Chapter VII: Olive's Recollections (2)

"'Have they risen against the Protestants in Paris?' I said. And my first thought was of Walter,--a wild thought, whether this might be the angel's sword to drive him back into the fold. If we were to be hunted hither and thither, who could say but in the severe destitution of some den or cave of refuge, or even in the prison of the Inquisition, sacred old words might come back to him, and he might turn and be saved? And then another flash of thought! If we were seized as Protestants, England would rise; Cromwell, Englishman and Protestant that he was, would demand us back. We should no more be Royalist and Rebel, but all English and Protestant; and return to England, to Netherby, and Walter with us, and a new life begin. Wild hopes, flashing through my mind between my question and Barbe's answer, delayed, as it was, by her tears.

"'Not in Paris yet, mademoiselle; that is to come. No doubt, the tyrants will not end where they began. It is the people of the valleys--the Vaudois--men of the religion, before France knew what the religion was. My mother's kindred came thence,--quiet, loyal peasants, tilling their poor patches of field and vineyard among the savage mountains. The Duke of Savoy would have them all foreswear the religion in three days. They held firm. He sent six regiments--herds of monsters, wild beasts, among the people. They tortured, killed, wrought horrors I cannot name, but which those faithful men and women had to bear.' And her sobs choked her words; until by degrees she told me all she knew of the dreadful story of outrage and wrong.

"'And is there none to help?' I said.

"'There is none;--unless it be this Mr. Cromwell,' she said, with a little hesitation, knowing how abhorred the name was amongst us. 'These poor, exiled, outraged Christians have appealed to him.'

"_June_ 8.--My father says all the world is ablaze about this letter of Mr. John Milton, the Usurper's Latin secretary, concerning these persecuted exiles from the valleys. Its words are very strong. It seems not unlikely the French Court may be moved to interfere an their behalf. 'It is some comfort,' said my father, 'to see that the old country has a voice which must be listened to, even though she speaks through the mouth of this murderous Usurper.'

"_June_ 9.--My father came in, with his eyes enkindled with a look of triumph such as I had not seen in them for years.

"'We must have a rejoicing, Lettice, cost what it may. There is no help for it, but an English gentleman's heart must be glad at such news! Robert Blake has been pounding them right and left--Pope and Turk, Duke and Dey. The Blakes of Somersetshire--a good old family: I knew them well. The English fleet calls at Leghorn, and the Pope and his Italians eagerly grant whatever they demand. The English fleet calls at Tunis, demanding justice from the Dey and his pirates. The Dey refuses: Blake batters down his forts, and burns his fleet in the harbour. The Dey will not refuse us our rights again. The world begins to know what the name of an Englishman means. Already these French courtiers practise a little civility. The very rascal boys in the streets seem less impudent. We must have a merry-making, Lettice. What can we do? At home we would have all the village to a feast, set all the ale-barrels flowing, and all the bells in the country ringing. But here the people, poor half-starved creatures, drink nothing but vinegar. And as to these everlasting bells, that are always dropping and trickling, no one knows why; it would do one's heart good if one could wake them up for once, and set them free all together, to burst out in the torrent of a grand old English peal. But we cannot. Who can we give a feast to, Lettice? One cannot exactly have a Cavalier dinner, because it might look like celebrating the victory of the Usurper. Yet somebody or other must be made the merrier, that the old country has done such a good stroke of work. Whom can we have?'

"I could think of no one but Barbe, her father and mother, and the seven hungry little brothers and sisters she helped to support. Accordingly the next day we made them a supper in honour of the victory over the Turks, an attention which seemed to gratify our guests much, although my father was not a little dissatisfied at having to entertain guests on what he scornfully termed 'broth, vinegar, and sugar-plums.' But I think to the end Barbe and her family remained in a very misty state of mind as to what they were to rejoice about; and but for my father's imperfect acquaintance with the French language, I am afraid the closing speech of Barbe's father, who was an old gentleman with political theories, and of a lofty and florid style of eloquence, might have caused an explosion. For the point of it was:

"'Excellent Monsieur and amiable Mademoiselle, your country is a great country; though sometimes to us Frenchmen a little difficult to understand. No doubt, this Monseigneur Cromwell has not the advantage of a descent as pure as could be wished; but he has the advantage of making himself understood in all languages. The Turks seem to have understood Mr. Blake. There is, also, Mr. Milton, who writes Latin with the elegance of the renowned Tully. The Duke of Savoy will have to understand him. The poor exiled Vaudois are to be restored to their valleys. Monseigneur Cromwell has insisted on it. He has also sent two thousand pounds of his own for their relief, and your nation has added more than thirty thousand;--a sum scarcely to be calculated by simple people. It is a pity Monseigneur should be out of the legitimate line of your country's kings. But such changes must happen at times in dynasties. Our own has changed more than once. And, no doubt, your magnanimous nation understands her own affairs, and ere long will arrange herself to the satisfaction of all parties. Monsieur and mademoiselle, I thank you in the name of my family. Such hospitality is a proof of a tender and generous heart, worthy of the great nation which has sent this princely succour to the oppressed.'

"'What does he say, Lettice?' whispered my father.

"'That England is a great nation,' I replied; 'and that it is a pity Oliver Cromwell was not of the house of Stuart.'

"For a moment my father's eyes flashed; but then, shaking his head compassionately, he only said: 'Of course, these poor foreigners cannot be expected to understand our politics. We must make allowances, Lettice; we must make allowances. Every man cannot, after all, be born an Englishman.'

"_June_ 10.--The meaning of Barbe's father's speech is plain. The Usurper has sent an Embassy Extraordinary to the French Court and to Savoy, and all the redress he demands for the Vaudois is to be made. They are to be restored to their mountain homes, and protected from future ill usage. He styles himself 'Oliver, Protector.' The poor Vaudois, at least, are likely to think the title not undeserved.

"_June_ 11.--My father says Roger is here. If any one in the world could help Walter, he might. Walter has been terrible lately. His reckless, mocking ways drive my father wild. He storms in righteous anger. Walter recriminates with cool, reckless jests. My father commands him to go. Walter goes; does not come back for days. My father grows more and more restless and wretched during his absence; reproaches himself; taps at my door at night, and says: 'Lettice, I shall never rest any more. I have driven the lad to destruction. I will go and seek him.' In a few hours he returns with Walter, destitute and affectionate. He returns as a prodigal; but, alas! not come to himself; aggrieved against the husks--against the beggarly citizens, who would not give him any--but chiefly against the father, who, having given him his own portion, refused him his brother's. And so, for the hundredth time, we welcome him, weep over him, make much of him, and provide him with such best robes and portions of our living as we can possibly spare. And in a day or two he meets his old associates, has some good-natured message from the king, and, before long, is drawn off into the old tide of riotous living. Away from us, heart and soul, in the far country, where we at the old home are mere shadows to him. We mere shadows to him; and he the core of our hearts to us!

"I feel that these tender changes of feelings of my father's, the very anger springing from affection, and the affection making him repent of his just anger as of a sin, are not good for Walter. I cannot help, sometimes, telling him what sacrifices my father makes for him; how ungrateful and unjust he is in return. But he merely laughs, and talks as if women were creatures with quite another edition of the Ten Commandments from men; or, sometimes, he says my Puritan friends have taken the spirit out of me; or that I should have married, and then I should have understood the world a little, and had something else to do than to educate my brothers. But when he says such things to me, he is always, or often, sorry afterwards, and tries to expiate them by some little extra gift or attention.

"And often my father also is vexed rather with me than with Walter, when he and Walter have differed. He seems to think I ought in some way to have made life more cheerful to them both. But this I know he does not mean. Such words are only as an inarticulate cry of pain. He means it no more than he means what he says far oftener and more vehemently, that he will never waste another groat, nor hazard a drop of blood again, for the heartless, faithless family ('Scottish and French not English,' saith he, in his bitterest moments), which fate has smitten England with; when I know that, at the next glimpse of a hope of Restoration, he would spend his fortune to the uttermost farthing, and his blood to the last drop, to see the young king enjoy his own again.

"_June_ 12th.--We have met, Roger and I, for a few minutes, but those minutes, seemed to have bridged over all the years between, and it is as if our lives had been lived side by side all the time, Yet we said scarcely a connected sentence that I can recall.

"It was in one of the little tumults which now and then arise in the narrow streets out of disputes for precedence.

"I was in Madame la Mothe's coach, when we met a coach which happened to belong to a seigneur, whose lands are close to Madame la Mothe's in the country. Neither of the coachmen would give way and back his horses. It was a rivalry of centimes. As happens in so many contests, the immediate interests of the chiefs were lost sight of in the vehemence of their followers. Madame la Mothe and I were left solitary and uneasy in the coach, while the servants contended for our dignity in the street. At length the tumult of voices grew fierce, the hoofs of the horses clattered on the stones as the postillions urged them with a defiant crack of their whips, and it seemed as if the two coaches and their inmates were to charge each other bodily, as if we had been batteries or battalions.

"'There will be bloodshed,' exclaimed Madame la Mothe, 'bloodshed for a title, for my title!' and pushing open the door, she sprang on the pavement, and threw herself among the combatants with words of peace.

"The lady in the other coach seeing her descend, did the same. Advancing rapidly towards each other they made reverences to each other.

"Madame la Mothe held out her hands. 'Let us make a compromise, madame,' she said; 'we will both reascend one coach with my young friend, Let it be yours. We will then proceed together, while my coach retires. Bloodshed will be avoided. The loyal rivalry of our people will be satisfied. Your side will gain the victory, but it will be in my service.'

"The ladies embraced, and hand in hand entered the other coach. The retainers shouted long life to both the illustrious houses; and the little drama was ending in a general embrace, when an obstacle presented itself in the determination of one of Madame la Mothe's horses, which absolutely refused to sacrifice his own sense of dignity by retreating.

"The perplexity was great when Madame la Mothe, turning to me, exclaimed, 'My child, you will excuse my making you the victim of a slight _ruse de guerre_, to avoid wounding the honour of these excellent people. We will make it a question of national courtesy.' And having obtained the other lady's consent, leaning from the window, she said to one of the young gentlemen in attendance, in a voice that all round might hear: 'See, this young lady is of a noble English house, in exile for loyalty to the unfortunate king. All noblesse yields to noblesse sacrificing itself for royalty. Conduct Mademoiselle Davenant, I pray you, to my carriage, aid let us retire before her.'

"I wad being reconducted to Madame la Mothe's carriage, pale, perhaps a little anxious, for there were murmurs of discontent among the retainers of the adverse company, when suddenly Roger appeared before me, and in a moment my hand was in his before I knew how, and I was alone in the carriage, slowly advancing, while he walked beside the window.

"'A friend of mademoiselle's father! Move forward!' he said to the attendants, in slightly broken French, with that quiet expectation of obedience which always gave credentials to his commands. He was obeyed; and we moved slowly on.

"'You excuse me?' he said to me. His hand was on the edge of the window. 'I heard your name, and saw you looking alarmed, and before I had time to question my right to do it, I found myself taking care of you.'

"He said no more. And I said nothing. It was one of those moments which seemed not to belong to the hour but to the ages; because ore does not think of looking backward or forward while they last, the rest they bring is so complete.

"But as we came to the end of the narrow street, and were about to turn into a broader place, there was again a little tumult which delayed us. Looking out, I saw it was caused by a company of young cavaliers arrogantly pushing the crowd aside. Among them I saw the faces of one or two whom I recognized as friends of Walter's, and I thought I caught a glimpse of Walter himself.

"Then I forgot everything but Walter, the longing I had so often had that he could know Roger and the possibility of Roger saving him.

"'Roger,' I said, 'you remember Walter the youngest of us, the boy my mother thought so much of. Those are some of our king's courtiers. They are Walter's friends. They are bad friends. They are ruining him for life and for ever. I have thought sometimes if you could have been his friend, it might have been different.'

"'I will do all what I can, Lettice,' he said, and that was all. But his 'what I can,' and his 'Lettice,' are volumes that need no commentary.

"Madame la Mothe re-appeared.

"I introduced Roger as best I could.

"She lavished thanks on him, and kept him some little time in conversation, while the men were setting something right about the harness.

"But he replied only in monosyllables.

"For some time after he had taken leave we drove on in silence.

"I was thinking whether I had done right. In committing my brother to Roger had I not, as it were, made him my knight, set him forth on a sacred enterprise for my sake, which he might interpret into an atonement for that terrible deed which separated us?

"That terrible deed which all the blood in the world, and all the good deeds in the world cannot expiate, which nothing but repentance can blot out! And Roger will never repent.

"They came sweeping back on my heart with his voice, all the old familiar sacred recollections, my mother's affection for him, the touch of her hand clasping ours, the sound of her voice blessing us. And far away, like a ghost, at cock-crowing, glided that dreadful scaffold. 'Politics!' did not every one say; 'what have women to do with politics?'

"And after all, what had Roger to do with that terrible deed? He had sat near on horseback, as a soldier of Parliament, while it was done. As a soldier of the Parliament, what could he do otherwise? As a man, would he not rather have risked his life to save the royal sufferer's life? All the consequences of rebellion are involved in the first act of rebellion. War means life or death, victory or death to all involved. All the terrible results were unfolded in the first fatal lifting up of the rebel standard at Edgehill; a shot might have ended His Majesty's life then as easily as the axe years afterwards. Roger's loyalty is to England, and, for her sake, to whomsoever he believed will rule and serve her best. That first act of disloyalty once committed, in the choice of a wrong leader, the more loyal the character the more disloyal must be the acts ever after. It was Roger's fatal hereditary misbelief which had enlisted him in Cromwell's army. And that my mother knew, and knowing, had sanctioned his love. But once enlisted, it was the very loyalty of heart which would have led him to die with Montrose for the king's cause, however hopeless, which had lead him thus to guard the king's scaffold, however he hated to be there. For I know he did hate to be there! If he would but once confess that his heart had bled at the sight, as I am sure it did! But I knew too well how that fatal loyalty of nature which had prevented his resisting the worst deed of his traitorous leader, would keep his lips sealed for ever from disclaiming his share in it, when done.

"But if I knew his heart, ought I not to accept the reverent pity which I knew must have moved him, and made his presence at the martyrdom a torture to him, in place of any mere words which a heart less true than his would have uttered so easily? Indeed, whether I accepted it or not, had not it been already understood and accepted above? As the mistakes of Port Royal were understood and forgiven, and of Aunt Dorothy, and, as we trust, our own mistakes will be.

"Then came the thought,--

"'You are getting sophistical. Right and wrong are right and wrong for all and for ever. If you try to put yourself into the place, and feel the temptations of every criminal, as he feels them, you will end in condemning no crime.'

"Thus as I sat silent by Madame la Mothe's side, while in a few moments all those arguments rushed in conflict through my heart, there was anything but silence within.

"At last Madame la Mothe spoke. Very quietly she laid her hand on mine, and without looking at me, said,--

"'My child, forgive me. I shall never ask what your secret is again, nor wonder why you keep your heart sealed like the doors of Port Royal.'

"'It is no secret, madame,' I said. 'We were betrothed by my mother's sanction. Only this dreadful war has separated us.'

"'Your young Cavalier is not on the king's side?' she said. 'It is a pity. He has the manners of the ancient chivalry. Deferential and stately, his politeness has something at once protecting and lofty in it, as if he were a king, and all women as queens to him. Alas, for these English politics and these consciences!'

"'It is not politics that separate us, madame,' I said, almost mechanically; 'it is the king's death.'

"'Surely the young Cavalier was too noble to be concerned in that!' she said.

"'He was a soldier of the Commonwealth, madame,' I said, 'and as a soldier had to obey.'

"I found myself defending him in spite of myself.

"'The king's death was not the work of the soldier, was it?" she said, 'but of the headsman.'

"'The soldiers guarded the scaffold,' I said.

"'This young Cavalier was among those who guarded the scaffold,' she said. 'Was that all? Being a soldier, what would you have had him do? Surely there is absolution on earth and in heaven for such a mistake as that.'

"'He does not repent, madame.'

"'Ah, my child,' she said, 'see what it is to be a Protestant; you have to be your own Supreme Tribunal, even when your conscience is on the Judgment-seat, and your own heart at the bar, to be broken by the sentence. Now, if you would only believe the Pope and the Church, whatever the unavoidable pain of the sentence, you would at all events escape the torture of at once inflicting and enduring it.'

"'Alas, madame,' I said, 'can the sisters of Port Royal escape the torture of being their own tribunal? Can they believe a fact is a fact because a Pope says it? They distinguish, indeed, between fact and right; but are not rights really but facts of a higher sphere, if we only knew them? And as unalterable? We only want to know what is right, madame. It seems to me no decision on earth, or in heaven, can make a thing right, any more than it makes it true.'

"'My poor child,' she said tenderly, 'heaven guide you. Only take care your heart does not get into the judgment-seat, and persuade your conscience that the very anguish of the sentence is a proof of its justice. Noble hearts have made such mistakes ere now. One, I think, very dear to thee and to me.'

"She was silent some minutes, and then said in a more cheerful tone,--

"'He was silent, this young Cavalier. His character is perhaps rather grave?'

"'It is a way of all the men of our nation who are worth anything, madame,' I said. 'Your countrymen have a natural eloquence. Feeling enkindles them into speech. With us it oftener fuses men into silence. An Englishman who has no dumbness in him is not to be trusted.'

"She smiled.

"'Ah, my friend,' she said, 'if I defend, you attack; if I attack, you defend. I will leave you to defend your own cause against yourself.'"