof.

How interminable seemed his absence! I sat so still that the crickets and grasshoppers in the tufted grass about me kept up their ceaseless chirruping, and leaped about my feet, unaware that I could crush their merry life out of them by a single movement. The birds in the dusky branches overhead whistled their wild wood-notes, as gayly as if no one were near their haunts. Now and then there came a pause, when the silence deepened until I could hear the cones, in the fir-trees close at hand, snapping open their polished scales, and setting free the winged seeds, which fluttered softly down to the ground. The rustle of a swiftly—gliding snake through the fallen leaves caught my ear, and I saw the blunted head and glittering eyes lifted up to look at me for a moment; but I did not stir. All my fear and feeling, my whole life, were centred upon the fever-cottage yonder.

There was not the faintest line of smoke from the chimney, when we first came in sight of it. Was it not quite possible that Pierre might have been mistaken? And if he had made a mistake in thinking he saw smoke this morning, why not last night also? Yet the cure was lingering there too long for it to be merely an empty place. Something detained him, or why did he not come back to me? Presently a thin blue smoke curled upward into the still air. Monsieur Laurentie was kindling a fire on the hearth. He was there then.

What would be the end of it all? My heart contracted, and my spirit shrank from the answer that was ready to flash upon my mind. I refused to think of the end. If Richard were ill, why, I would nurse him, as I should have nursed him if he had always been tender and true to me. That at least was a clear duty. What lay beyond that need not be decided upon now. Monsieur Laurentie would tell me what I ought to do.

He came, after a long, long suspense, and opened the door, looking out as if to make sure that I was still at my post. I sprang to my feet, and was running forward, when he beckoned me to remain where I was. He came across to the middle of the court, but no nearer; and he spoke to me at that distance, in his clear, deliberate, penetrating voice.

"My child," he said, "monsieur is ill! attacked, I am afraid, by the fever. He is not delirious at present, and we have been talking together of many things. But the fever has taken hold upon him, I think. I shall remain with him all the day. You must bring us what we have need of, and leave it on the stone there, as it used to be."

"But cannot he be removed at once?" I asked.

"My dear," he answered, "what can I do? The village is free from sickness now; how can I run the risk of carrying the fever there again? It is too far to send monsieur to Noireau. If he is ill of it, it is best for us all that he should remain here. I will not abandon him; no, no. Obey me, my child, and leave him to me and to God. Cannot you confide in me yet?"

"Yes," I said, weeping, "I trust you with all my heart."

"Go, then, and do what I bid you," he replied. "Tell my sister and Jean, tell all my people, that no one must intrude upon me, no one must come nearer this house than the appointed place. Monsieur le Vicaire must remain in Ville-en-bois, and officiate for me, as though I were pursuing my journey to England. You must think of me as one absent, yet close at hand: that is the difference. I am here, in the path of my duty. Go, and fulfil yours."

"Ought you not to let me share your work and your danger?" I ventured to ask.

"If there be any need, you shall share both," he answered, in a tranquil tone, "though your life should be the penalty. Life is nothing in comparison with duty. When it is thy duty, my daughter, to be beside thy husband, I will call thee without fail."

Slowly I retraced my steps to the village. The news had already spread, from Pierre—for no one else knew it—that the Englishman, who had been turned away from their doors the day before, had spent the night in the infected dwelling. A group of weavers, of farmers, of women from their household work, stopped me as I entered the street. I delivered to them their cure's message, and they received it with sobs and cries, as though it bore in it the prediction of a great calamity. They followed me up the street to the presbytery, and crowded the little court in front of it.

When mademoiselle had collected the things Monsieur Laurentie had sent me for—a mattress, a chair, food, and medicine—every person in the crowd wished to carry some small portion of them. We returned in a troop to the factory, and stood beyond the stone, a group of sorrowful, almost despairing people. In a few minutes we saw the cure open the door, close it behind him, and stand before the proscribed dwelling. His voice came across the space between us and him in distinct and cheerful tones.

"My good children," he said, "I, your priest, forbid any one of you to come a single step nearer to this house. It may be but for a day or two, but let no one venture to disobey me. Think of me as though I had gone to England, and should be back again among you in a few days. God is here, as near to me under this roof, as when I stand before him and you at his altar."

He lifted up his hands to give them his benediction, and we all knelt to receive it. Then, with unquestioning obedience, but with many lamentations, the people returned to their daily work.



CHAPTER THE TWENTIETH.

A MALIGNANT CASE.

For three days, morning after morning, while the dew lay still upon the grass, I went down, with a heavy and foreboding heart, to the place where I could watch the cottage, through the long, sultry hours of the summer-day. The first thing I saw always was Monsieur Laurentie, who came to the door to satisfy me that he was himself in good health, and to tell me how Richard Foster had passed the night. After that I caught from time to time a momentary glimpse of his white head, as he passed the dusky window. He would not listen to my entreaties to be allowed to join him in his task. It was a malignant case, he said, and as my husband was unconscious, I could do him no good by running the risk of being near him.

An invisible line encircled the pestilential place, which none of us dare break through without the permission of the cure, though any one of the villagers would have rejoiced if he had summoned them to his aid. A perpetual intercession was offered up day and night, before the high altar, by the people, and there was no lack of eager candidates ready to take up the prayer when the one who had been praying grew weary. On the third morning I felt that they were beginning to look at me with altered faces, and speak to me in colder accents. If I were the means of bringing upon them the loss of their cure, they would curse the day he found me and brought me to his home. I left the village street half broken-hearted, and wandered hopelessly down to my chosen post.

I thought I was alone, but as I sat with my head bowed down upon my hands, I felt a child's hand laid upon my neck, and Minima's voice spoke plaintively in my ear.

"What is the matter, Aunt Nelly?" she asked. "Everybody is in trouble, and mademoiselle says it is because your husband is come, and Monsieur Laurentie is going to die for his sake. She began to cry when she said that, and she said, 'What shall we all do if my brother dies? My God! what will become of all the people in Ville-en-bois?' Is it true? Is your husband really come, and is he going to die?"

"He is come," I said, in a low voice; "I do not know whether he is going to die."

"Is he so poor that he will die?" she asked again. "Why does God let people be so poor that they must die?".

"It is not because he is so poor that he is ill," I answered.

"But my father died because he was so poor," she said; "the doctors told him he could get well if he had only enough money. Perhaps your husband would not have died if he had not been very poor."

"No, no," I cried, vehemently, "he is not dying through poverty."

Yet the child's words had a sting in them, for I knew he had been poor, in consequence of my act. I thought of the close, unwholesome house in London, where he had been living. I could not help thinking of it, and wondering whether any loss of vital strength, born of poverty, had caused him to fall more easily a prey to this fever. My brain was burdened with sorrowful questions and doubts.

I sent Minima back to the village before the morning-heat grew strong, and then I was alone, watching the cottage through the fine haze of heat which hung tremulously about it. The song of every bird was hushed; the shouts of the harvest-men to their oxen ceased; and the only sound that stirred the still air was the monotonous striking of the clock in the church-tower. I had not seen Monsieur Laurentie since his first greeting of me in the early morning. A panic fear seized upon me. Suppose he should have been stricken suddenly by this deadly malady! I called softly at first, then loudly, but no answer came to comfort me. If this old man, worn out and exhausted, had actually given his life for Richard's, what would become of me? what would become of all of us?

Step by step, pausing often, yet urged on by my growing fears, I stole down the parched and beaten track toward the house, then called once more to the oppressive silence.

Here in the open sunshine, with the hot walls of the mill casting its rays back again, the heat was intense, though the white cap I wore protected my head from it. My eyes were dazzled, and I felt ready to faint. No wonder if Monsieur Laurentie should have sunk under it, and the long strain upon his energies, which would have overtaxed a younger and stronger man. I had passed the invisible line which his will had drawn about the place, and had half crossed the court, when I heard footsteps close behind me, and a large, brown, rough hand suddenly caught mine.

"Mam'zelle'" cried a voice I knew well, "is this you!"

"O Tardif! Tardif!" I exclaimed. I rested my beating head against him, and sobbed violently, while he surrounded me with his strong arm, and laid his hand upon my head, as if to assure me of his help and protection.

"Hush; hush! mam'zelle," he said; "it is Tardif, your friend, my little mam'zelle; your servant, you know. I am here. What shall I do for you? Is there any person in yonder house who frightens you, my poor little mam'zelle? Tell me what I can do?"

He had drawn me back into the green shade of the trees, and set me down upon the felled tree where I had been sitting before. I told him all quickly, briefly—all that had happened since I had written to him. I saw the tears start to his eyes.

"Thank God I am here!" he said; "I lost no time, mam'zelle, after your letter reached me. I will save Monsieur le Cure; I will save them both, if I can. Ma foi! he is a good man, this cure, and we must not let him perish. He has no authority over me, and I will go this moment and force my way in, if the door is fastened. Adieu, my dear little mam'zelle."

He was gone before I could speak a word, striding with quick, energetic tread across the court. The closed door under the eaves opened readily. In an instant the white head of Monsieur Laurentie passed the casement, and I could hear the hum of an earnest altercation, though I could not catch a syllable of it. But presently Tardif appeared again in the doorway, waving his cap in token of having gained his point.

I went back to the village at once to carry the good news, for it was the loneliness of the cure that had weighed so heavily on every heart, though none among them dare brave his displeasure by setting aside his command. The quarantine was observed as rigidly as ever, but fresh hope and confidence beamed upon every face, and I felt that they no longer avoided me, as they had begun to do before Tardif's arrival. Now Monsieur Laurentie could leave his patient, and sit under the sheltering eaves in the cool of the morning or evening, while his people could satisfy themselves from a distance that he was still in health.

The physician whom Jean fetched from Noireau spoke vaguely of Richard's case. It was very malignant, he said, full of danger, and apparently his whole constitution had been weakened by some protracted and grave malady. We must hope, he added.

Whether it was in hope or fear I awaited the issue, I scarcely know. I dared not glance beyond the passing hour; dared not conjecture what the end would be. The past was dead; the future yet unborn. For the moment my whole being was concentrated upon the conflict between life and death, which was witnessed only by the cure and Tardif.



CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FIRST.

THE LAST DEATH.

It seemed to me almost as if time had been standing still since that first morning when Monsieur Laurentie had left my side, and passed out of my sight to seek for my husband in the fever-smitten dwelling. Yet it was the tenth day after that when, as I took up my weary watch soon after daybreak, I saw him crossing the court again, and coming toward me.

"What had he to say? What could impel him to break through the strict rule which had interdicted all dangerous contact with himself? His face was pale, and his eyes were heavy as if with want of rest, but they looked into mine as if they could read my inmost soul.

"My daughter," he said, "I bade you leave even your duty in my keeping. Now I summon you to fulfil it. Your duty lies yonder, by your husband's side in his agony of death."

"I will go," I whispered, my lips scarcely moving to pronounce the words, so stiff and cold they felt.

"Stay one moment," he said, pityingly. "You have been taught to judge of your duty for yourself, not to leave it to a priest. I ought to let you judge now. Your husband is dying, but he is conscious, and is asking to see you. He does not believe us that death is near; he says none but you will tell him the truth. You cannot go to him without running a great risk. Your danger will be greater than ours, who have been with him all the time. You see, madame, he does not understand me, and he refuses to believe in Tardif. Yet you cannot save him; you can only receive his last adieu. Think well, my child. Your life may be the forfeit."

"I must go," I answered, more firmly; "I will go. He is my husband."

"Good!" he said, "you have chosen the better part. Come, then. The good God will protect you."

He drew my hand through his arm, and led me to the low doorway. The inner room was very dark with the overhanging eaves, and my eyes, dilated by the strong sunlight, could discern but little in the gloom. Tardif was kneeling beside a low bed, bathing my husband's forehead. He made way for me, and I felt him touch my hand with his lips as I took his place. But no one spoke. Richard's face, sunken, haggard, dying, with filmy eyes, dawned gradually out of the dim twilight, line after line, until it lay sharp and distinct under my gaze. I could not turn away from it for an instant, even to glance at Tardif or Monsieur Laurentie. The poor, miserable face! the restless, dreary, dying eyes!

"Where is Olivia?" he muttered, in a hoarse and labored voice.

"I am here, Richard," I answered, falling on my knees where Tardif had been kneeling, and putting my hand on his; "look at me. I am Olivia."

"You are mine, you know," he said, his fingers closing round my wrist with a grasp as weak as a very young child's.—"She is my wife, Monsieur le Cure."

"Yes," I sobbed, "I am your wife, Richard."

"Do they hear it?" he asked, in a whisper.

"We hear it," answered Tardif.

A strange, spasmodic smile flitted across his ghastly face, a look of triumph and success. His fingers tightened over my hand, and I left it passively in their clasp.

"Mine!" he murmured.

"Olivia," he said, after a long pause, and in a stronger voice, "you always spoke the truth to me. This priest and his follower have been trying to frighten me into repentance, as if I were an old woman. They say I am near dying. Tell me, is it true?"

The last words he had spoken painfully, dragging them one after another, as if the very utterance of them was hateful to him. He looked at me with his cold, glittering eyes, which seemed almost mocking at me, even then.

"Richard," I said, "it is true."

"Good God!" he cried.

His lips closed after that cry, and seemed as if they would never open again. He shut his eyes weariedly. Feebly and fitfully came his gasps for breath, and he moaned at times. But still his fingers held me fast, though the slightest effort of mine would have set me free. I left my hand in his cold grasp, and spoke to him whenever he moaned.

"Martin," he breathed between his set teeth, though so low that only my ear could catch the words, "Martin—could—have saved—me."

There was another long silence. I could hear the chirping of the sparrows in the thatched roof, but no other sound broke the deep stillness. Monsieur Laurentie and Tardif stood at the foot of the bed, looking down upon us both, but I only saw their shadows falling across us. My eyes were fastened upon the face I should soon see no more. The little light there was seemed to be fading away from it, leaving it all dark and blank; eyelids closed, lips almost breathless; an unutterable emptiness and confusion creeping over every feature.

"Olivia!" he cried, once again, in a tone of mingled anger and entreaty.

"I am here," I answered, laying my other hand upon his, which was at last relaxing its hold, and falling away helplessly. But where was he? Where was the voice which half a minute ago called Olivia? Where was the life gone that had grasped my hand? He had not heard my answer, or felt my touch upon his cold fingers.

Tardif lifted me gently from my place beside him, and carried me away into the open air, under the overshadowing eaves.



CHAPTER THE TWENTY-SECOND.

FREE.

The rest of that day passed by like a dream. Jean had come down with the daily supply of food, and I heard Monsieur Laurentie call to him to accompany me back to the presbytery, and to warn every one to keep away from me, until I could take every precaution against spreading infection. He gave me minute directions what to do, and I obeyed them automatically and mechanically. I spent the whole day in my room alone.

At night, after all the village was silent, with the moon shining brilliantly down upon the deserted streets, the sound of stealthy footsteps came to me through my window. I pulled the casement open and looked out. There marched four men, with measured steps, bearing a coffin on their shoulders, while Monsieur Laurentie followed them bareheaded. It was my husband's funeral; and I sank upon my knees, and remained kneeling till I heard them return from the little cemetery up the valley, where so many of the cure's flock had been buried. I prayed with all my heart that no other life would be forfeited to this pestilence, which had seemed to have passed away from us.

But I was worn out myself with anxiety and watching. For three or four days I was ill with a low, nervous fever—altogether unlike the terrible typhoid, yet such as to keep me to my room. Minima and Mademoiselle Therese were my only companions. Mademoiselle, after talking that one night as much as she generally talked in twelve months, had relapsed into deeper taciturnity than before. But her muteness tranquillized me. Minima's simple talk brought me back to the level of common life. My own nervous weeping, which I could not control, served to soothe me. My casement, almost covered by broad, clustering vine-leaves, preserved a cool, dim obscurity in my room. The village children seemed all at once to have forgotten how to scream and shout, and no sound from the street disturbed me. Even the morning and evening bell rang with a deep, muffled tone, which scarcely stirred the silence. I heard afterward that Jean had swathed the bell in a piece of sackcloth, and that the children had been sent off early every morning into the woods.

But I could not remain long in that idle seclusion. I felt all my strength returning, both of body and mind. I began to smile at Minima, and to answer her childish prattle, with none of the feeling of utter weariness which had at first prostrated me.

"Are we going to stay here forever and ever?" she asked me, one day, when I felt that the solitary peace of my own chamber was growing too monotonous for me.

"Should you like to stay, Minima?" I inquired in reply. It was a question I must face, that of what I was going to do in the future.

"I don't know altogether," she said, reflectively. "The boys here are not so nice as they used to be at home. Pierre says I'm a little pagan, and that's not nice, Aunt Nelly. He says I must be baptized by Monsieur Laurentie, and be prepared for my first communion, before I can be as good as he is. The boys at home used to think me quite as good as them, and better. I asked Monsieur Laurentie if I ought to be baptized over again, and he only smiled, and said I must be as good a little girl as I could be, and it did not much matter. But Pierre, and all the rest, think I'm not as good as them, and I don't like it."

I could not help laughing, like Monsieur Laurentie, at Minima's distress. Yet it was not without foundation. Here we were heretics amid the orthodox, and I felt it myself. Though Monsieur le Cure never alluded to it in the most distant manner, there was a difference between us and the simple village-folk in Ville-en-bois which would always mark us as strangers in blood and creed.

"I think," continued Minima, with a shrewd expression on her face, which was beginning to fill up and grow round in its outlines, "I think, when you are quite well again, we'd better be going on somewhere to try our fortunes. It never does, you know, to stop too long in the same place. I'm quite sure we shall never meet the prince here, and I don't think we shall find any treasure. Besides, if we began to dig they'd all know, and want to go shares. I shouldn't mind going shares with Monsieur Laurentie, but I would not go shares with Pierre. Of course when we've made our fortunes we'll come back, and we'll build Monsieur Laurentie a palace of marble, and put Turkey carpets on all the floors, and have fountains and statues, and all sorts of things, and give him a cook to cook splendid dinners. But we wouldn't stay here always if we were very, very rich; would you, Aunt Nelly?"

"Has anybody told you that I am rich?" I asked, with a passing feeling of vexation.

"Oh, no," she said, laughing heartily, "I should know better than that. You're very poor, my darling auntie, but I love you all the same. We shall be rich some day, of course. It's all coming right, by-and-by."

Her hand was stroking my face, and I drew it to my lips and kissed it tenderly. I had scarcely realized before what a change had come over my circumstances.

"But I am not poor any longer, my little girl," I said; "I am rich now.".

"Very rich?" she asked, eagerly.

"Very rich," I repeated.

"And we shall never have to go walking, walking, till our feet are sore and tired? And we shall not be hungry, and be afraid of spending our money? And we shall buy new clothes as soon as the old ones are worn out? O Aunt Nelly, is it true? is it quite true?"

"It is quite true, my poor Minima," I answered.

She looked at me wistfully, with the color coming and going on her face. Then she climbed up, and lay down beside me, with her arm over me and her face close to mine.

"O Aunt Nelly!" she cried, "if this had only come while my father was alive!"

"Minima," I said, after her sobs and tears were ended, "you will always be my little girl. You shall come and live with me wherever I live."

"Of course," she answered, with the simple trustfulness of a child, "we are going to live together till we die. You won't send me to school, will you? You know what school is like now, and you wouldn't like me to send you to school, would you? If I were a rich, grown-up lady, and you were a little girl like me, I know what I should do."

"What would you do?" I inquired, laughing.

"I should give you lots of dolls and things," she said, quite seriously, her brows puckered with anxiety, "and I should let you have strawberry-jam every day, and I should make every thing as nice as possible. Of course I should make you learn lessons, whether you liked it or not, but I should teach you myself, and then I should know nobody was unkind to you. That's what I should do, Aunt Nelly."

"And that's what I shall do, Minima," I repeated.

We had many things to settle that morning, making our preliminary arrangements for the spending of my fortune upon many dolls and much jam. But the conviction was forced upon me that I must be setting about more important plans. Tardif was still staying in Ville-en-bois, delaying his departure till I was well enough to see him. I resolved to get up that evening, as soon as the heat of the day was past, and have a conversation with him and Monsieur Laurentie.



CHAPTER THE TWENTY-THIRD.

A YEAR'S NEWS.

In the cool of the evening, while the chanting of vespers in the church close by was faintly audible, I went downstairs into the salon. All the household were gone to the service; but I saw Tardif sitting outside in my own favorite seat under the sycamore-tree. I sent Minima to call him to me, bidding her stay out-of-doors herself; and he came in hurriedly, with a glad light in his deep, honest eyes.

"Thank God, mam'zelle, thank God!" he said.

"Yes," I answered, "I am well again now. I have not been really ill, I know, but I felt weary and sick at heart. My good Tardif, how much I owe you!"

"You owe me, nothing, mam'zelle," he said, dropping my hand, and carrying the cure's high-backed chair to the open window, for me to sit in it, and have all the freshness there was in the air. "Dear mam'zelle," he added, "if you only think of me as your friend, that is enough."

"You are my truest friend," I replied.

"No, no. You have another as true," he answered, "and you have this good Monsieur le Cure into the bargain. If the cures were all like him I should be thinking of becoming a good Catholic myself, and you know how far I am from being that."

"No one can say a word too much in his praise," I said.

"Except," continued Tardif, "that he desires to keep our little mam'zelle in his village. 'Why must she leave me?' he says; 'never do I say a word contrary to her religion, or that of the mignonne. Let them stay in Ville-en-bois.' But Dr. Martin, says: 'No, she must not remain here. The air is not good for her; the village is not drained, and it is unhealthy. There will always be fever here.' Dr. Martin was almost angry with Monsieur le Cure."

"Dr. Martin?" I said, in a tone of wonder and inquiry.

"Dr. Martin, mam'zelle. I sent a message to him by telegraph. It was altered somehow in the offices, and he did not know who was dead. He started off at once, travelled without stopping, and reached this place two nights ago."

"Is he here now?" I asked, while a troubled feeling stirred the tranquillity which had but just returned to me. I shrank from seeing him just then.

"No, mam'zelle. He went away this morning, as soon as he was sure you would recover without his help. He said that to see him might do you more harm, trouble you more, than he could do you good by his medicines. He and Monsieur le Cure parted good friends, though they were not of the same mind about you. 'Let her stay here,' says Monsieur le Cure. 'She must return to England,' says Dr. Martin. 'Mam'zelle must be free to choose for herself,' I said. They both smiled, and said yes, I was right. You must be free."

"Why did no one tell me he was here? Why did Minima keep it a secret?" I asked.

"He forbade us to tell you. He did not wish to disquiet you. He said to me: 'If she ever wishes to see me, I would come gladly from London to Ville-en-bois', only to hear her say, 'Good-morning, Dr. Martin.' 'But I will not see her now, unless she is seriously ill.' I felt that he was right, Dr. Martin is always right."

I did not speak when Tardif paused, as if to hear what I had to say. I heard him sigh as softly as a woman sighs.

"If you could only come back to my poor little house!" he said; "but that is impossible. My poor mother died in the spring, and I am living alone. It is desolate, but I am not unhappy. I have my boat and the sea, where I am never solitary. But why should I talk of myself? We were speaking of what you are to do."

"I don't know what to do," I said, despondently; "you see Tardif, I have not a single friend I could go to in England. I shall have to stay here in Ville-en-bois."

"No," he answered; "Dr. Martin has some plan for you, I know, though he did not tell me what it is. He said you would have a home offered to you, such as you would accept gladly. I think it is in Guernsey."

"With his mother, perhaps," I suggested.

"His mother, mam'zelle!" he repeated; "alas! no. His mother is dead; she died only a few weeks after you left Sark."

I felt as if I had lost an old friend whom I had known for a long time, though I had only seen her once. In my greatest difficulty I had thought of making my way to her, and telling her all my history. I did not know what other home could open for me, if she were dead.

"Dr. Dobree married a second wife only three months after," pursued Tardif, "and Dr. Martin left Guernsey altogether, and went to London, to be a partner with his friend, Dr. Senior."

"Dr. John Senior?" I said.

"Yes, mam'zelle," he answered.

"Why! I know him," I exclaimed; "I recollect his face well. He is handsomer than Dr. Martin. But whom did Dr. Dobree marry?"

"I do not know whether he is handsomer than Dr. Martin," said Tardif, in a grieved tone. "Who did Dr. Dobree marry? Oh! a foreigner. No Guernsey lady would have married him so soon after Mrs. Dobree's death. She was a great friend of Miss Julia Dobree. Her name was Daltrey."

"Kate Daltrey!" I ejaculated. My brain seemed to whirl with the recollections, the associations, the rapid mingling and odd readjustment of ideas forced upon me by Tardif's words. What would have become of me if I had found my way to Guernsey, seeking Mrs. Dobree, and discovered in her Kate Daltrey? I had not time to realize this before Tardif went on in his narration.

"Dr. Martin was heart-broken," he said; "we had lost you, and his mother was dead. He had no one to turn to for comfort. His cousin Julia, who was to have been his wife, was married to Captain Carey three weeks ago. You recollect Captain Carey, mam'zelle?"

Here was more news, and a fresh rearranging of the persons who peopled my world. Kate Daltrey become Dr. Dobree's second wife; Julia Dobree married to Captain Carey; and Dr. Martin living in London, the partner of Dr. Senior! How could I put them all into their places in a moment? Tardif, too, was dwelling alone, now, solitarily, in a very solitary place.

"I am very sorry for you," I said, in a low tone.

"Why, mam'zelle?" he asked.

"Because you have lost your mother," I answered.

"Yes, mam'zelle," he said, simply; "she was a great loss to me, though she was always fretting about my inheriting the land. That is the law of the island, and no one can set it aside. The eldest son inherits the land, and I was not her own son, though I did my best to be like a real son to her. She died happier in thinking that her son, or grandson, would follow me when I am gone, and I was glad she had that to comfort her, poor woman."

"But you may marry again some day, my good Tardif," I said; "how I wish you would!"

"No, mam'zelle, no," he answered, with a strange quivering tone in his voice; "my mother knew why before she died, and it was a great comfort to her. Do not think I am not happy alone. There are some memories that are better company than most folks. Yes, there are some things I can think of that are more and better than any wife could be to me."

Why we were both silent after that I scarcely knew. Both of us had many things to think about, no doubt, and the ideas were tumbling over one another in my poor brain till I wished I could cease to think for a few hours.

Vespers ended, and the villagers began to disperse stealthily. Not a wooden sabot clattered on the stones. Mademoiselle and Monsieur Laurentie came in, with a tread as soft as if they were afraid of waking a child out of a light slumber.

"Mademoiselle," I cried, "monsieur, behold me; I am here."

My voice and my greeting seemed to transport them with delight. Mademoiselle embraced me, and kissed me on both cheeks. Monsieur le Cure blessed me, in a tremulously joyous accent, and insisted upon my keeping his arm-chair. We sat down to supper together, by the light of a brilliant little lamp, and Pierre, who was passing the uncurtained window, saw me there, and carried the news into the village.

The next day Tardif bade me farewell, and Monsieur Laurentie drove him to Granville on his way home to Sark.



CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FOURTH.

FAREWELL TO VILLE-EN-BOIS.

The unbroken monotony of Ville-en-bois closed over me again. The tolling of the morning bell; the hum of matins; the frugal breakfast in the sunlit salon; the long, hot day; vespers again; then an hour's chat by twilight with the drowsy cure and his sister, whose words were so rare. Before six such days had passed, I felt as if they were to last my lifetime. Then the fretting of my uneasy woman's heart began. There was no sign that I had any friends in England. What ought I to do? How must I set about the intricate business of my affairs? Must I write to my trustees in Melbourne, giving them the information of my husband's death, and wait till I could receive from them instructions, and credentials to prove my identity, without which it was useless, if it were practicable, to return to London? Was there ever any one as friendless as I was? Monsieur Laurentie could give me no counsel, except to keep myself tranquil; but how difficult it was to keep tranquil amid such profound repose! I had often found it easier to be calm amid many provocations and numerous difficulties.

A week has glided by; a full week. The letter-carrier has brought me no letter. I am seated at the window of the salon, gasping in these simmering dog-days for a breath of fresh air; such a cool, balmy breeze as blows over the summer sea to the cliffs of Sark. Monsieur Laurentie, under the shelter of a huge red umbrella, is choosing the ripest cluster of grapes for our supper this evening. All the street is as still as at midnight. Suddenly there breaks upon us the harsh, metallic clang of well-shod horse-hoofs upon the stony roadway—the cracking of a postilion's whip—the clatter of an approaching carriage.

It proves to be a carriage with a pair of horses.

Pierre, who has been basking idly under the window, jumps to his feet, shouting, "It is Monsieur the Bishop!" Minima claps her hands, and cries, "The prince, Aunt Nelly, the prince!"

Monsieur Laurentie walks slowly down to the gate, his cotton umbrella spread over him, like a giant fungus. It is certainly not the prince; for an elderly, white-haired man, older than Monsieur Laurentie, but with a more imposing and stately presence, steps out of the carriage, and they salute one another with great ceremony. If that be Monsieur the Bishop, he has very much the air of an Englishman.

In a few minutes my doubt as to the bishop's nationality was solved. The two white-headed men, the one in a glossy and handsome suit of black, the other in his brown and worn-out cassock, came up the path together, under the red umbrella. They entered the house, and came directly to the salon. I was making my escape by another door, not being sure how I ought to encounter a bishop, when Monsieur Laurentie called to me.

"Behold a friend for you madame," he said, "a friend from England.—Monsieur, this is my beloved English child."

I turned back, and met the eyes of both, fixed upon me with that peculiar half-tender, half-regretful expression, with which so many old men look upon women as young as I. A smile came across my face, and I held out my hand involuntarily to the stranger.

"You do not know who I am, my dear!" he said. The English voice and words went straight to my heart. How many months it was since I had heard my own language spoken thus! Tardif had been too glad to speak in his own patois, now I understood it so well; and Minima's prattle had not sounded to me like those few syllables in the deep, cultivated voice which uttered them.

"No," I answered, "but you are come to me from Dr. Martin Dobree."

"Very true," he said, "I am his friend's father—Dr. John Senior's father. Martin has sent me to you. He wished Miss Johanna Carey to accompany me, but we were afraid of the fever for her. I am an old physician, and feel at home with disease and contagion. But we cannot allow you to remain in this unhealthy village; that is out of the question. I am come to carry you away, in spite of this old cure."

Monsieur Laurentie was listening eagerly, and watching Dr. Senior's lips, as if he could catch the meaning of his words by sight, if not by hearing.

"But where am I to go?" I asked. "I have no money, and cannot get any until I have written to Melbourne, and have an answer. I have no means of proving who I am."

"Leave all that to us, my dear girl," answered Dr. Senior, cordially. "I have already spoken of your affairs to an old friend of mine, who is an excellent lawyer. I am come to offer myself to you in place of your guardians on the other side of the world. You will do me a very great favor by frankly accepting a home in my house for the present. I have neither wife nor daughter; but Miss Carey is already there, preparing rooms for you and your little charge. We have made inquiries about the little girl, and find she has no friends living. I will take care of her future. Do you think you could trust yourself and her to me?"

"Oh, yes!" I replied, but I moved a little nearer to Monsieur Laurentie, and put my hand through his arm. He folded his own thin, brown hand over it caressingly, and looked down at me, with something like tears glistening in his eyes.

"Is it all settled?" he asked, "is monsieur come to rob me of my English daughter? She will go away now to her own island, and forget Ville-en-bois and her poor old French father!"

"Never! never!" I answered vehemently, "I shall not forget you as long as I live. Besides, I mean to come back very often; every year if I can. I almost wish I could stay here altogether; but you know that is impossible, monsieur. Is it not quite impossible?"

"Quite impossible!" he repeated, somewhat sadly, "madame is too rich now; she will have many good friends."

"Not one better than you," I said, "not one more dear than you. Yes, I am rich; and I have been planning something to do for Ville-en-bois. Would you like the church enlarged and beautified, Monsieur le Cure?"

"It is large enough and fine enough already," he answered.

"Shall I put some painted windows and marble images into it?" I asked.

"No, no, madame," he replied, "let it remain as it is during my short lifetime."

"I thought so," I said, "but I believe I have discovered what Monsieur le Cure would approve. It is truly English. There is no sentiment, no romance about it. Cannot you guess what it is, my wise and learned monsieur?"

"No, no, madame," he answered, smiling in spite of his sadness.

"Listen, dear monsieur," I continued: "if this village is unhealthy for me, it is unhealthy for you and your people. Dr. Martin told Tardif there would always be fever here, as long as there are no drains and no pure water. Very well; now I am rich I shall have it drained, precisely like the best English town; and there shall be a fountain in the middle of the village, where all the people can go to draw good water. I shall come back next year to see how it has been done, Voila, monsieur! There is my secret plan for Ville-en-bois."

Nothing could have been more effectual for turning away Monsieur Laurentie's thoughts from the mournful topic of our near separation. After vespers, and before supper, he, Dr. Senior, and I made the tour of Ville-en-bois, investigating the close, dark cottages, and discussing plans for rendering them more wholesome. The next day, and the day following, the same subject continued to occupy him and Dr. Senior; and thus the pain of our departure was counterbalanced by his pleasure in anticipating the advantages to be obtained by a thorough drainage of his village, and more ventilation and light in the dwellings.

The evening before we were to set out on our return to England, while the whole population, including Dr. Senior, were assisting at vespers, I turned my feet toward the little cemetery on the hill-side, which I had never yet visited.—The sun had sunk below the tops of the pollard-trees, which grew along the brow of the hill in grotesque and fantastic shapes; but a few stray beams glimmered through the branches, and fell here and there in spots of dancing light. The small square enclosure was crowded with little hillocks, at the head of which stood simple crosses of wood; crosses so light and little as to seem significant emblems of the difference between our sorrows, and those borne for our sakes upon Calvary. Wreaths of immortelles hung upon most of them. Below me lay the valley and the homes where the dead at my feet had lived; the sunshine lingered yet about the spire, with its cross, which towered above the belfry; but all else was in shadow, which was slowly deepening into night. In the west the sky was flushing and throbbing with transparent tints of amber and purple and green, with flecks of cloud floating across it of a pale gold. Eastward it was still blue, but fading into a faint gray. The dusky green of the cypresses looked black, as I turned my splendor-dazzled eyes toward them.

I strolled to and fro among the grassy mounds, not consciously seeking one of them; though, very deep down in my inmost spirit, there must have been an impulse which unwittingly directed me. I did not stay my feet, or turn away from the village burial-place, until I came upon a grave, the latest made among them. It was solitary, unmarked; with no cross to throw its shadow along it, as the sun was setting. I knew then that I had come to seek it, to bid farewell to it, to leave it behind me for evermore.

The next morning Monsieur Laurentie accompanied us on our journey, as far as the cross at the entrance to the valley. He parted with us there; and when I stood up in the carriage to look back once more at him, I saw his black-robed figure kneeling on the white steps of the Calvary, and the sun shining upon his silvery head.



CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FIFTH.

TOO HIGHLY CIVILIZED.

For the third time I landed in England. When I set foot upon its shores first I was worse than friendless, with foes of my own household surrounding me; the second time I was utterly alone, in daily terror, in poverty, with a dreary, life-long future stretching before me. Now every want of mine was anticipated, every step directed, as if I were a child again, and my father himself was caring for me. How many friends, good and tried and true, could I count! All the rough paths were made smooth for me.

It was dusk before we reached London; but before the train stopped at the platform, a man's hand was laid upon the carriage-door, and a handsome face was smiling over it upon us. I scarcely dared look who it was; but the voice that reached my ears was not Martin Dobree's.

"I am here in Martin's place," said Dr. John Senior, as soon as he could make himself heard; "he has been hindered by a wretch of a patient.—Welcome home, Miss Martineau!"

"She is not Miss Martineau, John," remarked Dr. Senior. There was a tinge of stateliness about him, bordering upon formality, which had kept me a little in awe of him all the journey through. His son laughed, with a pleasant audacity.

"Welcome home. Olivia, then!" he said, clasping my hand warmly. "Martin and I never call you by any other name."

A carriage was waiting for us, and Dr. John took Minima beside him, chattering with her as the child loved to chatter. As for me, I felt a little anxious and uneasy. Once more I was about to enter upon an entirely new life; upon the untried ways of a wealthy, conventional, punctilious English household. Hitherto my mode of life had been almost as wandering and free as that of a gypsy. Even at home, during my pleasant childhood, our customs had been those of an Australian sheep-farm, exempt from all the usages of any thing like fashion. Dr. John's kid gloves, which fitted his hand to perfection, made me uncomfortable.

I felt still more abashed and oppressed when we reached Dr. Senior's house, and a footman ran down to the carriage, to open the door and to carry in my poor little portmanteau. It looked miserably poor and out of place in the large, brilliantly-lit hall. Minima kept close beside me, silent, but gazing upon this new abode with wide-open eyes.

Why was not Martin here? He had known me in Sark, in Tardif's cottage, and he would understand how strange and how unlike home all this was to me.

A trim maid was summoned to show us to our rooms, and she eyed us with silent criticism. She conducted us to a large and lofty apartment, daintily and luxuriously fitted up, with a hundred knick-knacks about it, of which I could not even guess the use. A smaller room communicated with it which had been evidently furnished for Minima. The child squeezed my hand tightly as we gazed into it. I felt as if we were gypsies, suddenly caught, and caged in a splendid captivity.

"Isn't it awful?" asked Minima, in a whisper; "it frightens me."

It almost frightened me too. I was disconcerted also by my own reflection in the long mirror before me. A rustic, homely peasant-girl, with a brown face and rough hands, looked back at me from the shining surface, wearing a half-Norman dress, for I had not had time to buy more than a bonnet and shawl as we passed through Falaise. What would Miss Carey think of me? How should I look in Dr. John's fastidious eyes? Would not Martin be disappointed and shocked when he saw me again?

I could not make any change in my costume, and the maid carried off Minima to do what she could with her. There came a gentle knock at my door, and Miss Carey entered. Here was the fitting personage to dwell in a house like this. A delicate gray-silk dress, a dainty lace cap, a perfect self-possession, a dignified presence. My heart sank low. But she kissed me affectionately, and smiled as I looked anxiously into her face.

"My dear," she said, "I hope you will like your room. John and Martin have ransacked London for pretty things for it. See, there is a painting of Tardifs cottage in Sark. Julia has painted it for you. And here is a portrait of my dear friend, Martin's mother; he hung it there himself only this morning. I hope you will soon feel quite at home with us, Olivia."

Before I could answer, a gong sounded through the house, with a sudden clang that startled me.

We went down to the drawing-room, where Dr. Senior gave me his arm, and led me ceremoniously to dinner. At this very hour my dear Monsieur Laurentie and mademoiselle were taking their simple supper at the little round table, white as wood could be made by scrubbing, but with no cloth upon it. My chair and Minima's would be standing back against the wall. The tears smarted under my eyelids, and I answered at random to the remarks made to me. How I longed to be alone for a little while, until I could realize all the change that had come into my life!

We had been in the drawing-room again only a few minutes, when we heard the hall-door opened, and a voice speaking. By common consent, as it were, every one fell into silence to listen. I looked up for a moment, and saw that all three of them had turned their eyes upon me; friendly eyes they were, but their scrutiny was intolerable. Dr. Senior began to talk busily with Miss Carey.

"Hush!" cried Minima, who was standing beside Dr. John, "hush! I believe it is—yes, I am sure it is Dr. Martin!"

She sprang to the door just as it was opened, and flung her arms round him in a transport of delight. I did not dare to lift my eyes again, to see them all smiling at me. He could not come at once to speak to me, while that child was clinging to him and kissing him.

"I'm so glad," she said, almost sobbing; "come and see my auntie, who was so ill when you were in Ville-en-bois. You did not see her, you know; but she is quite well now, and very, very rich. We are never going to be poor again. Come; she is here. Auntie, this is that nice Dr. Martin, who made me promise not to tell you he was at Ville-en-bois, while you were so ill."

She dragged him eagerly toward me, and I put my hand in his; but I did not look at him. That I did some minutes afterward, when he was talking to Miss Carey. It was many months since I had seen him last in Sark. There was a great change in his face, and he looked several years older. It was grave, and almost mournful, as if he did not smile very often, and his voice was lower in tone than it had been then. Dr. John, who was standing beside him, was certainly much gayer and handsomer than he was. He caught my eye, and came back to me, sitting near enough to talk with me in an undertone.

"Are you satisfied with the arrangements we have made for you?" he inquired.

"Quite," I said, not daring either to thank him, or to tell him how oppressed I was by my sudden change. Both of us spoke as quietly, and with as much outward calm, as if we were in the habit of seeing each other every day. A chill came across me.

"At one time," he continued, "I asked Johanna to open her home to you; but that was when I thought you would be safer and happier in a quiet place like hers than anywhere else. Now you are your own mistress, and can choose your own residence. But you could not have a better home than this. It would not be well for you, so young and friendless, to live in a house of your own."

"No," I said, somewhat sadly.

"Dr. Senior is delighted to have you here," he went on; "you will see very good society in this house, and that is what you should do. You ought to see more and better people than you have yet known. Does it seem strange to you that we have assumed a sort of authority over you and your affairs? You do not yet know how we have been involved in them."

"How?" I asked, looking up into his face with a growing curiosity.

"Olivia," he said, "Foster was my patient for some months, and I knew all his affairs intimately. He had married that person—"

"Married her!" I ejaculated.

"Yes. You want to know how he could do that? Well, he produced two papers, one a medical certificate of your death, the other a letter purporting to be from some clergyman. He had, too, a few lines in your own handwriting, which stated you had sent him your ring, the only valuable thing left to you, as you had sufficient for your last necessities. Even I believed for a few hours that you were dead. But I must tell you all about it another time."

"Did he believe it?" I asked, in a trembling voice.

"I do not know," he answered; "I cannot tell, even now, whether he knew them to be forgeries or not. But I have no doubt, myself, that they were forged by Mrs. Foster's brother and his partner, Scott and Brown."

"But for what reason?" I asked again.

"What reason!" he repeated; "you were too rich a prize for them to allow Foster to risk losing any part of his claim upon you, if he found you. You and all you had were his property on certain defined conditions. You do not understand our marriage laws; it is as well for you not to understand them. Mrs. Foster gave up to me to-day all his papers, and the letters and credentials from your trustees in Melbourne to your bankers here. There will be very little trouble for you now. Thank God! all your life lies clear and fair before you."

I had still many questions to ask, but my lips trembled so much that I could not speak readily. He was himself silent, probably because he also had so much to say. All the others were sitting a little apart from us at a chess-table, where Dr. Senior and Miss Carey were playing, while Dr. John sat by holding Minima in his arm, though she was gazing wistfully across to Martin and me.

"You are tired, Olivia," said Martin, after a time, "tired and sad. Your eyes are full of tears. I must be your doctor again for this evening, and send you to bed at once. It is eleven o'clock already; but these people will sit up till after midnight. You need not say good-night to them.—Minima, come here."

She did not wait for a second word, or a louder summons; but she slipped under Dr. John's arm, and rushed across to us, being caught by Martin before she could throw herself upon me. He sat still, talking to her for a few minutes, and listening to her account of our journey, and how frightened we were at the grandeur about us. His face lit up with a smile as his eyes fell upon me, as if for the first time he noticed how out of keeping I was with the place. Then he led us quietly away, and up-stairs to my bedroom-door.

"Good-night, Olivia," he said; "sleep soundly, both of you, for you are at home. I will send one of the maids up to you."

"No, no," I cried hastily, "they despise us already."

"Ah!" he said, "to-night you are the Olivia I knew first, in Sark. In a week's time I shall find you a fine lady."



CHAPTER THE TWENTY-SIXTH.

SEEING SOCIETY.

Whether or no I was transformed into a finer lady than Martin anticipated, I could not tell, but certainly after that first evening he held himself aloof from me. I soon learned to laugh at the dismay which had filled me upon my entrance into my new sphere. It would have been difficult to resist the cordiality with which I was adopted into the household. Dr. Senior treated me as his daughter; Dr. John was as much at home with me as if I had been his sister. We often rode together, for I was always fond of riding as a child, and he was a thorough horseman. He said Martin could ride better than himself; but Martin never asked me to go out with him.

Minima, too, became perfectly reconciled to her new position; though for a time she was anxious lest we were spending our riches too lavishly. I heard her one day soundly rating Dr. John, who seldom came to his father's house without bringing some trinket, or bouquet, or toy, for one or other of us.

"You are wasting all your money," she said, with that anxious little pucker of her eyebrows, which was gradually being smoothed away altogether, "you're just like the boys after the holidays. They would buy lots of things every time the cake-woman came—and she came every day—till they'd spent all their money. You can't always have cakes, you know, and then you'll miss them."

"But I shall have cakes always." answered Dr. John.

"Nobody has them always," she said, in an authoritative tone, "and you won't like being poor. We were so poor we daren't buy as much as we could eat; and our boots wore out at the toes. You like to have nice boots, and gloves, and things, so you must learn to take care of your money, and not waste it like this."

"I'm not wasting my money, little woman," he replied, "when I buy pretty things for you and Olivia."

"Why doesn't Dr. Martin do it then?" she asked; "he never spends his money in that sort of way. Why doesn't he give auntie as many things as you do?"

Martin had been listening to Minima's rebukes with a smile upon his face; but now it clouded a little, and I knew he glanced across to me. I appeared deeply absorbed in the book I held in my hand, and he did not see that I was listening and watching attentively.

"Minima," he said, in a low tone, as if he did not care that even she should hear, "I gave her all I had worth giving when I saw her first."

"That's just how it will be with you, Dr. John," exclaimed Minima, triumphantly, "you'll give us every thing you have, and then you'll have nothing left for yourself."