Chapter IV: St. Pucelle

But notwithstanding his youth, I found Master Fred Stephenson not only entertaining, but useful, for he took all trouble off my hands, and before long I found myself sitting by his side in a _coupé_, and travelling fast towards Rille and Artois. He rattled on, in his boyish manner, of his school-life and pursuits, mingling his discourse with more than one tale of scandal concerning the English abroad.

‘You should not repeat such stories young man,’ I said reprovingly, ‘whether they are true or not.’

‘Oh! they deserve everything one can say of them, Miss Marsh. You never saw such a lot—greedy, grasping, ill-natured, and tale-bearing. They seem to live only to cheat each other and pick holes in their neighbours’ characters. I am generally ashamed to meet any of my countrymen on the Continent. And the way they dress, too! I wonder, for my part, that any of the tradesmen trust them. Now there’s an old card who’s a great chum of Felton’s—to see him and hear him talk, you’d think he was a perfect saint; but just listen to the tales that are told of his being in debt all over the place, and fleecing young men out of their money! Oh! criminy!’

‘Perhaps they are not all true,’ I suggested mildly, for as we neared my destination I began to feel rather nervous at the prospect of meeting my unknown friends, and less well disposed to listen to the social scandal Master Stephenson amused himself by retailing to me. ‘Were we not rather late in starting? It is nearly half-past ten now, and we are several stations yet from Rille. I wonder if Mr. Lovett has received my letter to say I should start yesterday.’

‘Mr.—_who_?’ exclaimed Fred Stephenson.

‘Mr. Lovett, the Protestant minister of St. Pucelle. He is my trustee, and a sort of guardian. It is at his house that I am going to stay.’

‘Well, I _am_ blowed!’ ejaculated my elegant young friend.

‘Do you know him, then?’

‘_Know him!_ Of course I do! Everybody knows him within fifty miles of Artois. He was tutor, or guardian, or something of the kind, to the young German Prince Francius von Rudelstein de Ritzburg, and spends half his time at court. He is considered quite a swell in his way, and is often over at Rille. And so you’re going to St. Pucelle! What a lark!’

I could not exactly see in what the ‘lark’ consisted; but I thought it a singular coincidence that my young travelling companion should be acquainted with Mr. Lovett.

‘Perhaps you will be surprised to hear that I have never seen him yet. What is he like?’

‘Oh, a very fine-looking old fellow, with snow-white hair and the most benevolent of countenances. He’s got two jolly daughters, too.’

‘I am glad to hear that, because I am likely to see much more of them than of their father. What are their ages?’

‘I can’t tell you that, because I’m not sure; but I should think the eldest must be about your age, and her sister a few years younger. They’re both pretty; Tessie has fair hair and a nice tall figure, but the little one’s darker.’

‘Have you seen much of them?’

‘No; very little; only when they came to Rille with their father, to be confirmed. But, by Jove! here’s the old shop itself. I’m so awfully sorry I can’t see you safe to Artois, Miss Marsh, but it’s only three stations farther on, and the diligence will be in waiting to take you on to St. Pucelle. Good-bye! I’m so glad I met you! Hope we shall soon meet again! Shouldn’t wonder if old Felton lets me run over to Piron for a day’s shooting this autumn. No; no thanks. I’m so glad I was able to do anything for you!’ And, with a wave of his hat and many smiles, the nice, frank-hearted boy ran away to greet a group of his schoolfellows, who were assembled on the platform. The last I saw of his happy face, as the train moved slowly out of the station, was a succession of nods; the last I heard of his joyous voice, a hearty ‘_Au revoir._’

Well, he had been much comfort to me on my first essay at traversing the world alone, and I was thankful I had encountered him. Now he was gone, and I turned my thoughts entirely to the meeting which lay so short a way ahead of me.

When I arrived at Artois, I found, as he had told me, a diligence in waiting to take all passengers and luggage on to St. Pucelle. This conveyance, so fast becoming extinct upon the Continent, excited much of my interest. It is true that it had no springs, and jolted along the rough country-road to such an extent as nearly to jolt me into pieces; true, that the four little mules that drew it, decorated with scarlet woollen tassels and jingling with bells, required a constant succession of oaths and cracks of the whip to make them move out of a walk, and often stopped dead of their own accord, notwithstanding their driver’s energy. I was wedged in tightly, also, on a broiling August morning, between some fat market-women, who regarded my foreign appearance with curious wonder, and, opposite, a set of men who puffed smoke in my face with the utmost nonchalance. But the diligence was making its slow, uneven way on a road cut in the side of a hill. On one hand lay the lovely fertile valley of Artois, through the green bosom of which a river was winding its way like a silver snake, glistening in the sunlight. On the other was a high hill, which looked almost like a mountain in my inexperienced eyes, and was covered to the top with purple heather, precisely similar to that we find in England and Scotland, intermingled with wild flowers of every form and colour. I was wrapt in admiration of the view. I gazed from right to left in silent wonder, thinking I had never seen anything in my life before so beautiful and bright, and forgetful alike of the uncomfortable pressure I was enduring from my stout neighbours, and the vile tobacco-smoke which came puffing in my face from over the way. Subsequent experience made me aware that the journey from Artois to St. Pucelle, when performed in the diligence, occupied an hour and a quarter; but it did not seem to have been half that time to me when the vehicle suddenly came to a standstill, and I heard a voice in parley with the driver.

The fat women looked at each other and murmured something about the ‘_Curé Anglais_;’ and my curiosity was just being awakened by a few words of French which I had caught from outside, when an old gentleman came round to the diligence-door and looked in upon us.

‘_Bonjour, monsieur!_’ cried all its occupants, save one, simultaneously; and the new-comer raised his hat in reply to the general salutation. I thought I had never seen such a perfect picture of an old man before. His snow-white hair covered his finely-formed head in loose, wavy curls; his high forehead bore the impress of intellect and benevolence; and his bright blue eyes beamed forth from a face the complexion of which was soft and fair as that of a child. He had a tall, upright figure, rather stout than otherwise, and must have been, in his youth, an unusually handsome man. His long cloth coat and broad-brimmed hat told me his profession before he spoke, and I was delighted when I heard him demand, in English, if I were Miss Marsh.

‘Am I speaking to Mr. Lovett?’ I exclaimed.

‘Yes, my dear, yes; no other. Your letter reached us safely this morning, so I thought I would walk a little way down the road to meet the diligence. I hope you have travelled here comfortably?’

‘Very comfortably, thank you. But are we so short a distance, then, from St. Pucelle?’

‘We are within a stone’s throw of the town. There it stands, on the brow of the hill.’

‘I should very much like then, if I may, Mr. Lovett, to walk back with you instead of driving.’

‘By all means, my dear,’ he replied, as he opened the door and helped me out of the vehicle.

A few words in French explained matters to the driver, and in another minute the diligence was lost to view in a cloud of white dust, and the Rev. Horace Lovett and I were left standing alone on the road to St. Pucelle. The first thing he did was to take my hand, and regard me steadfastly in the face.

‘You are _very_ like your poor father,’ he said, ‘both in feature and expression, and you will be all the dearer to me for the resemblance. Perhaps you have heard—you may have been told—what firm, fast friends we were in the olden days.’

‘Oh yes, Mr. Lovett; my mother has often told me so.’

‘I did not know your poor mother,’ he replied; ‘I was settled here before your father’s marriage. But report has told me how good and amiable a wife he had gained in her.’

‘She was indeed good,’ I said falteringly. ‘I seem to have lost everything I possessed in losing her.’

‘Come, come, my child,’ he said soothingly, ‘I should not have mentioned the subject to you so soon. Do not let us speak of it today. You have come to the house of your father’s earliest and closest friend. You must try and think that it is a second father himself who welcomes you there.’

‘Indeed you are very good to me,’ I replied; ‘and I felt the kindness of your offer from the first, though I have scarcely thanked you for it.’

‘You have thanked me in the best way possible, my dear, by accepting it. I have had two daughters hitherto; now I shall have three. My little girls are all impatience to form your acquaintance; but you must make allowances for them. You will find them rough little Wallons, who know nothing of England or English customs.’

‘What is a Wallon, Mr. Lovett? I am afraid you will find me as ignorant of Continental ways and fashions as your girls are of English.’

‘Then you must teach each other. We are in what they call here the Wallon country, my dear, which they would term in Scotland, I think, “neither fish, flesh, nor good red herrin’.” The people hereabout speak a _patois_ of French and German, rather difficult of comprehension at first, and which has considerably spoilt my little girls’ accent.

We were now approaching the entrance of the town, which consisted principally of one long street built on a steep hill, so that to mount it almost seemed like climbing up stairs, especially as it was paved irregularly with grey rough stone. At the very summit of it stood an imposing-looking edifice built of granite, with a spire and cross lifted to the skies, which I concluded to be the church of which Mr. Lovett had charge. But he soon undeceived me.

‘Oh no, my dear; you must not expect to see our faith honoured after that fashion in this country. That is the Catholic church, under the superintendence of my very good friend, the Abbé Morteville. I have offered to exchange with him more than once, but he has not taken the hint.’

‘I should hardly have thought there had been sufficient Protestants in a town like this to render it worth while to keep up a church and minister for them.’

‘No more there are. But my excellent friend and patron, the Grand Duke Francius von Rudelstein, interested himself on my behalf, and placed me here in order to attend to the spiritual wants of the summer visitors. We have a great many visitors to St. Pucelle in the summer season.’

‘I don’t wonder at it. It seems to me the loveliest place I have ever seen.’

At this juncture, a man dressed in a blue blouse, buckled round his waist, and a cap with a peak to it, ran out of a shop and button-holed Mr. Lovett, whilst he apparently pleaded for something, very volubly and earnestly, in his own language.

‘Some parochial confidence,’ I thought, as I saw my old friend move farther from my side, so as to take the man out of earshot. They spoke together for some minutes; the tradesman still pleading, and Mr. Lovett seeming to try and soothe him down to a quieter frame of mind. At last he prevailed. The man in the blouse smiled and raised his peaked cap, and Mr. Lovett, calling out cheerily, ‘_À demain_,’ returned his smile in the most benevolent manner, and hastened to my side again.

‘You will excuse me, my dear,’ he said, ‘but a minister is at the beck and call of all his parishioners.’

‘Is that man a Protestant, then?’ I asked with surprise.

I do not know why I should have been surprised, but he had looked so thoroughly unlike it.

‘We have a regular mixture here,’ replied Mr. Lovett, without answering my question. ‘Do you see that house on the right hand, my dear child, with steps leading up either side to the porch? that is my humble abode, and that is where I hope you will make yourself very happy for a long time to come.’

I followed the direction of his silver-headed cane with a quick curiosity that the appearance of the house was well calculated to increase. It was built of wood, and looked to me more like the representations I had seen of Swiss châlets than any other sort of private dwelling. The principal door was reached, as Mr. Lovett had pointed out to me, by a double flight of wooden steps, with rails on the outer side of them. The windows were lattices, with diamond-shaped panes of glass. The house looked large and commodious, but it was so much built on a slope that the garden to one side of it was level with the windows of the first story; so that the lower rooms must consequently have been, in part at least, under ground. The front was covered with a luxuriant union of vine, fig and pear tree, and the little garden to the side, which was visible above the top of the wall, was a mass of fragrant bloom. But what attracted me most was the figure of a girl, leaning over the rails which guarded the porch.

Her features did not strike me at first sight as being pretty, but there was a grace about her figure, and a sweet, fair womanliness in her face, that made me feel at once we should be friends.

‘Papa!’ she called out, with a decidedly French pronunciation, as we drew near the porch.

Mr. Lovett looked up and shook his stick gaily at her.

‘There is my Tessie,’ he said proudly, ‘the elder of the two; and as good a child as ever walked alone! And where is my little maid?’ he continued to his daughter; ‘has she run away to hide herself, in fear of this formidable stranger?’

‘No, no, papa!’ replied Tessie, laughing. ‘Ange has gone up the hill to fetch some eggs from Mère Fromard. For we did not expect Miss Marsh would arrive so soon.’

I thought she was a daughter for any man to be proud of, as she came gracefully down the steps to meet me, and extended her hand in greeting. She was tall and slight, and clothed in a black stuff dress, with a broad white muslin apron on, fashioned with a bib that was pinned on either shoulder. Her fair, soft hair was taken loosely off her face and coiled in a knot behind her head, and her grey eyes—too small and too grey to be like her father’s—beamed forth mildly from a complexion that was unusually delicate for a country-bred girl. But what struck me most in Teresa Lovett’s face was the unmistakable look which betrayed that she had suffered—and seen others suffer—as I had. It was a bond of union between us that was cemented the first day we met, and will last until time is no more.

‘Come, girls! kiss each other!’ cried Mr. Lovett, as he watched the commonplace greeting with which we timidly touched each other’s hand. ‘That’s right,’ he continued, as we obeyed his directions; ‘you must never forget that your fathers were more like brothers than friends in the olden time. God bless my soul! it’s many a scrape I got in with Dick Marsh in our college days; and many a time we’ve hoped we should live to meet again, and have a crack over the past. But that wish has been overruled, so we must make the best of what remains to us. But if you girls don’t get on together, I shall never forgive you. You are both motherless, and you’ve only got one father left between the lot of you; so it will be very hard if you can’t cling together and make the rest of your lives as pleasant as may be.’

‘We mean to try to do so, dear papa,’ said Tessie in her soft voice, as she gave me a second embrace, preparatory to leading me into the house. ‘I am sure you must be tired,’ she continued; ‘do come in and rest.’

All this had taken place in front of the house, and in the very centre of the street; but then the street of St. Pucelle must not be judged by the rules of any other. It was just past noon. The inhabitants of the town were unanimously partaking of their mid-day meal.

Not a passenger was to be seen from one end of the long thoroughfare to the other, and doubtless my new friends and I might have embraced for the next half-hour without observation. But I was beginning to feel very weary, and was glad to accept Tessie’s invitation to enter and rest myself. My slumbers on board the boat had been but broken ones, and the fatigue of the excitement consequent on my journey was beginning to make itself apparent. So that I felt thankful when I had mounted the wooden steps which led to the hall-door, and realised that, for the time being, I had reached the end of my travels.

The door opened immediately upon a large room, the floor of which was but half covered by a threadbare carpet, in which it was impossible to trace even the remains of colour; in the centre stood a deal table with a faded green cloth, round which were placed some half-dozen or more rush-bottomed chairs. A large oil painting of the Crucifixion hung over the narrow, wooden mantelpiece, and was the only visible ornament. And a buffet covered with wine-glasses and tumblers stood to one side of the apartment, which I concluded to be the dining-room. I confess, though, that I was hardly prepared for the meagre appearance of its furniture, and I suppose Tessie guessed my surprise from the expression of my face.

‘You must not expect to find all the customs of this country similar to those of England,’ she said, with a touch of pride. ‘Papa tells me you think a great deal of your furniture and rooms there, but no one does so in St. Pucelle. In the first place, there are so few people here to see and admire it; and in the second, the servants would not know how to keep it in order. Not that we have always been so shabby as we are now,’ she added, in a lower voice; ‘but Ange and I were only babies when poor mamma died, and there has been no one to look after such things since. We don’t care for ourselves—Ange and I—we would as soon sit on rush-bottomed chairs as on velvet; but it is sad for poor papa, who has been used to such a different life from this.’